2006-05-30

Sasquatch

If there was a transcendent moment, it must have come after the hailstorm that threatened to cancel the rest of Sasquatch, relentless were its pea-sized fists of fury. Perhaps it was the pathetic looking burnout who passed us as we huddled in the shelter, angry and cosmic, waiting for the storm to pass, who brought comedy to us with his tortured remark, Fuck, he muttered, this is horrible. Or when the stage was cleared and the Hip came on and delivered a shockingly powerful setlist, replete with endless and absurd soliloquizing by Gord Downie which culminated in an onstage shouting match with the microphone stand 'You're not a man, stand, you're not like me - I'm a man - you're just a microphone stand' and he would kick it once more, his head ready to burst, and again squirm and wiggle in ways that must make dolphins jealous; if Gord Downie lived at Sea World he'd get all the fish. Or with my back aching and my head full of weed, as we waited literally ages for the Flaming Lips to begin, at five rows out we considered and reconsidered calling it a night, to rest our fatigued limbs, to get to the dozen Mirror Pond Pale Ale that awaited us in the trunk; but no, the toys finally all set out, Wayne Coyne climbed into a giant clear plastic bubble and the stage exploded with sound as he rode out onto a sea of arms and smiling faces, laughing as he fell artlessly in unexpected directions, and I yelled it over and over, 'He has the best fucking job in the world!' but no one seemed to care or notice, not that I blame them. We were witnessing something greater than ourselves, for who has not dreamed of climbing into a bubble and trampling like a galactus onto the heads of all the fans and shitheads below, to be elevated like that, ascendant and godlike, I've made it, I would think, I'm a fucking rock star now.

Tell me when this blog is updated

email: