The anticipation.
The new black outfit.
The anxiety.
The make-up.
The pre-show drinks.
The ticking of the clock.
The protestors.
The people-watching.
The disciples filing in one by one, dressed to the nines.
The new band on the new label, strutting fiercely and doing it well.
The set change.
The waiting.
The muddled, guttural whispers of a voice over the sound system of someone that sounded possessed.
The lights going out leaving the amphitheater black and glittering.
The screams.
The absolute roar of the audience.
The chills.
The swell of the guitars, growing louder.
The gigantic, bat-like silhouette of the God of Fuck shrouded by the enormous cloth hanging in front of the stage.
The blinding white light.
The wall of sound.
The black leather corset on Manson’s “thin and so white” frame.
The insect stilts.
The absence of religion.
The hovering tower of the black skirt.
The guns.
The girlfriend.
The sexuality.
The pope and the severed heads.
The voice and the haunting drum and bass beating along with the freakish digital keys.
The unforgiving lights.
The visit to the old school sound.
The water bottles.
The surprise stage dive.
The bared, white flesh and the nasty striptease moves.
The abuse of authority.
The thrashing, shrieking, lustful persona.
The encore.
The guitar tossed into the feeding frenzy.
The end.
Lesa Pence
– lesa@unearthed.com
