:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Thursday, November 06, 2003 ::

So, what follows is the skeleton of an old post, posted on a guilty day about a stellar event. But within 24 hours even this event was overshadowed. Such is the power of love, one way, or the other, and it tore me in two...

not that I deserved any better. Details after the backpost.

[ yeah. ]

My throat is sore as deuce, and I can’t fucking hear out of my right ear. This would trouble me a lot more were I ill, rather than just resting off the noisiest, thrashingest event I’ve ever attended, bar none; not even being behind a flying F-14 was this damaging to my withered cilia and blasted eardrums. I have to turn slightly to hear people, though the dim ringing is rather improved from the fever pitch of crickets I had to contend with even in the absence of all other noise.

So.

I saw KMFDM [Wednesday] night (oh, and that would be enough to get me squealing and tweaking enough to put an Expedition-full of shrill post-concert preteen girls to utter shame) at the Trocadero, with the aptly-named Bile as opening act. To be fair, Dave, the guitarist of said Bile was our ticket backstage, or, more accurately, he gave us three backstage passes, seemingly for the express purpose of flirting ceaselessly with Kelley (who is 17, and not yet out of high school, god-blasted-damnitt) with Tristan and I perhaps a collective 4 feet from her between us. I've yet to see vision more tunnel, perception so good at screening sausage. Regardless.

This is why Bile sucks, in brief: their instruments are wholly redundant, their image is the most absurd, laughable horror-spooge doomcore tripe I've ever, EVER seen, they wreathe themselves in so much fog as to render themselves invisible (as well as the first few rows of the audience), their overall sound is a creamed-corn mishmash of timestretched screams, jackhammer drums, hyperdistorted synth-guitars, and me laughing my ass off and trying very hard not to point. OH. And they have a machine controlling their background thrumming that DETECTS WHAT KEY THEY'RE IN, AND CHANGES TO MATCH IT. Music died a cold death with the invention of that machine.

Mine was destined for a "Kate," who I can only imagine is pretty disappointed, unless "Kate" was off doing something better than hugging Lucia, who wowed the crowd in an absurdly...well, HOT bodysuit, and appeared backstage in an MDFMK shirt, which begs the question: if you're in a band, is it less or more stupid to be wearing your shirts than the folks at your concerts? This sort of band-wearing-its-own-shirts was in full force that night, with Watts strutting around in a Pig shirt and long overcoat that sneered "Who loves kitty?" like a salacious drag queen (as if there were any other kind, I guess), and Sascha in an MDFMK shirt of his own.

Yes, yes. Thanks to the dedicated efforts of Kelley and Tristan, I actually was lucky enough to hobnob with the members of KMFDM after the show, which actually caused my mind to explode as I was talking to them. My scale of normal was utterly thrown; these people, these world-famous, decade-spanning musicians were casually walking around like their mere presence wasn't something amazing, something out of the ordinary. So, naturally we waylaid a bunch of them, who gladly posed for pictures with us, which I'll find somewhere on Tristan's site and slap hereabouts, for the curious and procrastinatory alike.

Oh, and we got lost for an hour on the way to the show, and got a flat on the way home. But who fucking cares, if we don't?

Music: Spiritualized - Black: Angel Sigh/Sway/200 Bars. Perfection, utter perfection. The absolute peak of a superb album. No group to my knowledge has put predelay to better use than these chaps. Sway. Slow. Lay. Low.

:: Aziz 2:29 PM [+] ::
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