| The lights would come down, the crowd's voice would hush and the band wouId appear on stage. Steve in his dark jacket, bIack jeans and boots; Dennis, calm and unfIappabIe as he climbed behind his drum kit; Mark, the bassist, all bIond, lank and affabIe grin; Paul B., the crazed guitarist, with his ponytail and tool 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 untiI suddenly, like Iong-awaited thunder the guitars expIoded, 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 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 Coltrane Stereo BIues", "Now l Ride AIone", and "The Side I'Il Never Show". Because during these moments, nothing eIse DID exist - the Dream Syndicate obIiterated it aII! |
i.d.R. innert 2-7 Tagen versandfertig
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