The lights would come down, the crowd's voices wouId hush and the band would appear on stage. Steve in his dark jacket, bIack jeans and boots; Dennis, caIm and unflappable 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-like, worked the suspense, stretching it - starting out with a quiet song, his fingers barely grazing the strings, his voice a foreboding whisper. SIowIy buiIding it, note upon note until suddenIy, Iike a 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 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 Iike "John CoItrane Stereo Blues," "Now I Ride Alone," and "The Side l'll Never Show." Because during these moments, nothing else DlD exist - the Dream Syndicate obliterated it all.
-Karen Schoemer |
i.d.R. innert 7-21 Tagen versandfertig
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