(Photos added May 18, 2007.)
Well, motherfuck. It pissed cold precip from the corn shucks of Nebraska all the way to the curb of the Turf Club in St. Paul. Unloaded in a downpour, and the repetitive combo of wet/hot/cold/dry really began to take its toll. I'm officially ill, dawg, and it sucks. Voice is holding out, although the upper register is well frayed. I need a vacation from our vacation ASAP.
The venue is a well-appointed old haunt... Fizzing, rumbling support demons have their mark on the boards. At present, industrial diehards Noise Quean Ant are tweaking martial drum telemetrics for the members of the audience with PAIA crystal radio receivers. Meanwhile, Ben has genuine concerns: a fire is raging through Los Angeles' Griffith Park, endangering not only his home but those of our friends Oscar Perez and Syd Garon... It's a bleak night in surprisingly humid St. Paul... More later.
(Rain poured off the awning all night... Dismal, but interestingly so.)
(The Turf Club, in all its faded, cracked, chipped, convulsed, and agreeably garish splendor...)
(Ben, Rat and Graham prepare a list of lighting cues for our visual effects supervisor... We rolled with six articulated lorries containing 45,000 pounds of spots, computer-controlled tracers, and... Okay, we're lying. We had one SUV, no lights whatsoever, and four amps full of glass fragments. We dimmed the house mains and let shit rip...)
(Matt St. Germain, flanked by Ben and Rattus. He joined us on electronics, and pummeled but good.)
(Ben, obviously stressed about the Griffith Park fire. He maintained composure nonetheless...)
(Rat, forever 19, albeit slightly fucked-out for the effort.)
(Noise Quean Ant. They performed an excellent set...)
(Graham, readying the "London's Burning" sequence that presaged each performance of "Bullet in the Back.")
(The Rattus, in pre-shred mode...)
(Ben flight-checks the presets prior to C4 detonation... Oh, damn! There I go again with the battle-readiness and terror armory metaphors,.. We love baskets of kittens too!! )