...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead Suburban Kids

[Lunatics. That's the only word coming to my strained lips right now:
absolute lunatics. My ears buzz, my neck hurts, my legs are weak --
indeed, ...And You Know Us by the Trail of Dead is back on tour, and
this time they have TWO drummers, a brand new bassist, and even a
keyboardist. Meaning, MORE equipment to trash each night. I have never
seen a bunch of techies run so fast as they scurried across the stage
to recover what Conrad, Jason, and the others attempted to render
unrecognizable. They are Trail of Dead, and they put on a sick live
show. Truth is, the music isn't even that good (especially the tedious
recent album "Worlds Apart"), it's the DELIVERY that counts.]

My eyes blister and I am happy, hopping up and down on chewed gum
waiting for the band to start. T-shirt tight on skin, jeans ripped at
the knee, memories of past shows and past brushes with death (they
whipped a snare drum at me in Albuquerque in April 2002) in the
forefront of my mind. All ages show, long-haired teens in braces and
corporate deodarant bounce to the strains of Van Halen's "Jump" as two
roadies put the finishing touches on a set-up sure to be slammed to
smithereens within an hours time.

Kill the lights. Black-clothed figures slink into the din of smoke and
applause, a backing track blasts an ominous choral piece, my heels
scream for relief but I am too happy to be standing on solid ground,
ready to fly. First chords strike, mosh pit ignites, armpits go wet and
even the girls are slamming into each other. Verse, chorus, verse --
rest, slam, rest. My asthma proves no match for these Sonic
Youth-inspired songs from the first album, my heart yearns to connect
with each and every soul through the meta-bliss body of the more
pop-romantic tunes. Jason Reece leaves the drums to grab the mic and
douse the crowd in water, we open up our mouths in gratitude, in song.

A 12-year old jumps on the back of a tight end and propels himself atop
the audience, surfing through clapping hands like a hyperactive puppy
in a snowbank; he is dumped onstage, winks at the guitarist and dives
back in, we pass him around and then he comes to me and --FUCK. Kid
falls on his head, on his neck, I was too weak and suprised. Down on
the floor, concerned moshers stop moving to pat his back and assess the
damage. It wasn't my fault, I tell myself, swearing to lift more
weights from now on.

10 minutes later, he's back in the fray, spinning around with fists
bared as the band rips into the speed-number "Perfect Teenhood" from
the album named after the holy mother. Conrad ponders the history of
music as he shakes his tambourine into the mic and brags about how good
his life is. The old bass player goes conspicuously unmentioned.

In 2002 I was a lonely youth hostel resident wandering New Mexico by
day and drinking by night. A redheaded girl gave me her number at the
pool hall Dave Attell would raid in an episode of "Insomniac" three
months later, but when I called she never answered. Each day at the
youth hostel I made a new friend, we went for beers and they were gone
in the morning. A kiwi blogger wandering the country by foot was jumped
by a brick-wielding bum in the alley behind the hostel that night after
the Trail of Dead show, nevertheless the Kiwi had a great visit and
seemed to hook up with any girl he came across. Romance of the open
road, or attractive qualities of his skewed Aussie accent?

I laid on the sofa that night with my discman, blasting "Source Tags
and Code" and dreaming of rock-n-roll glories of a far-off future.
Trail of Dead may be closer to such a level of glory than any other
band, if their cathartic destruction and politely violent reverence for
the audience are any indication.

Then again, they did request all beer to served in plastic cups, the
pussies.

:op