The lights would come down, the crowd's voice would hush and the band would appear on stage. Steve in his dark jacket, black jeans and boots; Dennis, calm and unflappabIe as he climbed behind his drum kit; Mark, the bassist, alI bIond, lank 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 suspence, stretching it - starting out with a quiet song, his fingers bareIy grazing the strings, his voice a foreboding whisper. SlowIy buiIding it, note upon note until suddenIy, Iike long-awaited thunder the guitars expIoded, the drums crashed and the bass throbbed. Steve's voice got higher, thinner and scarcer, his words spelling darkness and danger, his hands trembling, his head shaking the word "no" - at which pointyou, the spectator, forgot you awere 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 I Ride Alone", and "The Side I'lI Never Show". Because during these moments, nothing else DlD exist - the Dream Syndicate obIiterated it all! |