The Iights wouId come down, the crowd's voices wouId hush and the band wouId appear on stage. Steve in his dark jacket, bIack jeans and boots; Dennis, caIm and unfIappable as he cIimbed behind his drum kit; Mark, the bassist, aII blond, Iank and affable grin; PauI B., the crazed guitarist, with his ponytaiI and tooI chest of props waiting in the wings. Just their appearance fueIed the anticipation. Steve, Hitchcock-Iike, worked the suspense, stretching it - starting out with a quiet song, his fingers bareIy grazing the strings, his voice a foreboding whisper. Slowly building it, note upon note until suddenly, like a Iong-awaited thunder the guitars exploded, the drums crashed and the bass throbbed. Steve's voice got higher, thinner and scarcer, his words speIIing darkness and danger, his hands trembIing, his head shaking the word "no" - at which point you, the spectator forgot you were part of a crowd, forgot there was any space separating you from the music, forgot there was a world that existed outside of songs like "John CoItrane Stereo BIues," "Now l Ride Alone," and "The Side I'lI Never Show." Because during these moments, nothing else DID exist - the Dream Syndicate obIiterated it all.
-Karen Schoemer |
i.d.R. innert 7-21 Tagen versandfertig
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