Anything that tingles is good
The concert hall was old fashioned, gilded in gold . Those wandering the halls, up stairs and gazing off balconies, were elegantly dressed: black, lace, leather boots, eyeliner. The occasional dreadlocks or all-out Goth. The kind of company that made me want to be one of those who stood out of the crowd. The kind of company I was glad to be a part of. If one met an attractive guy here, one test would already be behind us.
The show begins with mist drifting off a stage loaded with sound gear, turntables, and the like as well as the usual microphones and guitars, drumset glinting off to the side. If an alien were to land, right here, invisibly, she would see a crowd of maybe 600 people clustered tightly around an empty stage for around an hour. They are so close to each other, they begin to produce a noticeable amount of extra heat, and begin to shed the sweatshirts and various outer garments necessary for the moist, austerely tempetured Seattle spring.
And here they come, striding onto the stage. Conversations are cut mid-sentence as spontaneous cheers and clapping breaks out. Two black men, a skinny guy with red hair wearing a sailor’s jacket, a couple guys with shaved heads who look like they could be bouncers, and two women: one short with a shaved head, and the other a mulatto in a black dress, carrying a tambourine.
The next two hours are like movies made up impressionist paintings,
They are three dimensional audio plays
They are herd-mentality hero worship,
They sound like orgasm.
The red head looks like the best mixture of Seth Green and Ewan McGregor… I follow his blue-lit face until I am somewhere in his eyes, and for the first time I listen to the words.
For the first time, I sing along, not realizing its all been memorized.
I watch this music take the same effect on those around me, and the shared “” bounces from head to head, drifting like the heavy scent of pot smoke through the dance floor. My hips slow gyration guide my ears back to the beat. A friend of mine once said that music is sex, it’s the space between the beats , the beats which only accentuate everything else.
Once I’ve seen a band live, their magic is both dispelled and unfolded at the same time. It’s the true test: whether I can see it for myself; whether they stand before me without lies.
But they do their most well-known: angel, teardrop, inertia creeps, future . And then the older guy, with grey dreads twisted up in a wild knot, takes the lead stage for some reggae-style, upbeat stuff. This is their recent comment on the world; the mist turns green. I cant tell what they’re saying, but I can tell its all about hope.
I feel like you should have been there, Both of you.
The show begins with mist drifting off a stage loaded with sound gear, turntables, and the like as well as the usual microphones and guitars, drumset glinting off to the side. If an alien were to land, right here, invisibly, she would see a crowd of maybe 600 people clustered tightly around an empty stage for around an hour. They are so close to each other, they begin to produce a noticeable amount of extra heat, and begin to shed the sweatshirts and various outer garments necessary for the moist, austerely tempetured Seattle spring.
And here they come, striding onto the stage. Conversations are cut mid-sentence as spontaneous cheers and clapping breaks out. Two black men, a skinny guy with red hair wearing a sailor’s jacket, a couple guys with shaved heads who look like they could be bouncers, and two women: one short with a shaved head, and the other a mulatto in a black dress, carrying a tambourine.
The next two hours are like movies made up impressionist paintings,
They are three dimensional audio plays
They are herd-mentality hero worship,
They sound like orgasm.
The red head looks like the best mixture of Seth Green and Ewan McGregor… I follow his blue-lit face until I am somewhere in his eyes, and for the first time I listen to the words.
For the first time, I sing along, not realizing its all been memorized.
I watch this music take the same effect on those around me, and the shared “” bounces from head to head, drifting like the heavy scent of pot smoke through the dance floor. My hips slow gyration guide my ears back to the beat. A friend of mine once said that music is sex, it’s the space between the beats , the beats which only accentuate everything else.
Once I’ve seen a band live, their magic is both dispelled and unfolded at the same time. It’s the true test: whether I can see it for myself; whether they stand before me without lies.
But they do their most well-known: angel, teardrop, inertia creeps, future . And then the older guy, with grey dreads twisted up in a wild knot, takes the lead stage for some reggae-style, upbeat stuff. This is their recent comment on the world; the mist turns green. I cant tell what they’re saying, but I can tell its all about hope.
I feel like you should have been there, Both of you.