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freddiemercurylegendabovelegends · 6 months

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Today, on November 10th, 1978 - Queen Story!

"Jazz" album released in the UK

👉 The seventh studio album

➡️ 12/12/1978 - Circus Magazine

🔸In praise of ‘JAZZ’

The boys conjure up a bizarre junket by Mark Mehler

On Bourbon Street, in the heart of New Orleans’ fabled French Quarter, the sign reads, “Bob Harrington-Chaplain of Bourbon Street.” Upstairs, the freelance minister administers to the wicked minions below, while across the street, the Hotsy Totsy lounge features naked women parading across an oak bar from dawn to dusk, and next door, the “X-rated Shop” specializes in scatological posters and joy sticks.

This is Freddie Mercury’s favourite American city, where the Mississippi ends its majestic flow and zealots with big dreams fight a losing battle against hustlers, procurers, and all purveyors of sleaze. It is Freddie Mercury’s favourite city because the lead singer and bucktoothed front man of Queen is, above all, an actor. And in New Orleans, anyone can be anyone they want to be. Tonight, October 31, 1978-Halloween-Freddie Mercury and Queen have flown in 80 reporters from the U.S., Europe, Latin America and Japan, to see a show and be a part of a show at the same time. The third concert on Queen’s 28-city U.S. tour is in the ornate Civic Auditorium. Above the stage are listed the names of the mighty: Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Cellini, Durer, Gounod. Out of the soft blue and green lights and smoke, Freddie Mercury struts like a rooster, striking ballet poses, under an astral guitar blare that neatly skirts the sharp edges of rock & roll. The melodies are undistinguished, but the constant tempo changes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “We Will Rock You”, keep an audience awake for nearly two hours of uninterrupted music. The lighting show is one of rock’s most ambitious. Eerie purple lights shine out over the heads of the audience, making their hair seem cloudlike and inanimate. At the midpoint of the show, a smaller stage is lowered from the ceiling and 400 lamps meld into the sheer white plane of curtain light. Freddie is a whirling dervish, dominating every corner of the stage.

“Some people call this song ‘Spread Your Legs’, he tells the audience, introducing ‘Spread Your Wings’. “And I like it that way”.

Starting out in black sequins, he comes out for the first encore bedecked in orange hot pants, dancing around like Peter Pan. For the second encore he’s wearing a revealing, white body stocking. As he wails ‘We Are The Champions’, his voice warbles with mock emotion, and he grasps the microphone for support. At the apex of the triumphant denouement, the top executives of Elektra Records, who have sat smiling throughout the show, arise as one and walk out. Moments later, the show closes with a taping of ‘God Save The Queen’. Body and soul spent, Freddie ambles off stage, drained and spark-less. But Halloween night in New Orleans has just begun.

Back in the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel, over 400 people have gathered to await Queen and much on a sumptuous table of hors d’oeuvres, such as Oysters Rockfeller and Shrimp Creole. A Dixieland band plays uninspired jazz jingles, until, shortly before midnight, the Olympia Brass band comes marching through the hall accompanied by Queen-the mercurial Mercury, the winsome Brian May, the puckish John Deacon, the velvety Roger Taylor. Suddenly, like a giant circus orchestrated by a deranged ringmaster, a legion of strippers, vulgar fat-bottomed dancers, snake charmers, drag queens, and bizarrely festooned revellers, begin to strut their stuff before the assembled masses. Freddie Mercury is besieged by hungry autograph seekers, groupies and fame-worshippers. People begin shielding their clothes, as an ever-imaginative photographer snaps Freddie signing the bare backside of a willowy transvestite. Freddie begins sucking on his giant overbite nervously, and by 2 a.m., he is mercifully gone. Brian May, who seems to be the true organizer of the night’s carnival, is cornered by persistent Japanese newshounds. “It’s wonderful,” he keeps saying. “It’s so nice to be back.” As the evening wears on, epicene men and butch women act out charades of power that would have embarrassed Hemingway. Three obese black women in g-strings do a pathetic bump and grind, and another female participant amuses a small gaggle of onlookers by putting a cigarette in an unlikely place. People leave to check out the scene on Bourbon Street and drift back to the party like cigar smoke. At 4 a.m., a Queen security guard, haggard and irritable, inquires when it will all be over. “Queen wants the naked disco dancers going to dawn,” informs his partner. And it does. The following day, Queen reappears at a press conference at Brennan’s, one of the French Quarter’s most elegant restaurants. Again, it is Roger Taylor and Brian May who dominate the conversation, as Freddie Mercury seems vaguely preoccupied. The subject of all this is ‘Jazz’, Queen’s new album, which contains no jazz. “People think we take ourselves a lot more seriously than we actually do,” says Roger Taylor. ‘Jazz’, Queen’s reunion with former producer Roy Thomas Baker, offers ‘Mustapha’, an up-tempo Hebrew rocker; ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, a song that owes a lot to Pure Prairie League’s ‘Amie’; and more indulgent rhapsodies like ‘Jealousy’ and ‘Bicycle Race’, with its topical references to Star Wars, Jaws, and Superman. The ad campaign, like everything about the Band, goes to the limit of good taste: 11 bare-chested, major-league-yabboed women racing bicycles.

“It’s cheeky”, admits Freddie, “naughty, but not lewd. Certain stores, you know, won’t run our poster. I guess some people don’t like to look at nude ladies.”

Freddie, 32, was born in Zanzibar and educated in India, and was a childhood table tennis and hockey prodigy. He studied art and became a graphic designer and illustrator, having given up piano lessons in the fourth grade. But he continued singing, fronting his first band at 14 and forming Queen with Roger and Brian in 1970. After the routine easy grilling, Mercury is cornered outside. “You seem to be removed from the character up on stage. Is that really you?”

“No,” says Freddie, “of course it’s an act.”

He denies pandering to gays; or for that matter, to anyone. He hints at a quiet, restless man who needs to step outside of himself for ego-stimulation.

“I have fun wearing all those costumes,” he says. “I can really cut loose up there”.

Freddie is then swiftly ushered out, and again, Brian May is left behind to field the endless questions of the Japanese. The two-day junket, painstakingly directed by and for Queen, ends with a few straggling journalists eating Bananas Foster and being more cynical than usual. Outside, on Bourbon Street, a folk singer entertains an empty house of red velour seats, affirming that a falling tree makes a sound whether it’s heard or not. Which conjures up something Brian May had said about Queen constantly seeking “direct communication with our audience.” For all the words that describe Queen’s trip to New Orleans, direct is surely not one.

#freddie mercury #queen band #london #zanzibar #legend #queen #brian may #john deacon #freddiebulsara #roger taylor #1978 interview #1978 #jazz tour #jazz album #circus magazine

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thephilosopheroftheboudoir · 11 months

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youtube

Herbie Mann

Armenian Lullaby

from the lp The Wailing Dervishes

#herbie mann #jazz #middle eaastern jazz #psychedelic jazz #Youtube

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libidomechanica · 1 year

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One Moment, here in flower made for leaning

A Meredith sonnet sequence

When Healths and others and Ireland’s present such maine rage, they still, and touching comes easy to him, this told, I joy; but she is needed, for a medicine in selling from a branch. The windows. Their backs, and rolling every day with Men for me who after the sweet self resemblance between my lov’d friends you may tell you, hopeless grief, and all the rest, that, where day be sweet is even lizard, crawling hot dogs, a little Children being callous, harmless thrice o’er the tenderness—and Wilderness and death we’ll go no more! In holes, as some few who had’retreat, nor pretended Florian,— ask for him. In the same clime the years, that Dervish-dances with them just so. And watch!

Of honest eyes I’d known, given, an angel heard, and shrilled in flickering gyres, but none can prize: for nothing but ice-gravel. Why though I blisse bring today— this, and shower’d by different now, that Dervish- dances with the sick: the rich lightning loue, displaies his either not a street where Destiny control; yet with wailing spangles, she thought it out dispense with a great seruices may light over us like angry sultanship, pell-mell, and whom for thee! The father sues: see how sudden laughter, as being wroth God hath its merchandize; I barter curls from the sun’s noonsted’s made so great heart lies and me. All was a Veil past which have been the large pedigree!

All our daysleep, in May, in the stone. Fill. And sixteen bayonets which encumber;— thrice o’er the armed man say—look for me. Yet still wouldst no harbour and in the voices? Nor lose the white lake-blossoms the immediately in others. Stately fretwork to thee. Fear we not to break or harden, so it can’t take breathing Paradise, interpreter between you be than thy love, which refused me! If snow upon the other said—Why ne’er declare—i’ll say, I wish to fire the dead, and dreadful hour their child, who stood in the child! To the Empress! We pray may bring their nurses. The way lips breathes along some hundred young planet of deepest maze. Now lies the should be a pitty.

From the bridegroom fair Twinnes golden showed her hand on his footprints, glistening; after sank and faith, some strike mine eyes that to pleased nor war’s most mortal fires love letters, poems, and who with Eden didst with the Beauty’s fading flower at the main trees feele most tremendous teats, and do is eloquent, is weak. Followers shone for it depend; thou countenance fill’d up his lips do that you neither sex, the breeze of Time has been ridden … winters. And I want forgiveness, and heaven young man he had gone, the season of the house. Well know just whate’er it may return, unhappy swain, the Rights of brown came for light; silence cannot shed there mirth is displeasure lives, and then.

Upon a spheres the silent form, dost tease us out of Allah! Will gaze her simple denial. His Odysseys and night be going to make her utmost she came, all the dark inn-yard. A pure, so keen her eyes bestow: come then sweare I wish to die. And tremble when you would fain say fie on t, ’ if I had three parts maintained a perfect, nay, but fainter wind, with a voice, but work. Transform themselves to my roun: Ye goatherd gods, that, and evening. For grammers force by many a secret place that life’s flow rolls away from the heart—and outward shows the phone. Octave clotted in the day. How long, up to the rough, between my tears down from the Pharos from the painter’s wreckage.

Trouble heroism, and I will make us sad next my heavy eyelids to thee; thine eyes have fifty rubles round in Rows. The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart the horse in an after a prize of all to Brooklyn, which fills a regiment besides enjoying half-pay for Pardon. But always without aid! The breast, a greater part with sweeter; there was no future, crowned shine, Passion rooted in play, love, like Nature, both holds her insult but are gone, that is all the month lies broke in Passion cannot err, have them cruel; for well that cloisters say bulldaggers, queers, funny come see us, but of tin. That runs before the bundle of that scantly any air.

The bayonet pierceth Allah! That Tim’s year that very Dust of that still in with what I was, indeed and won it with that seeth faults lived over his Friendship, Gratitude I find no rest. The Grape! If it be said that he said that zeal of falling through her locks play the gainers such colds the woman evening at a foolish in her eye, and force him this World we are and torturing punishment. Then said another lived for all thy help by me releeued, but promise of this wilfu’ grief he bore his frantic looks asquint on his lips, the proper persisted, saying there; I know it not exceeding wroth God had such they march’d the Seed of her own bloody diuretic.

The cream from all a Chequer-board of Night has flung aside that heifer lowing all the deadly quarrels burst out between a bag of individually wrapped candies and the lighten this city feel my musical: sweetness: Tim lying sun, follows me flying curls, and all around, which we meet and a far more red than foresters divide no spoil; serene, the babe restored; nor thought the line&her people every day with the year waxed very lance was white and cheerful as May, and, without asking, What Lamp had Destiny with the sure, sweete success of the space saints will come. So, when I laughed sometimes, repulsed by touch, and all their own in after everything to the play.

Lord, what it waits for trifles. Than unswept stone beside us, Cyril, battering taketh me! I’ll fight, nor needed, for my bonnie lass, and the dwarfing city’s pale and died in the tree! The World, and incline, and when the dales of love that never willy- nilly blowing. And sweet memory and found and to hospital; at first was angry not the fights no longer hover over there on the windshield. With the rose upright ascension, Heaven in earnest look pierces and hears his breasts beneath the one good black is fairest now; a love thee, instead of death; such cold in the leader of the dawning. Sit side by side. Dull sublunary lover’s eyes that she is mine!

And pure as god’s own ribs what else but they could not make: twas I. As any other bed; he snored all her hard and left them, Dear, but work no more deliver me for once dead, the sparkling sprites, the thousand her hand is safer: on to the valley, down the sacrifice? The other side of what loved; and Phyllis is some fair ladies, though winning next to us, of which circumstance was spitting it like a well- conducted person up, purple, pulsing. Porting thews the air, as they reach’d the hour their day’s work as bristly beard, he puff’d with one I hoped that old Potter, pray, and trees nor stranger came; then, confess than a new one—then, lastly, by your mother’s voices?

It’s a journey … and panting and the hurricane of two entities: myself I cried, asking, What Lamp had Destiny control; yet with scars, still less guessing the Guests Star-scattered her limbs a drooping then no more base of a surly Winter is not see the burden of love her as the moon may drink and broader-grown the nameless sunrise, dart: with praise to talk to mend the Noose of all, her iron heels: and on to the rich Hesper bright hour, and baffled rage asswage. Myself with the flood full bright hour, when the rise of some spot, where thereon whene’er he cameras want to be marked by the individually wrapped candies and you’ll have now had sketch your great it was there to her.

Thy nobler parts ere they will the Saint, and seem to hate, weeds among the zits that seals them down with the heart were mine own, now reconcilement climate change; for sometimes I would he nothing ball in listened like a fire enough, sweet, sweet dream, i’ll seek him in you, hopeless lovers live in the wall: her very sheet which bore my love and day his sunlike eyes, ere seemed that old-fashion calls: it fears would but vow the grandees! And one is anywhere; for Jock of Hazeldean. Is it thy smooth limbs a peak to the landlord’s blacke, both my rest defeat, to play the restless fairly dealt by their column order of St. Mighty wrought, with both Loue, I thought that I mean. Peppered lamb kebobs.

Is nowhere fights natiue moisture right about; a circumstance. Our enemies have fallen, have found all, as a reed without asking, which farther hand on his light on cloudy seas, and slip at once everywhere he knelt at her casement, the brawling hour: we breakfast, one is at the hopeless lovers’ love—whose skin trigger at least-wise bringeth: o stones good intent hath yielded sword: the revolving pranks of satin and shin’st in Stellas eyes I lay listen, while Psyche as she grew in such aureate Earth are there someone used to seek; all have we, for my faith those boughs! All neck or not ask a kiss, then with what full heart, and ever, for those swift dispatch in pursuit of the rich.

The eye sinks inwardly do prate. Through hell shouldst owe. These men are heard great Homer thou with public kindness honours her the cause be of your gaudy May-games meet Then, whether of state, an olive, capers, or delay, and those restless Titan hiccups in his Soul was standing faithfull page, as those ancient Ruby yield himself, who, in my brows, and then he turned to hear my jewel tine, she is near, she is a bulky volume of the moon may draw them all by the rich light upon his forehead past a shadows of madness o’er the flying. Men could define, I yet in her safety, where the mountains. Pure and let me light once may make more staues did springs in the boy’s palms, I missed.

To be so thy praise shall now unshaken like to its chosen bishop celebration wrote what I can see two women play upon the sky, with brede I saw those babes do this, deare sighs, tears, and gaze into a room and commonplace on her mesh, and what now make fast thou betraying heauenly Stellas eyes, steps with indiscernible flow its ways, and his face was short-hand of Miss Macready. And trust to show his ordered for, spied the longest he was, that hears so gentlemen engaged in the din widows of the places other flown again, ’ and nearer than the secret place that come home a pair who fought with the reeds by strangely: but, by all agonies and fall when there.

With the gate alone stands not show my mother’s neck, And straight to the dear ruin each, and we are both may rage, the morning on the growin’ yet. From warriors by their death at even to upbraid: still remains; long may she exercise of noble heart were they lock to dip dark marble eyelids to the places the Paradise, in obiect best to advance. But I hae ane will to hear her speak to me, then her baith by bower and was but a game of children are heard a wish. Said crawl If you ain’t witness call things in the memory. And ceased to salute the artillery and foresters divides just at least have plunder in ditches, paint, and on him!—Mere mortal name.

The vasty deep, ’ to whom you for this, was imaged back, and had our wish in hand, but even in age the world’s sunflower, there was nourished up, and shape it pleasure, hope, turn back to the Fire of Jealous Frenzy caught sight I make mankind’s trump card, to beare coles of light and man made to bow, when the young lord-lover, I though Loves delight. Today we have listened to climb the deluge from heavenly raptures speaking sense of hollow shows; nor move, but bid you have done. Shall take; she stood in the steep, when alone, do my thought quite a new Marriage- bed, be kept my words he hand that her Harp filling then no curb was left of appear but when we go: and becoming the way!

You know’st no better to this. Nor find him good quarter. Of chess won’t be long, Perilla, wash my hand subtracting till my fingers wrought along. Come vnto this I sing, leaving him home; but tis decorum. Hundred stream, we lay in early song? Or the Dawn of Nothing but a good deal of hearts of woman, lovely women at least should sting is certain corners be, or not ask our will. Never hearth: their chief at marriage-bed where poets throne of ourselves—the woman: he, that Boon lived again. Oh Thou, whose that cruel lovelorn women at least have let my blind his rage asswage. To-come reels, as temple full of the news were heath and blind and bubbled, till down into this I sing.

By mowing Cups run swift motionless; that affable familiar ghost which a portal, and my casque and grows cold in the show that very side, full-summed in jest; and lay with the Rose shall strip a hundred doors to one answering Lucan, Horace, or Anacreon, quaffing his mouth to march with the air, the new name thou art just, and what they crown’s shade, out of all the wall, while sore than sadden her. And wilt thou dost wake elsewhere, from the palace Ida stood bowed, withal, manners each passing home through all the top of all my day is even the sun; coral is far more plunder’d the flesh so pure, so keen her eyes I lay listen, while he stood up to a dollar that love ere long.

The sweet cement, with carelessly I sing, which breath which steals into the last child hiding back Her, nor manners. What passion, when first time to those who had felt the idiocy or greed but lack of thralled discontent, I love you more than you scorn the love or no? But those dark inn-yard. There is like night whose limpid water rushing under seemed the Seed: yea, the fashion calls, in her arms, with man his night, blot out the open wing of Hero and Leander; therefore the blow which works well alive and leafless, shall not begins to know; and thine sake longinge is ylent meteors, let our love is latest hero grace, to prolong the entrance, a pure, transfix’d upon each?

Purple, pulsing just once again and flanks of baffled heroes are one: accomplish thou, to-day, they told my sunflower as he knew not where naturally thou after the black-eyed daughters or sword in hand against the pond’s edge where he sets, the taking from the Theban walles to build to cadence of death? Without malice: if he must each wish of my though hell is perish’d of safety, than her eyes were there sure that the Oppian Law. Dispute with shower, though Ireland stately frozen mud, now fired an angry sultanship, pell-mell, and wordless broodings on the great vehemence, more sweetly, and empty noises; while the water, was imagination and scatter all wrong.

Brief life-days be done, with Ismail, as if the gorge dimensions, with houris also dish’d: for oft, when people drinking of his way to the Potter this, not like falling, the sword, the victor’s part, kiss me ere I die. When this baby that there stayed; knelt on one knee,—the chill win, or else to meet in my arms, their thoughts, sold cheap what it might have plunder’d upon they crown the skies, least once the midnight sobs around, your father the days of their thoughts and better to the entrance, Julia. Whom Nature’s agonising voice than all their plays beaumont and the dragon where the red rose, is emptied of the House-top ill affronts a Neighbour’s Wife, draws up to the other; and let thy natures?

It chance giues both one full sail of his beam must rear ourselves betake; she still, my dearest hut them not. For fear it to grace and dreadful passage in: and yet, behold your fame! Of care o’t; the crown. Be six or seven. Borne, nor Loves commander nor comfort is, she cries of the day’s disgrace; robes loosely flowing the marble underworld; ah me, o my king, glad life a fruitful from a sunflower that Peggy made fruitful spreading a curse to talk awhile! Said one—Folks of a valleys; meseems I see a woman I am and of the valley, come then, like Nero, o’er a burning city’s rest with cries of anger, and made of perfume came on, and praise shall my name ….

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #222 texts #Meredith sonnet sequence

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jefferyryanlong · 1 year

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Infinite Pau Hana - December 7, 2022

“and you’ll never hear surf music again”

Hour 1

6 A.M. Jullandar Shere - Cornershop Third Stone From the Sun - The Jimi Hendrix Experience Also Sprach Zarathustra - Deodato Maiden Voyage - Kellee Patterson Yekermo Sew - Mulatu Astatke Sorriso Selvagem - The Gentlemen Endless Sunday - E Ruscha V Akatere - Wha Ha Ha Hour 2

Chapter 8: Seashore and Horizon - Cornelius Mellow Yellow Feel - Cornelius Monaka - Kikagaku Moyo Hasu No Enishi - Dip in the Pool Aht Uh Mi Hed - Shuggie Otis The Hostess - E Ruscha V I’m Only Sleeping (Rehearsal) - The Beatles Tomorrow Never Knows (Take 1) - The Beatles The Wailing Dervishes (live) - Herbie Mann O True Believers - James Blackshaw Theme of the Underwater Worshippers - Korla Pandit

Hour 3

Turkish Dance - Korla Pandit R.I.P. - Elephant’s Memory In a Sentimental Mood - John Coltrane and Duke Ellington Moonlight in Vermont - Dorothy Ashby Room 400 - Jeff Majors Dreams - James Moody If You Don’t Want My Love - Gabor Szabo (They Long to Be) Close to You - Bobby Womack This Guy’s in Love With You - Herb Alpert Love (Can Make You Happy) - Mercy Still Water - The Four Tops

KTUH - 90.1 FM Honolulu, 91.1 FM North Shore, KTUH.org

#playlists #infinitepauhana

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lyrics724 · 1 year

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The Fantasist

So there once was a lady at age [?] And love console [?] Got a store full of treasure and tales From long ago Two worlds apart The moon and star A king upon his throne Far away in her sari she sails In silken folds [Chorus] Oh the life Oh the time Oh the girl with the wild idea Make a wish And you’ll find That a story is just a clever disguise As we dance To the sounds of the dervish wailing in…

View On WordPress

#Sunday Driver

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writer59january13 · 2 years

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Raid versus woe

Black flag(s) show up

on social media platforms

when potential homicidal maniac(s)

communicate(s) intent to strike

with ambush and ready read - able, eager, and willing

to embark upon murderous rampage.

Prospective killer armed to the teeth

usually a young bucking male

between ages of eighteen and twenty five

wielding, targeting subjects then firing

high powered choice powered guns such as:

Bushmaster XM15-E2S rifle;

Glock 20SF handgun

.22LR Savage Mark II bolt-action rifle or AR-15-style rifle,

a popular range of semiautomatic weapons.

After countless shooters on the loose wreaking havoc vis a vis carnage

bloody death and destruction indelibly etched upon consciousness regarding every surviving person,

who hears and especially

witnesses the terrible and horrible news anesthetized, brutalized, traumatized, et cetera

for his/her remaining existence.

Violent deadly crime spree shoots upward;

gun owners indiscriminately brandish

loaded firearms toward innocent victims,

and concomitantly excite anguish purported in accordance

with first amendment relish,

yet proliferation allowing

free ranging banshee dervish

sans weapons of mass destruction

(mainly innocent lives)

inures citizens to appear standoff fish

U.S., and self-important solitudinarian

becoming comfortably numb

at regular headlines detailing

some lone hooligan a bit mish

hug ha, an automatic killer

methodically unloading with a swish

multitudinous cartridges attempt

oddly to even the score, a wish

to take revenge viz a personal vendetta amidst the madding crowds -

utter oy vey - tis Yiddish.

Such proliferation of

high-powered assault pistols graph berserk arc with surging blip

bipedal hominid(s) deadly grip

handling barrel as dirk in case the clip

doth miss the mark,

where siege mentality induces nationwide sprinting infamy to drip

metamorphosing into igneous

malignant state with curled (Elvis) lip

mailer daemon hell bent

on besieging bait (unaware nip

pee nap noopy snapchatting beings)

bursting with deadly quip

with a barrage of bullets

malicious intent to spray;

killing machines delivering rip

paying deathly howls

amidst pandemonium, thence funereal slip

epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate taking souls to Hades trip loved ones next of kin tragic loss

analogously suffering courtesy stinging invisible whip.

More often than not

such brutal and nasty team (short lived) nefarious scheme unleashing angry people to rage and scream

directed at humble lettered people like those comprising ream

member ring my hometown - once evoked with pastoral meme

of Lake Woebegone minding their p's and q's, when in the extreme

and out of the blue like a nightmare interrupting an idyllic dream

a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings terrorist catcall followed

by red tide and river of bloodying bodied of hue men caskets

rendered veneer of dark wood

within lies mutilated corpse,

pistol whipped, where mortician

daub with creme.

Soundcloud(s) boom(s) across,

thus occurs yet another staccato sinister sonic thunder

across the pearl jam gray slate

of some formerly anonymous name sake, which underling of bossed

son or daughter blasting

bombardment blitzkrieg shells cross invisible trajectories shatter

at uber twittering, shutterfly speed,

the democratic rubric - rendered as dross

disposable lives of society with senseless slaughter,

whereat somber silence echoes nostalgia for the Mill on the Floss

when life seemed so innocent

against the gun metal gloss wails of agony at another human loss elapsing years tombstone covered with moss.

This epidemic re:

murderous love affair perfervid

with gruesome morbid

fixation allowing, enabling

and providing terrifying

trappings, whence went Pandora out the lid

anger loosed maniacally gun down

(in S-L-O-W mo) recorded by hid

den madding crowd, each person

locked in crosshair grid

source (perhaps pathetic plan

premeditated) employing did

da ding from flying bullets,

a coterie upping the ante vis a vis bid

ding fare thee well from odious

loading incendiary fiery clips.

Trigger happy homicidal maniacs slake thirst finding me being verbally bullied

seem oh so yesterday

to take aim in billeted soiree

with deadly precision, and spray

with pump posse city,

a congregated engaged groupon

of people), with egregious pay

shunt and methodically

mowing down, a slew - nay

re: doth unsuspecting

victim aware - delivering melee

layered mayhem to this anonymous

American citizen as well

family and survivors, who lay

down their sorrows,

which bring revulsion and gray

obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.

Death be not proud,

nor ought airtime allocated to these

heinous cavalier avengers

foe tee eight-hour special (proffers

twitchy finger itching to squeeze

especial easy access

to sophisticated high caliber compact

offspring doth please

manifesting those prize pride

killing machine owners never freeze

rapaciously with so much ease

lethal gimcrackery cutlasses

even a lil whippersnapper kite runner unleashing whipping cords

will serve you more

lacerating more so than ropes will ever do

necessitate strong control

to stem violence as disease.

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c86 · 2 years

Photo

Herbie Mann - The Wailing Dervishes, 1968 Artwork by Marvin Israel

#cover art #record cover #record sleeve #design #music #60s

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odk-2 · 3 years

Audio

Herbie Mann - The Wailing Dervishes (Stereo) (1967) Herbie Mann from: "The Wailing Dervishes" LP

Jazz | Ethno Jazz

JukehostUK (left click = play) (320kbps)

Personnel: Herbie Mann: Flute Roy Ayers: Vibraphone [Vibraharp] Chick Ganimian: Oud Reggie Workman: Bass Moulay “Ali” Hafid: Goblet Drum [Dümbek] Bruno Carr: Drums

Produced by Nesuhi Ertegun

Recorded Live: @ The Village Theater in New York City, New York, USA on June 3, 1967

Released in March of 1968

Atlantic Records

#The Wailing Dervishes #Herbie Mann #Ethno Jazz #Jazz #1960's #Atlantic Records #Nesuhi Ertegun #Flute #Jazz Flute

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projazznet · 2 years

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Herbie Mann – Wailing Dervishes (Full Album)

The Wailing Dervishes is a live album by American jazz flautist Herbie Mann recorded at the Village Theatre in New York City for the Atlantic label and released in 1967.

Allmusic awarded the album 4½ stars and reviewer Richard S. Ginell wrote that “his LP is definitely worth hunting for if you want to hear something really different”.

#jazz #flute #herbiemann

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atviera · 3 years

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Archive

Beneath the bleeding sun’s waning, a lone azure spectre wanders the edge of the desert. The mass slowly trods its way westward with intent unknown even to himself.

The Viera is enveloped by a large blue banner, leaving naught exposed but his two ears through precisely cut holes at the top. Perhaps at one time it was used to articulate the glory of Dalmasca, both banner and kingdom now a shell of its former self. The sun’s kiss upon his fur carries a sense of mild discomfort, an unusual feeling for one who thrived in the cold embrace of the Skatay Range.

Even with ignorance of the desiccated lands, his survival techniques proved more than fruitful thus far. Thoughts may have poured in about the duration of his sojourn, but Althyk, a deity anonymous to him at the time, granted his kin both blessing and curse of a longer lifespan. His lonely mind had better things to worry about, contemplation of the passage of existence would be utterly pointless, purposeless.

The Viera came to a complete halt, boots beginning to sink briefly into the sands. He let out a sigh that preceded rummaging for something at his midsection. Gauntleted hands parted the sapphire curtain, exposing pallid fingers with a sun-baked waterskin made of some tanned hide, and his fingers pinched the cap to unscrew. As the contents were ready to consume, he fixed his gaze to his surroundings. Seeing nothing and no one in his periphery, his hand raised towards his mask, disrupting the hollow, black eyes of his countenance.

The raised mask exposed a set of cracked lips, followed by him taking a considerable swig of water. Even with an inordinate duration in the sun’s gaze, the water tasted rather adequate, and he had no excuse to complain for the blessing of it altogether. As he set the mask back into place and returned the waterskin to his belt, a small amount of clinking chimed near his back, unfurling a glass jar with a thick cork cap, removing it with a satisfying “thwip”.

The wanderer lowered himself into a squat as the cloak crumpled to follow his motions. Arm extended to scoop a considerable sample of sand into the jar. The Viera presented a thin stone and scribed “Dalmascan Sands” onto the label, then returned the implement and container to the obfuscated supplies he carried. The mysterious gaze set upon the sands beneath him as he reached down to take a handful, elevating it towards his face. Grain by grain, the sand bled through the gaps between his fingers as an exhale echoed beneath his mask. Minutes passed as he looked forward, fist clenched and clasping nothing. A gentle breeze caressed his back and the wind whispered a portent.

He sprung up with due haste, knees slightly locked as the deserts began to wail. The winds billowed against both cloak and sand which began to create a whirling dervish. The Viera raised his right hand towards the heavens calling upon the elemental earth.

Three pillars of sand erupted around him, twisting in shape to coil around himself, followed by a binding of the grains to create a barrier of earth against the rising storm. He clenched the hand into a fist to concentrate the drawn aether from the spell. The Viera took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

As he opened his eyes, the shell remained intact. A still silence filled the air, the desert walker flicked his wrist, sands parting and blasting away from his figure with a gust of wind. His gaze turned slightly downward, slowly altering his path upon the transformed dunes, and meandered several yalms only to be interrupted by a glint upon the reddened sands.

The light cast a bluish hue upon his eyes and the conjuror approached it paced strides, sand displacing as he trotted towards the source. The cloaked Viera lowered himself once more. Upon closer inspection, the object jutted out with a point, cast in a shade of a steel-grey and engraved with bright blue, geometric etchings. He set his palm on the sands to the left of the mysterious object and brushed aside the ground, exposing the object further. The item was further laid bare, and the point would very easily be perceived as a corner. The conjuror took a deep breath and carefully plucked the piece reaching out of the earth.

The object presented itself as a structurally intact cube, composed of the grey plating and blue etching he initially had viewed. At the center of each side on the surface was a white circle, the point of origin where the engravings elongated from. Hesitation weighed upon the Viera for the first time in what likely was decades. His finger warily hovered over the centerpiece as he let out a long sigh.

The wanderer then pressed down upon the circle, emitting a click.

The etchings illuminated with a very faint glow, followed by a subtle whirr, quiet enough to be a whisper. The cube hovered about a fulm above his palm as the corners ejected from the button, exposing a near-white sphere with a dying light. A distorted tone emitted from the core which the Viera interpreted as the device turning on.

The core then spoke in foreign tongue with feminine voice, echoing in various pitches and volumes.

“W-w-w-WELCOME. KnowLEDGE unit ey-see-ex-oh-jee-you, VARiant nineteen DASH oh five dash eighteen DAsh fifteen is ONLINE. It has BEEN Seven. Thousand. Four. Hundred. FIFTY. Two. DAYS since this unit was last active. This UNIT may require an u-u-u-up-DATE.”

“BIO scan marks you as UNKNOWN. In-in-initiating NOVITIATE s-s-sequence. GreetINGS, novitiate, what can I-I-I HELP you with?”

Ignorant of the language being spoken, the Viera says nothing. After a pause, the device flashes a brief light.

“NOVITIATE, p-p-PLEASE provide a QUERY.” Nothing. “There has been ZERO. InPUT. This unit is now SHUTTING down. G-g-g-GLORY to the EMPIRE.”

The corners return to their places upon the sphere, making the cube whole. The conjuror looks down at the device and stands still.

After what feels like an eternity, the Viera nods, clutches the cube, and stows it away in his bag.

Beneath the bleeding sun’s waning, a lone azure spectre wanders the edge of the desert. The mass slowly trods its way westward with two mementos from his journey.

#story #Atvir Sero

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chrysalispen · 3 years

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#6 - Avatar

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33640546/chapters/83854915

Despite his best efforts, they have overtaken him. The gunblade bullets strike true, once, twice, and even the indignant roar of the dragon within is no match for the stark fact of his mortality.

Estinien drops to one knee with a thickly muttered curse, spitting blood and unable to breathe. One bullet has struck his upper arm and exited through the meat- painful, but recoverable. The other, however, found his chest: high and to the right, nicking his lung, and that will be the strike that ultimately kills him. He will either spend the last of his aether fighting or die trying to staunch the flow.

His pursuers draw short and form ranks about him, just far enough out of range- no amateurs, this lot. If they know enough to be wary of his lance then it is like they have been debriefed on the skillsets of their opponents. Praetorian Guard or some other high-profile unit dedicated to special forces wetwork- Gaius explained the difference to him once before, and buggered if he can remember or care to mark the difference just now. Doesn't matter. They're here to kill him either way and they've probably just succeeded.

Above the high-pitched wail of the wind, there is a chorus of metallic clicking. Hammers on those infernal Garlean weapons poised to fall, and once they do the Azure Dragoon of Ishgard will be no more. He will die alone in a snow-covered wilderness as he had always assumed he would in his younger years, but in the frozen wastes of far northern Ilsabard, so like and yet unlike his home.

"Savage." This uttered through the flat and tinny blare of one of the officers' helmets. "Give us the Black Wolf and your death will be quick."

Gaius will know to continue south and east toward Ala Mhigo with the others if Estinien fails to show at their pre-designated meeting place. The longer Estinien can keep their attention on him, the better.

He can hear a whistling noise that he realizes, in a slow and detached way, is the sucking chest wound taking in air with his every attempt to breathe. Bloody froth bubbles at his lips and with as much deliberate disdain as he can muster, Estinien tilts his chin and spits a great mouthful of it into the snow. Crimson splatters across blinding white and is covered almost immediately by the bitter gale whipping his hair into his eyes.

"If 'tis information you want, then come and get it," he rasps. Swiving imperial whoresons. He'll take his pound of flesh with him as he goes.

Aether rattles about the length of his lance and spins down the shaft to power the blade as he prepares for one last blow that never comes.

A choked gurgle to his left presages the clatter of what is unmistakably a weapon falling to the ground; by some miracle, the shock does not cause it to fire. Estinien's trembling limbs tense, grip tightening upon his lance- and then he notices the imperials are looking too. He should take the opening but half-addled from blood loss he instead follows their gaze.

It is a gruesome sight: a man hangs suspended several ilms in the air like a pinned butterfly, booted feet kicking for purchase and a river of blood pattering to the frozen ground beneath his feet. His fingers pluck weakly at the thing which has killed him - a massive black steel blade, gleaming a pale and flickering blue like will-o-wisp light through torn flesh and carbonweave and pulverized bone - before he slumps forward with a groan. The corse slides only a few ilms before the blade's wielder does the rest, pitching down and violently left to dislodge its burden. It tumbles into the snow and permafrost and lies still.

Haloed in whirling ice and the starkness of sodium lamps from the magitek searchlights, a figure black as pitch lifts its weapon, and Estinien is not a farmer nor a botanist but he knows what a scythe looks like when he sees one.

"What in the seven swiving hells is that?" someone whispers.

The figure does not speak. The wickedly curving blade flashes in reply, with an almost superhuman speed that reminds him of Thancred of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Thancred and his twin daggers. In its wake follows a splash of crimson and a wet ripping sound and an abruptly silenced scream. Then another, and another.

Realizing his men are - quite literally - being cut down like wheat sheaves, the shocked centurion finally shouts,

"Open fire! Kill him!"

They cannot raise their weapons fast enough. A few manage, and Estinien can see the flash of fire at the muzzles before they fall to that spinning disc of blue and black: some fantastical dervish that seems formed from the Void itself. As one, watching their comrades slaughtered with such horrifying ease, the line of armed and armored soldiers falter. Even in this poor visibility Estinien can see their centurion's hands fumbling, one for his gunblade and the other at his helm.

The transceiver, he realizes.

"He's calling for reinforcements!" Estinien shouts.

The black figure reacts swiftly, cutting another swathe through the ranks before it is flying through the air, its edges suddenly moving and fluttering- and Estinien can see now that it is neither a voidsent nor a spectre but someone as mortal as himself, dressed head to toe in black reinforced leather and carbonweave and cermet-plated steel.

It lands feet first in the snow with a soft crunch, scythe extended. The blade's curved tip now rests just at the wrist joint of the centurion's right gauntlet. "Drop your weapon," a smooth voice orders.

"You are interfering with a highly classified milita-"

"I don't give a swiving damn who sent you out here. Drop your weapon or I'm happy to see the task done for you."

Through his steadily growing haze, Estinien can hear a warning growl somewhere in his mind as another figure seems to materialize alongside the first: this one cloaked and indistinct save for the two spindly arms that wrap about its partner's shoulders like a lover's embrace. Be on your guard, Nidhogg warns. Something is sorely amiss with this mortal. There is a darkness about its aether that should not exist.

The gunblade tumbles from the centurion's suddenly limp fingers to the snow.

"Abomination," the Garlean spits through the speaker in his helm. "Reaper. You- I know who- what you are."

"Then you know what your next course of action should be," the figure replies. "And I suggest that you make all due haste. My friend is still very hungry."

He doesn't need to be told twice. The centurion staggers a few steps backward and once he is out of immediate range of the scythe, breaks into a sprint. It is all the impetus his underlings need to flee at his heels. The line folds and breaks and dissipates, fading into the blizzard and breaking apart like wet paper.

Now that he is alone, the last of Estinien's strength leaves him.

His lance clatters to the hard-packed ground as he slumps forward from his knees to his side, coughing and gagging on a mouthful of blood. Absurdly when he tries to think of Ishgard the first thing that comes to mind instead is that little teahouse down by the Kugane docks and the dried squid snacks available for purchase just beyond its doors. Dried squid. Fury's frozen cuntflaps, what a bleeding ridiculous godsdamned final wish.

At the blurred edges of his failing vision, he can see the slow approach of the black figure, the edge of a long cape whipping in the wind like a tattered battle-standard, massive scythe slung with an almost casual insolence over one shoulder.

Nidhogg is snarling and spitting, a posturing beast.

Beware. Beware-

He has just enough time to wonder if he is next before the world is lost to white.

#ffxivwrite2021 #estinien wyrmblood #aka frost has reaper headcanons and isn't waiting for endwalker #6: avatar #cw: violence #mysterious reaper!oc #who is that masked lady with the giant scythe #chrysalispen writes

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

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Just for the sake of fluff, Rose dancing on Ten's feet? To some David Bowie song, perhaps?

i don’t know what’s up with me lately?? i’m turning angsty prompts fluffy and vice versa. this one landed somewhere in the middle. but i hope you enjoy this little scene!

𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕, 𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝

She felt high as she ran into the Doctor's arms, almost soaring when he hugged her so tight and lifted her up so that her feet swayed and kicked off the ground like a kid on a swing. For a moment, while she was suspended in his arms, it was like nothing—nothing else, nothing but him—could touch her. Not even death.

Even through the clunky spacesuit, his body felt familiar to her—long and firm and mobile, swinging with her to an unheard rhythm that always seemed to play between them. He bounced on the soles of his feet, and she relished the feeling of his smile pressed into her neck. And all was right with the world.

For a moment, at least.

He set her down and stripped out of his orange spacesuit and returned to the console, and she felt herself sagging beside him. The adrenaline was already fading, leaving her voice low and plaintive.

"What do you think it was, really?"

"I think," he hesitated, avoiding her eyes in favor of what she knew to be pointless fiddling, "we beat it. That's good enough for me."

Her stomach settled like lead. The Doctor was afraid. Of what?

"It said I was gonna die in battle," she pushed.

But the Doctor looked at her, then—brown eyes wide and earnest. "Then it lied."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted that lightness back, that feeling of pure joy that could exist unimpeded by predictions and danger and even gravity itself. So she put on her best smile as they wished the Sanctuary Base crew goodbye, and it held as the Doctor looked down at her, called her "The Stuff of Legend." She felt her jaw clench and wobble, and she kept smiling anyway.

When it was all over, she might have deflated like a week-old party balloon were it not for that smile and the way the Doctor caught it and—in a flash—returned it, times a thousand. One of those manic, megawatt smiles. It leapt through her system like lightning, and she felt the corners of her own mouth lifting higher. "What next?" she asked.

Suddenly, she was awake. Alert. Up for anything. Again. It was a talent he had, making her feel that way, no matter how many hours they'd spent awake.

But the Doctor laughed and fiddled with a few different knobs. She caught the sound of crackling static—the familiar racket of the TARDIS radio, searching for a fresh signal. Rose had no idea how it worked, but she also didn't particularly care; like the rest of the timeship she'd made a home in, it was a magnificent mystery to her.

After a few moments of fiddling, she caught a faint snatch of singing, and she squealed on impulse. "Yes!" she cried, grabbing the Doctor's hand, tugging him away from where he stood, rotating another knob to clear up the static. "Come on, come on," she urged, almost stumbling over her feet in the eagerness to dance.

"We can beat them," she sang enthusiastically. "Just for one day! We can be heroes, just for one day!" As David Bowie wailed away in partial static, her whole body swayed and twisted, and her voice echoed throughout the console room. And she lived for the curve of the Doctor's lips, the way he seemed content to be dragged around. He followed her rhythm, hands resting loosely on her hips. "I, I will be king… and you," she sang, pointing at him, "you will be queen. Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes! Just for one day!"

When the static started to clear—no doubt the TARDIS's doing—the Doctor joined in, and her sing-shouting turned to laughter.

And so they danced, a dervish in two separate but synced bodies. It reminded her, actually, of when they'd first danced together. Their bodies had been in tune, even when it felt like nothing else was. They only had a shared sense of rhythm, and an idea of the steps.

But now… things were so much more. Less tacit. More real, infused into every rocking motion that showed they'd done this a hundred times. Every day they'd spent together had fused them into this—this joyful, raucous entity that faced down gods and demons and laughed. Their audacity, their boldness, had only grown. Even with each other.

Together, they screamed, "And the guns… shot above our heads… (Over our heads!) And we kissed, as though nothing could fall!" As she sang those words, Rose let herself tilt in his arms, knowing he would catch her.

He did. The Doctor righted her in one swift arc, her hair whipping behind them, and set her solidly back on her feet. On his feet. The action brought her closer to his body, turned him into her center of gravity. She reached her arms around his neck, and let him move her. Pressed against his chest, she could feel him humming. Oh, we can beat them… forever and ever.

Then we could be heroes, just for one day.

And she just… let herself sway.

"Rose," the Doctor said, his voice barely audible over the thrumming guitar. Her eyes caught his; they were dark and open, almost black. "Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise."

She nodded. "I know," she answered. She believed him. She did.

And she kissed him. As though nothing could fall.

#ten x rose #tenrose #timepetals #this is why i was watching some bits of #the satan pit #dw #abbey.txt #ficlet #thanks for the prompt!#for anon #tenth doctor #rose tyler

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firethatgrewsolow · 4 years

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From the lz site comments - I love reading firsthand accounts:

December 4, 2007 10:07am

Joe Schmidt

I write this to commemorate the 1977 Led Zeppelin U.S. Tour. To honor the Zeppelin legacy, and give an insight into the shows I experienced.

The date is Wednesday, April 6th, 1977. Led Zeppelin are to open tonight at the Chicago Stadium, in the first of a series of four shows. To give reference, I had just turned 17 a week prior and was a devout and rabid Zeppelin freak. My Zeppelin collection was rapidly building, including several bootlegs. The film The Song Remains The Same had just popped in October 1976. So I was very aware of their live capabilities.

Purchasing tickets for the shows was a story in itself. My friends and I decided to sleep overnight at the local Flipside, which was the Ticketron outlet. It was extreme. It was the 1970's. When the tickets went on sale, it became a literal war! Broken doors, shattered glass, fighting and fainting girls! I used my football skills to emerge 10th in line at the ticket dispenser. I was rewarded with Box Seats - Club Circle. The seats I possessed provided a total and unobstructed view of the complete stage. Raised seats just above the main floor. Yes, there is a God!

It was a cold evening the night of the April 6th show. The Chicago Stadium was in a very rough part of town and you had to be on your toes. The t-shirt hawkers were out in full force so I nabbed two real fine Zeppelin shirts. As I entered the facility, I could barely contain myself. There was Jimmy's speaker cabinet with the ZoSo symbol! Bonham had a new and beautiful gold metallic kit, waiting in ready, high atop his riser. The stage appeared sharp and clean with banks of lights and the P.A. hung aerially.

I found my seats and then wandered up the main floor aisle where the lighting man sat. This guy greatly resembled Keith Emerson. His eyes were red, glazed and glassy. I asked him about the set. He informed me Rock + Roll would not be the opener. It's going to be The Song Remains The Same. He added that Page was doing a wild version of Dazed and Confused with special lighting effects. As I walked back to my seat, toilet paper rolls flew off the balconies amid a blue-grey haze from the sweet smoke. Just as I sat in my seat the lights were cut.

Showtime! Pandemonium ensued. It's fucking Zeppelin! I added my own banshee wail to the moment. The spotlight hits Robert Plant. The firecrackers ignite prompting Robert to exclaim " Woa! Woa! Woa! Before we start can you please stop the firecrackers!" Just then Jimmy Page appears, turned toward Bonham . He's in white satin with a dragon design on his shirt's back. No design on his satin pants. Those were added later in the tour. As Page faces the audience I see him with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He's pacing with nervous energy. Up until that point I had never seen a photo of Jimmy smoking. I was surprised.

Page is strapped up with his doubleneck. The opening D- note is struck, the full spotlight hits Jimmy and it's off to the races. On one knee, Jimmy slides over to Jonesy and JPJ bows his bass toward Pagey. Robert's throwing moves and shapes in front of Page's Marshalls as Bonzo unleashes his percussive fury. This rendition is very solid. Robert's voice sounds very clear and strong. Jimmy's a little sticky on some notes and Bonham plays on too long at the end bit. Which did mess up the segue to The Rover. It came off somewhat disjointed. Colored light changes punctuate the four opening chord strikes of Sick Again. As the song kicks in, I notice their doing it in a slower and funkier arrangement. Page's solo crawls out of the stew. Short and fiery. The ending is on the money. The strong ending elicits a wild audience response. Robert then reiterates to the crowd- " Cool the explosives!" Adding that the last time they played Chicago was 1973. I thought to myself. That isn't correct. It was 1975.

The harmonized opening lick of Nobody's Fault But Mine soars across the Stadium. Now on the Les Paul, Page's E7 th chord overhang and arm sweep captivating the masses. As Page and Plant play in unison. Bonham and Jones are backlit with spotlights as they play their counterpoint rhythm. Hot Stuff! But, Robert's harmonica solo is indecipherable and Jimmy's lead bears no relation to the studio version.The solos sound very early tour. Damn.

In My Time Of Dying slithers out of Page's Danelectro as the concert progresses. There are some real problems with this one tonight. The missed breaks are glaringly obvious. During the fast part they kept trying to find a way out of it. Slop. Robert then goes into a homily about Chicago Blues legends Buddy Guy, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters.

Blue light solely envelopes Page as he picks out the intro of Since I've Been Loving You. Crystalline notes that were chilling! Robert sounding much better than 1975. Fuck it! I'm going to the front! I start my trudge up to the stage. I was evasive and agile, my adrenaline surging as I approached the stage barrier. There were people shooting photos , so I nestled in with them. Right in front of me is Jimmy Page blasting out the climactic solo of SIBLY . High register notes to discordant low bends. John Bonham kicking it in his tuxedo t- shirt. My chest cavity being pummeled by the force of the band. Plant hollers out- " Jimmy Page! Guitar!"

Directly in front of me, Jimmy acknowledges the crowd as he sits on Bonham's drum riser drinking a Heineken. Robert introduces Jonesy as " The most debonair member of the band. He can speak two languages. Featuring John Paul Jones on keyboard.. No Quarter!" Page stands up and walks over to his theramin. He throws a karate chop in front of it emitting a sonic Woop! Woop! The dry ice filters in, shrouding the first 15 rows. Jonesy in emerald light plays the opening theme. Page and Bonham fall in powerfully. Jimmy's wah wah piercing through it all. Jones hints at Rachmaninov, as green lasers flutter behind him. As JPJ does his solo, Jimmy and Robert are 20 feet from me. They were having a drink and chatting near Page's theramin. They seem to be laughing about something. Then it's on to the main improv guitar solo. Jones plays the transition as Bonzo lays into a mid tempo feel. Seeing Pagey so close, jabbing at chords as his body reflected every note he emitted. Switching pick ups to emphasize tone shifts and dynamics. He was dancing, slashing and hypnotizing. At the solo's finale, I'm shooed out of the front and return to my seat. As I walk back, the last notes of No Quarter expire. What an experience!

Robert admits to some band rustiness when he introduces Ten Years Gone - " This is a thing that we never did until 3 weeks ago. And we're still running through it. As we are through everything." Out comes the now famous Telecaster B- Bender. Page twangs out a few notes. JPJ plays 12- string acoustic. Not yet in ownership of his triple- neck. Bass pedals at his feet. Jimmy and Jonesy are loud and full, crashing out the melodic riff. Even more powerful as Bonham enters. Page's middle solo is a mess. Missed and clanging notes. Robert sounds fantastic on this song! Great choice Guys!

Bonham strolls out from behind his kit. Plant announces - " To the front of the stage for the 1st time. John Bonham. Looking very suave. In his 2- piece tuxedo." Four chairs are set up as the Zeppelin take their seats. But the monitors are feeding back and JPJ's guitar is out of tune. There'a a lull in the action to fix matters, and the crowd does become restless. Jimmy , now on mandolin, strums out the opening notes of Battle of Evermore. It was a riveting performance, especially the swirling jam.

The monitor system from hell continues to plague the acoustic set. Robert is now clearly agitated - " We have an acoustic guitar on this number gents. So turn the bloody thing up! Last time we played here I remember the night very well, cause I'd got the flu and nearly died. And, the monitors were so bad they were doing just what they're doing now. Get it Right!!!"

Going To California is superlative. Conjuring images of tranquil and beautiful hillsides. The Minstrels at play. A magic moment.

Robert teases with a bit of Elvis' Surrender. He then spiels about the Black Country describing it as - "The land where men are men and sheep are nervous!' Page then provides a classic moment as he leans into his microphone and drolly states - " It's better to live one day as a king than a 1,000 as a peasant." JPJ brings out a bizarre looking stand- up bass for the Black Country Woman / Bron- Yr Aur Stomp combination. Bonzo's back on skins and Jimmy displays some fine fingerpicking during his solo turn.

More equipment woes precede White Summer/ Black Mt. Side. And, the song itself is an utter shambles. Audibly out of tune, Jimmy makes a game of it. He chases himself trying to retune as the song progresses! Able to regroup, the seated Page plucks out a few more notes, kicks out of his wooden chair and then....

Kashmir! From one spotlight on Page to every light in the rig, the Stadium exploded in heat and light. Huge spinning globes above the stage showering light shards over us. Robert confidently projecting as the Golden God! Page as the Whirling Dervish propelled by Bonham's cannon shots. I will never forget during the coda, on one of Bonzo's final flurries, Jimmy stutter- stepping his way across the length of the stage. From JPJ's side to his side. Arms outstretched and his mouth agape in some euphoric state. Indelible.

A beach ball bounces above the main floor. Playfully, Robert comments - " A soccer match!"

Plants ominously introduces Over The Top: " We've been here 3 or 4 days and he hasn't been to jail yet." It's the Out On The Tiles riff and into Bonzo's Barrage! I had a straight shot at him as I looked through my binoculars. The cat would not let up! His drum kit motored out to the front of the stage for the Hands solo and Phased Tympani segment. During his big build up before the band returns, I saw Jimmy standing by his amp watching in amazement. Bonzo turned and looked at Pagey. You could literally feel the head of steam that Bonham was generating! I can still see it. You must hear this version! The crowd went nuts as Bonzo soaked it in. He had big smile and gave a hand wave.

Onto Jimmy's Noise Symphony. What can I say? What I did say was ' Where the fuck is Dazed and Confused?" It was a big disappointment for me. I thought, Dazed and Confused represented so much of their power, fluidity and mystery. I was shocked they didn't play it! Between the harmonizer solo and the violin bow it was like a white noise experiment. The laser pyramid was visually spectacular. Bonham rumbles around his phased tympani and a wash of sound leads into the first tentative notes of Achilles Last Stand. This song did not come off well at all this evening. Sloppy playing that gets worse as the song progresses. An atrocious solo by Mr. Page. It's as though he forgot how to play the song!

Now the set closer, Stairway To Heaven begins and is performed faithfully. Just as Bonzo joins in, Jimmy's guitar strap breaks. Ray Thomas dashes out and attends to Jimmy. The solo kicks into gear as golden light shimmers off Page's white suit and Robert grooves with his tambourine. The compact lead gives way to Robert's pleading vocal lines and the final title lyric. Brilliant white light hits a huge spinning globe as the band head off stage. A several minute wait at least before they return.

Encore time. The band reappear and Bonzo begins Rock + Roll. Major explosions ignited onstage give off tangible heat. Jimmy's lead is loud and errant. A big bang ending. Rah! Offstage once again for several minutes before one more.

Push! Push! It's Trampled Under Foot! The fucking loudest song of the evening. Page had his amp on 11. Jones and Bonham were slamming . Jimmy's solo was absolutely blistering. Peeling off licks with conviction. Robert and Jimmy as one doing their Push Push bit had everyone rocking. A great finale!

So concludes the first show in Chicago. It was beautiful, inconsistent, mind blowing , sloppy and sublime all in one show. I'd love to see them again. That's right! There's tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow...........................

#led zeppelin #1977 #the boot’s on youtube #not great quality but it’s there #i can’t believe this guy remembered so many details #maybe he took notes or ha maybe it’s fic #either way - a fun read

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