Many many grateful thanks, mate. My soul is yours, Dark Bosker.
*Tap .. tap
* (Is this focking thing on?
)
And after a brief intermission brief enough to allow you to witness a couple of drive-bies by the Halley Comet© - we're back with our regularly scheduled journey into a pompous windbag's discovery of DT, life and Smirnoff-soaked self ridicule, strong emphasis on the latter one. Why? Because I love you, I really focking do, and beware nothing says I love you like a seven years Martin Guerre Sized disappearing act.
So, since George RR Martin can finally claim he's a faster writer than me, where were we? Fock me if I remember, I'm just lucky I got the password right*, otherwise I would be rambling alone and your lives and minds would be instantly 150% smarter due to reverse osmosys. Just peruse the previous chapters liberally and hop on for the ride.
*FULL DISCLOSURE: I succeeded in loggin in because I actually typed Fock me if I remember in the bar. Sometimes being an unmitigated cretin helps.
And now, without further ado, because we still focking hate ado, let's go back to that Fateful Night© of 1992.
06. Under a Glass Moon
The Drumming Dad and the Big Banging Bro, tails between their legs (Dad metaphorically, Bro anatomically), leave the premises lured by an Italian dinner and a semi-homicidal Material Mom. Ah, miserable mortal creatures! I don't need food anymore, I feed myself on The Awesome Sound of The Gay Undertakers! EDITOR NOTE: The last sentence was added in order to nicely tie the present chapter to the previous one and to remind the audience that the author was already a hopeless bumbling buffoon at the tender age of 14.
Now, dear little arsonist of creepy suspended hearts Shirley, what have you got for me? So far you pumped out (in order) a stunning opener featuring the mother of all cliff-hangers, a sexy saxy pants extractor, an epic funky pegasus ride against time, the happiest motherfocking hymn to solipsism in the history of motherfocks and a sociosoundopathical display of instrumental omnipotence. EDITOR NOTE: You can and should appreciate how the ever crafty author managed to summarise seven years past of postage, because he lives to serve. He really focking does. Would you give me a break before in a Dramatic Turn of Fluids© - my ears start quite inconveniently to ejaculate on the carpet? Can you give me some focking filler, little Shirley? Is it normal to pray for filler on track 6 in 1992? Will I ever stop using question marks?
0.00 0.26: I take it as a no. Let's add to the list a spacey reinterpretation of Lawrence of Arabia's score, turning the table on every logical approach to the proper roles inside a guitar-keyboards duet. Close your eyes and begin to relax
EDITOR NOTE: No, fock, time paradox! Time Paradox! I was saying, close your eyes and tell me you don't find yourself stranded on a red desert, under a purple sky and wait for it a glass moon? You don't? Well, fock it.
0.26 0.52: Mr Myung, Mr Portnoy, would you please explain me why, while I try to anticipate the 10 most impossible things you are going to bring to the riff, you pull an 11th more impossible one out of your arses? I care for those things, you know.
0.52 1.19: Ooooh, the band is finally showing a nasty streak with an eeeeeeevil melody. And that sweep! Do you think I didn't notice? It sticks out like a goddess suddenly coming alive and flashing her nipples inside an ancient painting. EDITOR NOTE: The author and his delicate narrative touch are also available for children books, by the way.
1.19 2.08: Let me get this straight. A Pantera groove running under a Yasunori Mitsuda atmosphere before bonding into a no-nonsense hypervitaminised Queensryche verse. That's something I'm definitley writing about on a message board 26 years from now, Doc Emmett Brown.
2.08 2.33: Mother of Fock, James. Your hair looks like a tree full of monkeys, but you're born to part thundery clouds with your voice.
2.33 2.52: And I miss this bit because our new character prances on the stage. The Boy Band Sister, back home from her social life, and for social life I naturally mean ovulating in front of frothing jocks. I could describe the feeling between us as Mutual Focking Hate, but I'll settle for Deep Disgust. The following exchange actually took place:
PissedMe Where have you been? Everybody's having dinner.
UnredeemableSlut Are you my focking father?
FuriousMe Am I focking Satan Spawner of Whores?
ViolentFemme *Slap* Bear this honour in my name.
2.52 3.32 Remember paragraph two? Well, so much for the carpet.
3.32 3.59 Repeating chorus, time for some deep rambling. An album so busy, baroque, deliberately proud in its exhibitionism must have been even unconsciusly at least ten years in the making. It's not a recorded performance, it's a whole baggage of musical experiences, claims and frustrations.
3.59 4.37: I like this Kevin Moore sod. While the cool kids puff their chests he steals the girlfriends. What begins as an undercover variation of the opening theme fragmented in a Mediterranean dance becomes the driving force that brings five musical ideas into a powerful fist. He's the heart of the Voltron©.
4.37 5.36: No no no no no, what the fock was that. Let's do it again ...
4.37 5.36 redux: I'm speechless. I lack speech. All I can do is updating the starting five for The Most Important Minutes in Guitar History team. Proceeding:
1) The minute the Davies bros took to slash through a Marshall cone with a knife.
2) The minute Jimi Hendrix took to accept the notion that human-guitar sexual intercourse was not only possible, but sometimes mandatory.
3) The minute that Violet (nθe Short) Blackmore's womb quickened.
4) The minute Steve Lukather stopped giving a fock about recording room rules.
5) 4.37 to 5.36, Under a Glass Moon.
Every guitar possibility on display, yet composing a beautiful and perfectly coherent story. A fascinating hall full of doors to different futures of the instrument echoing back pleasure and amazement. The only mundane example I can come up with is the whole Kamasutra experienced at once in a minute. John Petrucci is the Kamaxeman. It's the first time in my life that a solo makes me crave to learn and to quit guitar at the same time.
5.36 6.11: So how do you follow that? In the smartest way, with its nemesis. While John suspended the song (and reality and belief) forcing the band to fall in line with his delirium, Kevin retrieved all the notes and energy into an arpeggiating black hole, spitting them out in the shape of a melody which we can call a solo only including the other instruments' contributions, except the guitar. Kevin Moore is the Socialist Keyboardist.
6.11 6.21: The song desperately needed these 10 seconds in order to become a song again, after the previous onslaught. It's a concept Frank Zappa masters 100%, Dave Mustaine 6%. EDITOR NOTE: Now the author is pretending he could grasp such details when he was still masturbating watching Charlie's Angels. Actually, he still is.
6.21 6.48: And he sings again. It's gonna be a long journey of off-stage loneliness while the kids play, buddy.
6.48 7.03: And the circle closes. At gunpoint, it's the only song so far I could sing back immediately. A trick of the mind? Something more spiritual embedded in the song's mood? The ear fluid loss? EDITOR NOTE: Bosk, are you sure this was a good idea? Fock this drivel, fock Indiscipline and the Editor he rode in on.
Coming Soon (at this point a presidential term could be soon): Wait for Sleep.