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Having shouldered my way through throngs of black t-shirts and
merchandisers crowded around the entrance of the Oakland Coliseum, I was
immediately assaulted by lilting power chords of the musical ensemble known
as the Nine Inch Nails. As the musical deluge thundered over me blinding
strobe bulbs thrashed against my retinas. And there, on the stage, amidst the
synthetic smoke and flashing lights, stood the man behind the music: Trent
Reznor, screaming from the pulpit like some arcane cleric of emotionally
charged hedonism.
The stage show was phenomenal. It stretched the experience of the
beholder between severe psychological trauma, sensorial overload, and acute
physical seizure. During a significant portion of the set a screen was
lowered in front of the stage, onto which were projected images and footage
of some of the more visually intense aspects of the experiential
continuum. From atomic explosions played in reverse, to two baboons locked in
mortal combat, to viruses multiplying, to soldier accosting a little girl by
prodding an automatic weapon against her head, this display dragged the
viewer through the annals of visual documentation. Some of the images were
quite disturbing, such as those of victims of oppression and gruesome
casualties of war. Following this montage the light show began in earnest.
The screen was lifted and smoke machines spewed their odorless ambiguity
forth over the churning crowds. Colored lights throbbed in time with the
music. Every so often massive spotlights would completely illuminate the
audience. Then they would begin to gyrate and spin casting the spectators
into an ever-changing discord of light and shadow. However, all this
regalia and pageantry would have been rendered null and void without the
roaring backdrop of nerve shattering, harmonic discord.
Listening to the Nine Inch Nails is like being wrenched through space by
a meat hook firmly planted in the root of one's being. The throbbing bass
lines careen up from the floor to shake the vertebrae. The roiling storms of
melody reverberate behind the eyeballs. The choruses come crashing home like
tidal waves against ones brain. They played all the classics: Head like
a Hole, Hurt and Closer. The crowd loved every minute of
it. They were completely carried away into the disturbingly erotic and
bizarre auditory vistas. The sexual tension was truly tangible as Reznor
screamed "I want to fuck you like an animal."
The whole ordeal left me shaken. I felt as if my mind had just emerged
from a blender. The experience of the concert itself had been almost
uncomfortable, so intense was the stimuli. However, having lived through it,
I can honestly say that I would not have missed this opportunity for anything
else that could have presented itself that Saturday night.
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