Moby (photo by Javier Psilocybin)

Los Angeles, California – Moby is known for bringing plenty of counter-culture concepts into the mainstream: tea as a socially aware beverage, accepting male baldness and, most importantly, introducing warehouse electronica to a mainstream America. 1999 was the Year Moby Broke…and he was everywhere. Every song on his hit album, Play, was featured in a major advertising campaign, making the diminutive deejay/composer a commodity in every home. The end result: a critical smash pop album whose commercialization symbolized the next decade’s hipster embrace of ’80s yuppie values. And now, ten years later, it remains the standout of Moby’s musical career, for better or worse.

I had mixed feelings upon initially entering The Wiltern’s cavernous art deco space Wednesday night for Moby’s concert. It was already off to an idiosyncratic start: the show kicked off at 8:50, as opposed to a more solid 9:00 or 8:30. The people filing in to the dance pit looked like the standard crowd at Rehab on a Sunday at Vegas’s Hard Rock Hotel. But sprinkled throughout were other oddities: the club kids from the early ‘90s, now grown-up, soccer moms and dads, ready to relive the sweaty, throbbing, drug-fueled dancing they used to find in the original L.A House scene.

The show began with some newer material, but by the third or so song, Moby stopped to address the crowd about a Domestic Violence legislation snafu that occurred earlier in the month; all budgeting for the California program was abruptly eradicated. A rousing chorus of cheers followed this, which made more sense after Moby excitedly relayed how he and other activists immediately got involved and were pleasantly surprised by how quickly the problem was resolved. All proceeds from his California shows would still go to the cause, though. He’s constantly deferring to his impressive band, featuring Moby bouncing between bongos, guitar, and keyboards, while Kelli Scarr alternated between keyboard and vocals duty. A Moby look-alike sat at the drums while a violinist never stopped for a break throughout the two-hour-plus show. Most impressive of all was the main vocalist, Inyang Bassey, whose voice and presence dominated.

The sound is perfect. Talented musicians, good sound engineering, and a set-list leaning heavily on Play, as well as throwing in some of the electronica classics like “Go” (his first single) and tracks from Animal Rights. Even if you weren’t rolling hard on ecstasy like a large portion of the audience (this was probably the first show in history where water bottles outsold beer), you could still soak in the frenetic atmosphere, accented by the tiny touches of beauty the architecture of The Wiltern offers.

Moby (Getty Images)

What’s better than looking up at the painted ceiling during “We Are All Made of Stars” and observing…that it’s totally covered in stars? Never mind the spastic ravers in front of me pretending they know the lyrics to a song Moby himself informs us is brand new, never played.

Maybe that’s the one downside: the element of electronica that’s always alienated me, the emptiness of Special K and glow sticks, and touching ugly people who look better when you’re insanely high and there’s a strobe on. After all, whether you like it or not, electronica is, in many ways, a more musically complex and longer-lasting form of modern disco. It attracts the same fan-base, to an extent: working droids by day, blissed-out partiers by night. The difference is that’s only a small fraction of the electronica scene; unfortunately, it tends to be the most noticeable.

What separates Moby from something as vacuous as The Bee Gees is the meaning and intellectualism behind his music. Admittedly, he introduced “Bodyrock” as “the stupidest song I’ve ever written,” and it’s one of his biggest hits. He declared his delight that his most successful single, “Southside,” is actually an ode to a dystopic future society, and each song off of Play is a flawlessly composed combination of the newest and oldest music — electronica and slave calls. The best part of the concert, though, is seeing how much Moby loves what he does. He’s having a great time, and he wants to make sure you are too.

That’s what’s so genius about the commoditization of Play. He didn’t sell out: to steal a line from SLC Punk, he bought in. Making that album ensured Moby a financial and artistic freedom that very few musicians will ever be able to explore. His concerts are a labor of love, not a grueling publicity tour. In that regard, he is true to his club kid roots, which he lovingly refers to throughout the show. This love is the true energy of the music and what separates it from being the background jingle of a Saab commercial. At the conclusion of an encore that focuses heavily on his more pounding dance songs, he warns that the last song could go on as long as 19 minutes because he’s prone to getting so into it that time passes without awareness. The crowd cheers. No, he says. You’d be surprised: by the end, you might wish him dead. My friend and I exchange looks and I whisper, “Five minutes.” I’ve been trapped with bands I adore meandering on and on, stretching all the life out of a song. I am prepared to walk. He went into “Honey” from Play.

We barely noticed when he passed the fifteen-minute mark.

For more information on what you can do for California’s domestic violence programs, check out Rainbow Services.

Also, be sure to check out “Pale Horses,” the single from Moby’s latest album, Wait For Me.