By: Ilya Ratner
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Tool - Publicity Photo
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With Tool’s ascent into the realm of pop radio, pretenders spawned. These pretenders were talentless hacks riding on the waves of Tool’s originality and spewed power chord cacophony on 93X’s top 20. These bands were distillations. Music industry creations. But lucky for them and their producers, no one really cared. In fact, the majority of the listeners appeared to love it.
Such top 20 fans were legion at the concert, chanting the chorus to “The Pot” and desperately trying to head bang to odd beats. There was also the army of darkness. You know who they are: the moshing, belligerent, drunk, homicidal maniacs with an affinity for all things diabolical. It took this battalion of bedlam some time to get going, but once their inner-Loki was released, center floor of the Target Center became an undulating mass of chaos. Every so often an ecstatic surfer would rise out of the black hole and float atop the crowd toward the stage. Some made it safely into the hands of vigilant security guards; others toppled towards the floor and became friends with elbows and boot soles.
And of course there were the anal-obsessives thriving on nuance; remembering every time signature, every tempo change and every break. They’re the ones that buy potatoes shaped like Maynard James Keenan’s head on eBay. They’re the ones you want to kick. They’re the ones you want to vomit on after too many $7 beers, unless, of course, the guy pretending to know the lyrics to “Ænema” is closer.
Regardless of social propensity, though, the radio fans, darkness legionnaires, fanatics and music enthusiasts all appreciated the show. Whether pretending, moshing, obsessing or simply enjoying, we were all in for a feast.
“Good evening almost Canada!” Maynard exclaimed, and a sensory séance commenced. The music shattered the Target Center. Beautifully evil tones clashed and consumed introspective lyrics. A communion was formed. Perhaps that’s why Tool is sometimes referred to as “art rock”? Dimensions amass like layers of oil on an artist’s canvas and the intent becomes both ambiguous and provocative.
There were lasers: green and blue and red, spinning and refracting through the arena. A 10-foot wall wrapped the back of the stage, its imagery shifting from music video clips to aural projections. Maynard stood back left, a silhouette wrapped in neon green light, writhing and jutting, as imposing as a titan.
Bassist Justin Chancellor and guitarist Adam Jones stood front stage. Chancellor was the head banger, creating as much rhythm with his hair as he did with his bass. He was the syncopation; he was the hammer on the beat and he was the familiarity of Tool. Jones was the haunting underpinnings, playing counterpoint to the bass line and stretching the melodies in sustained guitar solos. Drummer Danny Carey managed to hide his 6-foot-5-inch frame behind his drum set, but his pounding was ever-present.
Together, the quartet effused dynamics, shaping the sound into highs and lows, expounding in ear-piercing distortion and withdrawing into tranquility. From “Stinkfist” to “Ænema” every song became an opus. I’m not sure about the oiled up bodybuilder in a tutu and luchedor mask, but a little caprice goes a long way.
When everything came to end, it was as if you were exiting a dark cathedral where a black mass had both enlightened and disturbed you. A black sea of people exited. A hum rang in your ears.
Location Info:
Target Center
Artist Info: Tool
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