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The Dream Syndicate - Weathered And Torn
The lights would come down, the crowds voice would hush and the band would appear on stage. Steve in his dark jacket, black jeans and boots; Dennis, calm and unflappable as he climbed behind his drum kit; Mark, the bassist, all blond, lank and affable grin; Paul B., the crazed guitarist, with his ponytail and tool chest of props waiting in the wings. Just their appearance fueled the anticipation. Steve, Hitchcock-like, worked the suspence, stretching it - starting out with a quiet song, his fingers barely grazing the strings, his voice a foreboding whisper. Slowly building it, note upon note until suddenly, like long-awaited thunder the guitars exploded, the drums crashed and the bass throbbed. Steves voice got higher, thinner and scarcer, his words spelling darkness and
danger, his hands trembling, his head shaking the word no - at which pointyou, the spectator, forgot you awere part of a crowd, forgot there was any space separating you from the music, forgot there was a world.. .
danger, his hands trembling, his head shaking the word no - at which pointyou, the spectator, forgot you awere part of a crowd, forgot there was any space separating you from the music, forgot there was a world.. .
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