Sessanta

I cant count how many times I;ve seen Maynard James Keenan live. Whether it be with Tool, A Perfect Circle or Puscifer, it just seems the man is never done perfecting his craft. 

His voice has matured but hasn’t one bit in any way diminished in the capacity to convey the deepest, rawest emotions that send goosebumps through at the back of your neck, as if it was being charged by some musical dousing rod. 

 Ten years ago, me and 7 buddies rented a limousine to go to see Cinquanta, a celebration of Maynard’s 50th birthday. We looked way more important than we were. Everyone looking at us as we left the limo wondering who could we be. WEre we in a band? Scots? Just dudes with mountains of cash? The thought of them following us to our nosebleed seats cracked me up.  To see here. 

Ten years later and MAynard blessed us with another run of this 3 alternating band style tour. This time with Primus as the last part of the holy trinity. (Side note, the real holy fucking tirnity would be this same tour with Tool taking that third slot…but us Tool fans know that will never happen. We would be lucky to get a piece of Tool merchandize for under $80. But I digress)

The concert started off with What we all opened our hearts to in 203 when Thirteenth Step was released–The Package. This song just rocks so fucking hard. The eerie intro guitar like a fiend is sneakling around the corner to steal your wallet. Josh Freese once again returned to lend his unique drums. My fucking cat just distracted me and I lost my train of through. She really thinks shes the center of the world. Goddammit she is. Her name is Juniper. Anyways. 

What’s a lice Maynard performance these days without the bald man himself lecturing the crowd about using their cell phones. Funny enough, theres a viral photo going around of Maynard at a concert as an attendee (I think it was Kiss?) filming the stage with a smug smile. If you haven’t been to any life Maynard performance, you would know that cameras are strictly prohibited. I mean strictly. The ushers walk up and down the rows with eagle eyes looking for transgressors. I could probably light up a pookie and get a slap on the wrist while I watch a father of 4 get dragged our for taking a photo of the band. 

Don’t get me wrong, I get it, but goddamn sometimes you want to capture a memory. At least have the option to. I record every show via voice note4 so I can listen back to it and rock to the fine memory of the performance. 

Speaking of, Disillusioned was the second song in the long ass night of rock. I’m sitting next to a couple who wont stop fucking talking. In fact, they talked nearly the whole damn show. It my years of therapy, self reflection and intent of bettering myself to not lean over and tell them to shut the fuck up. I anticipate I’ll write an article on concert etiquette in the near future. I will save my ranting and raving until then. 

The lights go bue and Billy strums away on his guitar drowning the audience in an eerie harmonic cascade.