Tomorrow at seven a.m. I embark on a nine-hour journey via Greyhound to Chicago to see Underworld, the techno-electro pulse-trigger god brigade who in my circa six years of listening to them have provided nights on end of mediation and dancing around my room like everyone’s watching, not to mention imbued within my writing the rhythm of panic and disconnection and the vivisection of narration.
A few years ago I managed to catch Darren Emerson spin at the Quest—now it’s time for the real thing, or as close as I can get with the remaining members Karl Hyde and Rick Smith, who have proven they know what they’re doing minus Emerson with their latest album “A Hundred Days Off” (thank you very much) though I must say… “dubnobass” and “Second Toughest” still and will always own me the hardest.
As a wonderful coincidence, the show’s at the Riviera, the venue in which I saw Tool immediately following the release of Lateralus, an experience that head-stomp-started my summer of 2001, giving me the drive to put life on hold, move back to Fargo, hole up in my dad’s basement, and finish The Teaching Emotion.
To communicate this anticipation… what can I say, really. Skipping classes, ditching work, not caring that I couldn’t get friends to come with me, I am already beyond belief with what everythingeverything does to what’s inside me. This is need and appreciation, Mecca and compulsion knowing now is the time to push everything aside and step inside fully the sound that made Emotion.
Though I’ll travel solo, vision quest on my own, no way when I arrive will I feel alone—I carry stolen pieces of everyone I know, everywhere I go, I project familiarity. Maybe I’ll see you, hm? dancing in the corner. Shout a hello / drop halo / let go (let’s go) free.
As an extra special bonus, tonight I’ll see (also for the first time) Elliott Smith in a club on the West Bank, a seemingly hush-hush affair I managed to hear about from Radio K Friday night. I should’ve known about this two months ago, not two days ago; it’s oddly not advertised in any of my concert/show heads-up haunts.
Mr. Smith once played a tiny club in Fargo (called “First Avenue” ha ha ha)—I attended to watch local June Panic perform but left before the headliner. It was 1996-ish and I didn’t know who that Elliott Smith guy was, anyway < lowers head in shame >.
Take care everyone—I’ll see you all tomorrow, and if you don’t see me… look harder. I’m there.