Brian Jonestown Massacre

a rush of notes, like a daydream spedup,  a madman on the guitar.  A broken string catches light , a silver arc of uselessness.  The stage bows under relentless soundscapes.  Shirtless, muscleless, colorless, like a modern day golum, the madman squint-stares at the ceiling, a creature from the caves.  A scattering of  tattoos, unreadable ciphers .  The drummer drives a whole world of sonic disaster scenes.  two guitarists roll with him, veins popping out of skinny arms, wrists bent in no-way-possible contortions…power chords.  The thinnest of filaments, the broken string dances in slow motion syncopation to the madman’s angry strums.  The bass digs deep, welded to each crack of the drum.   In the foreground, sycophants, musicphiles, and nameless drunks.  Some dance some bob, some stand stock still like goateed pillars.  In the background, more sycophants and hangers-on, earnest-smug-faced groupies knowing, just knowing that the madman plays for her, for them, for us.  The music climbs, echos, rebounds, destroys, envelopes, saturates…it’s a glimpse of madness.  The broken razor-strand of silver continues it’s demented heart-pulse.  The song screams to a close.  The madman sneers, passes off the offending guitar to the roadie (his job:  tune, and fast…but this time he’s  not fast enough)(and watch out, the madman, he can hear through parenthesis)(and everything parenthetical is after him) and the roadie, the poor bastard, a misfit needer through and through, is called forward and commanded to apologize to us, the lesser sycos for “fucking up the tuning”, for “ruining” the music.  And the crowd tolerates the madman.  And the crowd adores the madman.  But is anyone else feeling sick?  Is anyone else seeing?  A sallow man, strung out on junk.  He is goaded and goads.  He rocks and he whines.  He reaches the NEW and wallows in cliche.  He is on the edge…of being what? Visionary?, Genius?, Historic?  Burnt-Crisp Madman?  And finally, live, in person, is he worth it?  Is he worth the trite, childish vagaries of madness that strike him like seizures?  

my take?

no.  not live.

(I’ll get him digitally)