AngelBack, don't think I haven't noticed. This one's for you.
When your heart's on fire
You must realise
Smoke gets in your eyes
Oh, crap.
Hey there, Bosk! The clap was obviously a signal for the nurse to sedate me I gather? It's all good, I would do the same.
Podaar, I missed you man.
This is going to take a while, amigos. Grab a cigar, pour some wine.
Concert Highlights:
M) It was raining tigers and hounds, and - although indoorish - NO ONE was there. I mean, we must have been no more than 200 drenched maniacs, which allowed me to spend a wonderful evening standing five feet removed from Johnny P's pedalboard. Naturally Techno Buddy vanished soon, drifting wherever his kender-like focked up mind drew him. I never asked, he never coherently told. I was keeping the car keys anyway.
A) A very big guy on my direct left, very gentle and caring, took incredible pains in order to mantain a small but effective void zone around my broken leg. That's the kind of kindness you hope to find in hard-rocking youth, and I suddenly believed I had found a hi-fives go-to-guy for the evening. I never noticed the DT Fan Club T-Shirt until it was too late, and by then he had become the Kathy Bates to my James Caan.
D) Lights out, we roar. The intro sets in and I immediately fail my totally pulled-out-of-arse prediction about the hypothetical pre-show song. I went for Tom Sawyer, Cowboys From Hell or Where The Streets Have No Name, by sheer gut feeling. Alas, it seemed they weren't paying homage to influences but really wanted us to have breakfast in black tie talking about Like a Virgin.
“Reservoir Dogs? Funny” - Big mistake
“They always use that it's called Little Green Bag Portnoy is a big movie buff I know it well I'm in THE MAILING LIST.” - Ok, buddy. Breathe.
“Uh, didn't know. Thanks, I guess” - Crutches as last line of self-defense, maybe?
WAKE UP! - Thank God.
E) Guys in! I'm feeling like Rick Jones visiting Avengers Mansion for the first time, I even got the Hulk beside me apparently. The stage ceiling is so low that Mighty Mike is literally eating all the lights, and loving it. I knew who the singer was, now I know who the frontman is. Hey, wait a focking minute ...
Y) … “Who the fock is at the keyboards?” - Big Mistake, Part II
“He's the new guy Derek Sherinian Berklee graduate played with Alice and KISS Kevin Moore quit he had to learn the songs in no time I'm on THE MAILING LIST I know things want to see my Majesty tattoo?” - Mother of God, he's even speaking in 9/8.
Stop right there, Indy. You are telling me you didn't KNOW?
I feel fuzzy when you call me Indy. How the fock was I supposed to know? Why, even? Great band puts out record, kid buys record, loves it, learns music, words, faces, names. Rinse, lather, repeat until band folds or switches to polka. What else did I really HAVE to know? Everything else is their focking business, as far as I was concerned.
Little did I know we were running, 25 years down the road, towards crazy scenarios as:
“Hello, Dream Theater Custom Shop?"
“Morning, sir”
“Right, for MY next album I would like 60% heavy songs inside the 9 minutes mark, 20% short and to the point groundbreaking singles, and you can split the rest in two epics, one reminiscient of MY top DT album of all time, the other inspired to Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time. Usual time changes, trim the solo trade-off, and I would like to hear the bass, even when it's not playing. Album title should be Back When Apples Tasted Better, cover art by Joe Madureira.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Of course. I'm mailing you a list of trusted candidates for mixing, they did a splendid job on MY favourite albums. If possible, fire the singer. His performance isn't really up to snuff with MY VISION of Dream Theater anymore, MY VISION, you know, the whole focking reason you have worked during these last 30 years. ME, THE FAN! Also, I would like an ounce of Water's Edge and a pinch of Home mentions, and MY snare sound medium rare.”
*click*
A) They are human! They have spectacularly focked up a UaGM stop and go. I mean, at least five seconds of embarassed silence, a quick turn of glances and a new drum count was necessary. It was glorious. As always, I can't keep my big mouth shut:
“Eheh, at least we know they are not cyborgs” - Return of the Son of Big Mistake.
“Whattyamean?” - God, take this cup away from me.
“I mean, you heard it. They focked up royally.” - Why do I even care?
“No it was intentional they love to change up bits now and then we mere mortals can't grasp the will of technical prodigies did I mention I'm on THE MAILING LIST I'm organising a pilgrimage to Long Island wanna come?” - Dude.
F) I will be forever thankful to Johnny P, he opened my eyes. I was waiting for UaGM solo with a stupid “Let's see if you are for real” look on my stupid face. I watched him perform the feat like a dog would watch a magic trick, then he focking looked at me – melting me - with a shit-eating grin and yelled YEAAAAAAAAAH! like a happy kid who can't believe how awesome he is. It's obvious these guys aren't out for pussy and booze. They are the nerdest music fans in a room half-full of nerdy music fans. The continous joyous eye-contact among them is telling us: “We are doing it! We are like Rush and Maidens! Now we're going to quote 8 bars from Fragile and we're gonna talk about it in the bus for hours!” That was the moment I fell in love for ever. Fock it, I even hugged my verbose neighbour.
O) Big James' beautiful face. I had never seen a broader piece of visage on a biped, including Pavarotti. No wonder you're born to sing, man, with resonators the size of a t-bone. Also, from where I stood, you could hear his acoustic screams before amplification.
C) The 12 Labors of Johnny M. I swear, he's Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. He's almost hypnotic in his constant frantic calm, like a man who has surrendered to drowning yet keeping his body afloat with the methodical flailing of spider fingers. I spoke this exact sentence to my kind tormentor/protector and he surprisingly went:
“Uh. Yeah.” - That's it. Maybe I am onto something here.
K) A Mind Besides Itself. God, what a furious rendition. The new guy is waaaay louder than Dr Moore's recording and Mike and Johnny P seem to feel the need to catch up. The result is an amazing three way arms race, significantly faster than the original version.
“They are rushing this is not the perfect creation I know the venue acoustics are screwed up they should strive for the perfect conditions they're the best in the business after all I am going to formally protest through THE MAILING LIST” - Frank was right. The torture never stops.
I) Wait. This is an existential impossibility. An intro I can't recognise to a song I never heard. And it goes on, and on, and on. I am feeling like the third guy in a porn movie, but I am not the only one apparently. I really hate to do this, but I HAVE to know. I turn towards the maniac on my left who seems to focking read my mind.
“It's a new song I mean it's old but new they are playing it live everywhere it's called A Change of Seasons it's very long I read on the MAILING LIST it goes ...”
“Focking stop right there please. Let me hear it”
“But I can tell you about every bit and ...”
“No, man. Nobody wants a minute by minute running diary of a focking great song stuffed with a focking weirdo's inane comments. It's annoying, boring and stupid”
Words to live by.
N') Techno Buddy is back, materialising from thin air, vodka lemon in one hand, a girl by the other. How does he do it will forever beat the ever loving fock outta me. Then, like an epiphany, a Hannibal Smith Bulletproof Plan surfaced in my head.
“Hey, Mailing List guy, this is my buddy. He doesn't know Dream Theater, can you put him up to speed?”
Birds. Stone. Win.
L) Unbelievable. We were few to begin with, scared by the deluge, now some people are even going away, unsettled by a 20 plus minutes unknown song they can't sing along. I hate this focking country and forever will. I really understand the Drumming Dad now. Time for a digression, and to finally answer kingshmegland's question in the hyatus thread, “who are you and who's your daddy?”. I am lucky small fry, Dad was another whole story.
In mid '60s he played with a bunch of gifted guys, relegated to studio and mostly uncredited session work in a backarseward shithole country. He got sick of it and left for England, where he focked around with some guys from the Canterbury Scene, ended up doing mostly studio work and horrible touring, met me Mom, got her pregnant, game over. He went back to uni, got a job and kept himself sane giving lessons and occasionally jamming with a toothless Chet Baker who – God knows why – liked to have drinks in my hometown from time to time.
Funny thing, some of the guys he left at the beginning eventually became Quelli, and shortly after PFM. Great timing.
Point is, we are disappointing Dream Theater. I actually heard my torturer utter the following desperate words:
“THEY WILL NEVER COME BACK HERE!”
Time proved him wrong, but we would have deserved that.
O) Wait for Sleep, the acoustic serenade. Magical, almost an immaculate conception by Segovia's Jeux Interdit, embellished with an impish tambourine. One hundred lighters popped up in unison. You read correctly. Lighters, not smartphones.
Why in the fock would you watch a concert through a phone screen?
Watch it through a lighter.
O) Learning to Live. FGHkhgjhgljgkjgòhòlkjàljàòljkhjguguliuglugugòugòugkjgjhgyflyflgòhòiàiuàiuàihghkugòiugòiugòugòkgòugòugòàgoiugàoiàsldkhlbvjkbavòj
ròhfeàrkhvgàeihvetihgiàohngioàaktnjbàlkgtnàbrtngàirtnbàitnbàrtinbàrtnbràtnàbntàorbùhotntànàrgjàgbhàoeruuoaègirhgàoithgiprhgprihg
p+orhgpohrgperopghohgirghirghràghòorihgòirhòihòiiiiiiiiiiihiààààààhà.
I love everybody. Especially you, Mailing List guy.
K) Show's over and I am so out of my mind I believe my leg is healed. Then, out of the focking blue, the "crowd" begins to violently demand:
METROPOLIS! METROPOLIS! METROPOLIS! METROPOLIS! METROPOLIS!
I swear, it's like we wrote the lyrics to Never Enough that day.
I didn't care. I had my taste of divinity. I just had to wait to put my hands on that 20 plus minutes masterpiece.
Coming Next: A Change of Seasons, The (Long Distance) Running Diary
EDIT: More than I could chew