Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part Four

The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.

♬♩♩

Part Four

End

It’s not overly cold. But the warmth of the afternoon has been sucked up by a creeping wind. The bands’ van, now parked in front of the venue, sits with its trailer agape as sensitive and valuable instruments are loaded into its bowels.

Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part Three

The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.

♪♩♩♪

Part Three

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To an audience chomping for more, the sliding, deep grooves of “The Literal Black Cloud” draw the evening to a close, the end severely punctuated by Danny (Walker)’s final, resonating hit of the ride. Intronaut opt against an encore, leaving everyone’s—mine included—desire to see more to go unsatiated². As always, the severing of instrument and listener has left me physically and emotionally drained, and all I can do is take the remaining silence, or what would pass for it, to compose a torrent of thoughts, all of which comprise a variation of elation over what I’d just witnessed and slow cascade of depression that it has to be over so soon. Were I in a slightly difference place and time, I would most assuredly be stretching myself yet thinner to do this tomorrow all over again.

Coming out of my daze reveals the band members to be dismantling and unplugging their instruments, in between the odd chat with a fan. Touring brings with it a long series of structural creation and destruction; frames being painstakingly built to preference and near-perfection (unless perfection is, indeed, achieved), only to have their bolts loosened and shapes disintegrated hours later, just to restart the process all over again the next day. Sweaty, tired hands remove the cymbals and drums, coil metre upon metre of cable. Thus begins the second half of mundanity that one can only hope has just been justified in a miniscule timeframe measured in minutes.

Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part Two

The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.

♪♬

Part Two

Waiting

The openers arrive and start setting up. Upstairs, the headliners go through various stages of waiting for the show to start. I sit in the corner. There’s not much to say now. After a brief raucous at the hands of the ever-cheerful Dave (Timnick), a calmness settles on the room. Were I more acquainted with it, I might have said this is the sound of professional musicians. As I’m not, I can only presume so. It continues into the opening set, then the following act.

Dave, as implied previously, appears to be the only one revelling in the freedom afforded visiting artists, taking in the complimentary libations and starting the night’s running joke when we hear the band who’ll be performing on the larger stage preparing. The noise is not to my liking, but Dave’s distaste exceeds the borders of hatred of the genre being played. He insists on investigating. When he returns, he describes a band with whom I’m not familiar—nor particularly care to discover—comprising two people, one a drummer-slash-singer and the other manning a “brown keyboard”. (That may sound like Dresden Dolls in this description, only.) The drummer, to Dave’s anger and dismay, insists that the sound of the bass drum be fixed, for it is too loud and “violent”. That violence is a foundational part of the sound crafted by metal practitioners, as Dave points out, suggests clearly enough why no one’s interest here will extend beyond mere curiosity. But this incident, not to mention their music, is enough to serve as the focus of future mockeries.

Halfway through the night, I make a meagre sandwich from the assortment of food put out for the band (and, unintentionally, one fortunate guest) and start talking to Joe (Lester) about his bass guitar. From 1999 to 2013, Joe had used a Pedulla, before switching to a Zon that was custom-made for him. He is happy with it, both because he can finally use the pickups supplied by EMG without having to disfigure his Pedulla, and feels it produces a more satisfying low end. In the end, it seems to be a win-win for both Joe and Zon, whose stable of talented endorsees continues to grow along with the inherent goodwill towards the tiny Buffalonian company.

Eventually, the conversation peters down as the final band in which I have no interest (to be frank) breakdowns toward the end of its set. I wish good luck to those who haven’t yet headed down, and try to remember the way to the basement with the original path now blocked to prevent attendees from heading into the bands’ rooms.

The new route is frustratingly inefficient. After meandering down stairs, you’re forced to exit the building and re-enter farther down its side, and then meander down a further set of stairs; a bouncer controls entry at both doors, one keeping fans out of the now artist-only entrance, and the other supposedly checking tickets. I say “supposedly” because none checks mine, the only indication that they care being my verbal altercation with the disinterested bouncer controlling the artist entrance when I mistakenly show him my ticket and he concludes that, as someone with the temerity to pay for this concert, I must not be authorized to use this entrance. Thankfully, my tenacity trumps his evident fatigue, but successfully negotiating my way back in doesn’t leave me with anything more than consciousness of my own idiocy. Had I not been too proud to allow the perception that I was attending for free, I would not have felt the compulsion to show my ticket to someone who didn’t request it and who, furthermore, found himself embroiled in a needless argument with Your Right Honourable Nincompoop. When I next see him, I apologise for the fuss I caused, he explains why he started it—and further why he’s obliged to stop ne’erdowells without a pass—it’s all cordially sorted, but only cordially. At some point, I’m supposed to grow out of this inability to handle mundane human interaction. I’m also supposed to stop derailing narratives with my obsessions over irrelevant encounters with incidental characters. Today is not that day.

A mass of sweaty teens hang around the basement’s entrance. Donning overly-thin T-shirts, they cool off away from the heated, humid stage, and from the overwhelming lack of adults in the crowd, I’m only guessing that they must be here either for the previous bands, which were themselves composed of teenagers (or close to it), or Scale the Summit, with whose fanbase I’m unfamiliar. Failing these two possibilities, this will be the first time I’ve seen an Intronaut show devoid of an audience that traditionally comprises an overabundance of facial hair.

Murphy's Law

After positioning myself in front of the stage, I notice the audience steadily go through an age transfusion. (Turns out my first hypothesis was correct.) As the members of Scale the Summit start to trickle in with their instruments, boys are replaced by men… and the occasional woman. Drummer Pat Skeffington hits every drum with a monotone rhythm; the monitor beside me blows a gust of air with every beat, most forcefully when he reaches the bass drum. Everything goes smoothly enough until Mark Michell, the bassist, reports that he can’t get any sound out of his bass, and Brett has to push through the waiting horde to investigate. Is it a cable or amp issue? All we can do is wait.

Eventually, the problem is identified and fixed, and the band is allowed to briefly finish setting up. And after a curt introduction, the show begins.

End of Part Two.

Next time: this isn't a review, it's a narcissistic journey, so we decide to skip the show and discuss what I see and hear, and what methods I use to next embarrass myself.

Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part One

The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.

♩♬

Part One

The sea swells and bashes into barriers, threatening to flood their wards—and in some cases, succeeding. Gale force winds pour into cities. They whip vast waves of rubbish into a frenzy. Rain not so much falls as it is swept into your face. Transportation services are cancelled, and for those who are lucky, only delayed. Newspapers report of the worst weather in three decades.

Well, it’s England, all right. And this will be Intronaut and Scale the Summit’s backdrop.

Right now, my rear end is sore. I’ve been travelling in some form for the past four hours, and will evidently do so for some time more. I’m one of the lucky travellers whose train was merely delayed, you see, and whose hopes of sitting on the bands’ soundcheck may very well have been dashed. (As ever, it is a train that will rob me of the elusive meaningful time with Intronaut.¹).

The sky is a deceptive blue, hovering over foreboding clouds on the horizon that seem to angrily stifle meek rays of sunlight. It’s a welcome patch of calm, but we know it won’t last: it’s that foreboding horizon into which we ride.

Embarrassment Never Felt so Good: Cynic Live, One

C

an you believe it: your eloquent Narrator humiliated himself in front of Paul Masvidal.  The ever-flowery penner who has no trouble constructing pretty collections of words was caught in the trap of too-much-to-say-with-too-little-time.  So, instead of reciting the thoughtful lines I’d prepared all week, I, first, giggled like a shy girl, and then burst into a monolithic rant on Cynic’s musical history, without a hint of beckoning, and even less context.  Yes, I told Paul Masvidal what his own music sounds like.

I shouldn’t be allowed near my heroes.  No matter how much I convince myself I won’t look silly, I always end up looking silly.  I’m like a kid that refuses to let go of a piece of candy, even though he’s full and has had enough.  Cynic and Intronaut are my candy.  And enough is not enough.  See, I’m sitting in the corner of a train station as I’m writing this.  It’s dark, cold (no matter how much I prepare, I’m never ready for the agony train stations throw at me), a wind keeps blowing into my face even though the doors are shut, and after getting just a hair over two hours of sleep today, my body is ready to quit.  And yet, I’m having no trouble slinging this together.  But put me in front of Paul, and I go all googly-eyed.

The chemistry of a lifelong friendship.

In my defence, though, Cynic gave me a ton to talk about, because their set provided it.  For example, Paul’s singing was so subversive it was almost beyond surprising.  He would prolong certain notes, distort others, and ignore some choruses all together, all to the point that singing along required one to stay on edge because we quickly realised Cynic weren’t going to be taking the verbatim route.  It gave the show an improvisational feel, and in hindsight, makes absolute sense – even if no one was expecting it.

The songs, too, were distorted.  I’m a big fan of “Integral”, the remix of the masterpiece “Integral Birth”, and they did something so brilliant it was utterly logical looking back at it, but equally unexpected because no one would think they had the balls to try it: rather than play only one of the two songs (a shame, because I’d love to hear both, but that’s impractical), they combined them, with Paul playing “Integral” as an overture, before the band collectively jumped into “Integral Birth”.  It was a stunning amalgamation that fit so perfectly one could have assumed it was but a single song originally composed as such.

When Plans Go Awry: Intronaut Live, Two

W

ell, seeing Intronaut for the second time didn't turn out as planned, even though it was much closer than last time.  Speaking to the band (mostly Joe for a couple hours) was, again, awesome, as was the first half of their set.  We missed the rest so we could catch the final train home, which, oh, joy of joys, was first late, and then cancelled as it pulled into the train station.

The collection of travellers were justifiably pissed, but there was nothing we could do.  Eventually, we hatched a plan to share a taxi with six other people, allowing the ride to be only slightly more expensive than the train ticket.  So, all was not lost... for us, anyway.

As the taxi stopped for a minute in front of the station, an old man standing beside it stared at me.  He had a hunch, long, black beard, unkempt hair, and the look of a bitter, defeated man.  Only minutes earlier, he had been standing alone while we tried to get a taxi home.  Before that, he was angrily asking an attendant why he wasn't allowed in the train.  When we exited the station, I felt his distress - we, too, were stranded.  But, then, there I was, safely on my way home while he stood there, watching everyone but him leave.

Man, that felt shitty.  I should have done something, more than just pondering aloud whether he was headed in the same direction.  There probably wasn't enough space (I believe adding us was the limit), but does it hurt to try?  In the end, I can only hope he eventually found his way home, whether it be on the first train of the next day or some other means. 

End.

(Updated: 12.03.14. Reason: formatting and grammar; I did not fix the otherwise terrible writing.)

Unforgettable: Intronaut Live, One

M

y memory of Friday, 3^rd of June, 2011, will not be forgotten until the senility of old age takes me.  I don’t say this as some hyperbolic trope with little meaning – it was truly a night to remember.Somehow, however, I’m not sure how to describe it all.  I could use one of the various over-used adjectives that permeate the modern English lexicon, or a long, structured examination of the day’s events, but, frankly, my tongue can’t grasp the words required to do that.

When I briefly spoke to Joe Lester after their set, the word I kept flubbing out through my star-struck quiver was “Wow!”  The word was the closest I could come to expressing my combination of joy, ecstasy, disbelief, and sheer awe.  By the time the band had started coiling their cables and the audience had dispersed, I was still standing in front of the stage, wiping the sweat and inability to comprehend what had just happened from my brow. 

I couldn’t believe it.  This was Intronaut.  In person.  Not two metres from me.  In the centre of the stage, Joe had played his bass; to his left and right, respectively, Sacha Dunable and Dave Timnick provided a harmony of guitar and vocals; and, finally, beyond them was Danny Walker, whose cymbal hits, fills, and blast beats were as precise as they were to the point.  Each member was in form, working as vessels through which the music flowed.