Trey was shredding chords more instinctively than a white shark’s jaw masticating through blubber of a baby seal. It was a symphony from heaven sprinkling down jesus tears that glistened like the morning dew on the face of a newborn doe. If Trey was playing underwater, the water around his fingers would boil. He embraced the music with such extraordinary sound and beauty, it extolled the jams with the luminescent brilliance of a dying star.
Mike’s bass sounded like the monster truck of Gamehendge. It really put it in perspective that we are all old Geo Metros which he will roar his massive bass tones over and crush our pathetic fiberglass frames into a crumpled heap. Feeling those shockwaves was like seeing a bald eagle and having it perch on my privates.
Page took on his old form, the type where I picture him windsurfing across oceans of dead Nazis which he personally slaughtered with a pleasing vibrato, just to dish out crunchy funk tacos seasoned with unicorn spice. He was comparable to a thermonuclear bomb of rainbows radiating marshmallows and glow sticks.
Fish was pounding out beats like cruise missiles taking out air defense radio relay towers. It was serenading my soul with warm, familiar melodies. Every drum kick was like hearing a songbird passionately make love to a grand piano and then having your skull kicked in it’s so awesome. Even if Godzilla was on stage firing flaming farts into the sky it wouldn’t come close to matching this awesomeness.
Unfortunately not every aspect of the show was Meatballs review quality. While each song is certainly subjective, it has also been said that music is a tryst, for in the joy of it, maker and beholder meet. Unfortunately, in this case, the tryst of the encore would be the emotional-connection equivalent of a quick hand job in a K-mart toilet from a middle-aged shelf-stacker named Rhonda in exchange for half a packet of Marlboro Menthol lights.