There I was back stage before sound check. It was mesmerizing, there was people everywhere, sweeping the stage, tending to the system, preening the knobs, caressing the faders, cooeing the connections. Everything was black black with silver edging. Laid out like a first class dinner, barely a breath out of place.
This is rock music. A hallowed world of gashing guitars and felt bound kick peddles. This is like a portable church, a sanctified chamber resurrected from dead for the glory of future generations. A place full of the sacred rights for roadies and the true and humble home of gaffa tape.
A shaft of light breaks into room from the fire exit as the lighting guys kicks the door for a smoke. Caught in the beam I see the lead microphone, an SM58, a symbol of timeless integrity, purity and strength. An industrial template for quality and performance.
I felt time grip me in a ripple, a contorted warp that stretched for 40 years. I stared at my watch as the digital read out scrambled before my eyes.
This is rock music. A timeless tunnel. A captive moment where the world comes to kneel before the glory of electric guitars and sticks on skins. I feel dizzy, overwhelmed, awed by the awesome power of this incredible presence of 'ROCK'.
As the first guitar is brought on stage for sound check, I bolt for the fire exit. Stifling a scream, crushing my fear, escaping this static time, staying focused I run headlong into light.
