ann arbor gig.
Who needs another review? There are so many, after all. Meanwhile, European adventures await and the New Year beckons. A new tour poster and slogan for 2018, overseas ticket buyers salivating. Energies emerge from the void, dwindle, and return to their source. Everything is as it should be even if nothing is quite the same. And that's just it, the symptoms of post-crim comedown being what they are, if you know what I mean. If a picture is worth a thousand words then a crim-show is a novel. Or a trilogy. A tetralogy. A religious text. Effulgence and effusiveness is all I have to offer, sorry, not even a review. Again, who needs it? Ah, what the hell. First, the drummers. Gavin: the wrist-snapping ponderer-surgeon of galloping poly-rhythmical precision - a flesh and blood embodiment of Rodin's enigmatic Thinker but with his hands full and his toes tapping. Jeremy: the hard-fisted, soldier-philosopher pugilist of savage, poly-technical dichotomy - a skin-smashing deacon of doom and sinister keyboard cleric. Pat: the vision-questing shamanic conjurer of alchemical polymorphic sorcery - Atlas shrugs the world whilst bedecked with dream-catchers and bone-charms. Behind? From on high? The gods look down. Tony, astronaut-mythologist and all-seeing, ibis-god guardian of the cosmic axis - caretaker of the World Tree – warlock of the growling, snarling cauldron of time and space, wolf-balancer and pivot-point of the pantheon. Gibson, communicator of runes and priestly, otherworldly reserve; weaver of mysteries, spell-caster of smoldering tapestries - the moon-man of remote and unknowable powers. Jakko: wizard impresario and empresario, ringmaster-herald and book of souls, delver and deliverer, voice of the ages and parallel worlds, choir-boy scholar and shape-shifting fiend of the fretboard. Fripp: Of course. The asana-poised, psi-powered dragon-monster; wise and terrible, coiled upon his lotus perch, gesturing in mudras, dabbling in synths, bestowing tranquility one moment - a world comes into being – and breathing fire the next – a world is consumed: guitarist as archangel and wrecking ball in one. Nexus and annihilator. It’s his world and we just live in it. Finally, Mel Collins, fanning flames from outside of time; his plexi-walled woodwind shrine rather a blast shield than a reconciliation room: a scorching reactor vessel of beyond-good-and-evil paradox, of fusion and fission, at once a crucible of tortured shrieks and a refuge of lyrical refrain - a one-man meltdown in a bow tie and boyish grin, a denizen of the yonder shore in a dinner jacket. Memorable moment: Mel, having blown the world to smithereens, holds his saxophone aloft and looks not out but up, hailing the balcony, grinning blissfully, unselfconsciously, saluting the triumph of who knows who and god knows what besides the miracle of his own self-effacing demonstration of sublime sonic sanctity. For a moment, we saw ourselves in him. Otherwise, wow: 4 + 4 = so much more.