ticks up another ten notches as four
shadowy figures make their way onto the stage. I can only make out the outlines
of their bodies through the blazing lights, but there’s one form that I would
know anywhere striding across the wide stage. Slade Hale lifts up his arms as
if in supplication to the audience. He walks toward the writhing crowd, and
everyone in attendance goes absolutely mad. They love him, I can tell. He has
their utter attention, their absolute, rapt adoration.
Slade steps up to the standing mic and screams, “How the
fuck are you doing tonight, Philadelphia?”
Another surge of sound crashes against the stage, but Slade
isn’t thrown. He seems to be expanding, growing larger than life as if inflated
by the crowd’s manic excitement. “We’re going to rock out with you all night,” he
goes on, “So get the fucking pit going and lose your fucking minds!”
A roar of assent sounds as Slade turns his back to the
crowd. The other band members have found their places on stage and taken up
their instruments. Annabelle perches behind the massive drum set, wearing
little more than a collection of tatters. Dodge has his legs spread wide, ready
to tear into the opening number. Every muscle in Joe’s thick body seems to be
tensed and ready to spring at Slade’s command. And Slade stands before them all,
in perfectly fitted black jeans and a plain white tee shirt, his black curls
hanging in front of his face, his jaw stubbled deliciously. His dark eyes are
positively radiant with excitement. The sight of him, backlit by the blazing
stage lights, buoyed by the utter adoration of thousands of fans, is
incredible. He’s practically super human right now.
Slade takes a deep, swift breath, filling his lungs with
air. Spinning back to the microphone, he lets out a deep, heartrending wail.
For a moment, his voice is the only sound ringing through the massive arena.
The entire crowd holds its breath, listening to the powerful, wavering sound of
his voice. And then, all hell breaks loose. The band springs into their first
song, pounding out a surging, aching beat that sweeps them up with it. The
crowd is screaming now, shouting along with the song or yelling their own
truths into the darkness. And Slade is the conduit for it all.
He strides across the stage, his every muscle straining
under the intensity of his motion. His voice soars above the din, ringing
through the arena and surrounding us all. Before I know it, I can feel my own
body moving along to the raging music. I watch as the audience seems to split,
and a massive black hole opens up in the center of the crowd. One after
another, rabid fans charge into the pit, swinging their fists and dancing
erratically. Usually, this kind of display would worry me sick, but I’m too
caught up in the moment to be concerned. All that I care about is Slade’s
voice, moving through me, the music pumping through me and bringing me to life.
All over the crowd, people are being tossed into the air,
carried across the sea of people by a hundred hands. People soar up into the
air and disappear from view, only to land once again in the churning, furious
mosh pit. Chaos takes over the assembled crowd, and the lawless, turbulent
expanse comes alive with its own aggressive fury. I’ve never seen something so
terrifying and alluring as this circus of which Slade is the ringmaster, leading
the way.
Sweat pours down Slade’s face and chest, his white tee shirt
sticks to his rippling muscles. He leaps and charges across the stage while
Dodge and Joe thrash wildly, throwing themselves into the heavy beat song after
song. Melodies weave and change, songs bleed into each other. I’m dancing in my
own little corner of the arena, swinging my hips and hair, thrashing and
writhing along with the audience. I didn’t even know my limbs could move like
this, without inhibition. I don’t want the music to ever end—I only want to be
suspended here in this chaotic bliss forever.
Time
shadowy figures make their way onto the stage. I can only make out the outlines
of their bodies through the blazing lights, but there’s one form that I would
know anywhere striding across the wide stage. Slade Hale lifts up his arms as
if in supplication to the audience. He walks toward the writhing crowd, and
everyone in attendance goes absolutely mad. They love him, I can tell. He has
their utter attention, their absolute, rapt adoration.
Slade steps up to the standing mic and screams, “How the
fuck are you doing tonight, Philadelphia?”
Another surge of sound crashes against the stage, but Slade
isn’t thrown. He seems to be expanding, growing larger than life as if inflated
by the crowd’s manic excitement. “We’re going to rock out with you all night,” he
goes on, “So get the fucking pit going and lose your fucking minds!”
A roar of assent sounds as Slade turns his back to the
crowd. The other band members have found their places on stage and taken up
their instruments. Annabelle perches behind the massive drum set, wearing
little more than a collection of tatters. Dodge has his legs spread wide, ready
to tear into the opening number. Every muscle in Joe’s thick body seems to be
tensed and ready to spring at Slade’s command. And Slade stands before them all,
in perfectly fitted black jeans and a plain white tee shirt, his black curls
hanging in front of his face, his jaw stubbled deliciously. His dark eyes are
positively radiant with excitement. The sight of him, backlit by the blazing
stage lights, buoyed by the utter adoration of thousands of fans, is
incredible. He’s practically super human right now.
Slade takes a deep, swift breath, filling his lungs with
air. Spinning back to the microphone, he lets out a deep, heartrending wail.
For a moment, his voice is the only sound ringing through the massive arena.
The entire crowd holds its breath, listening to the powerful, wavering sound of
his voice. And then, all hell breaks loose. The band springs into their first
song, pounding out a surging, aching beat that sweeps them up with it. The
crowd is screaming now, shouting along with the song or yelling their own
truths into the darkness. And Slade is the conduit for it all.
He strides across the stage, his every muscle straining
under the intensity of his motion. His voice soars above the din, ringing
through the arena and surrounding us all. Before I know it, I can feel my own
body moving along to the raging music. I watch as the audience seems to split,
and a massive black hole opens up in the center of the crowd. One after
another, rabid fans charge into the pit, swinging their fists and dancing
erratically. Usually, this kind of display would worry me sick, but I’m too
caught up in the moment to be concerned. All that I care about is Slade’s
voice, moving through me, the music pumping through me and bringing me to life.
All over the crowd, people are being tossed into the air,
carried across the sea of people by a hundred hands. People soar up into the
air and disappear from view, only to land once again in the churning, furious
mosh pit. Chaos takes over the assembled crowd, and the lawless, turbulent
expanse comes alive with its own aggressive fury. I’ve never seen something so
terrifying and alluring as this circus of which Slade is the ringmaster, leading
the way.
Sweat pours down Slade’s face and chest, his white tee shirt
sticks to his rippling muscles. He leaps and charges across the stage while
Dodge and Joe thrash wildly, throwing themselves into the heavy beat song after
song. Melodies weave and change, songs bleed into each other. I’m dancing in my
own little corner of the arena, swinging my hips and hair, thrashing and
writhing along with the audience. I didn’t even know my limbs could move like
this, without inhibition. I don’t want the music to ever end—I only want to be
suspended here in this chaotic bliss forever.
Time
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