It was the summer of 2011, and we were all slowly drowning in our taint-sweat.
My research scientist gig was coming to a close, and due to a logistical error, my lease ended slightly prior to that, leaving me homeless. As a result, I spent 2-3 weeks living on Mike Brownstein’s couch, frantically applying for jobs and generally being that guy.
In the midst of my depression, my buddy Luc sends me a link.
“DUDE! YOU NEED TO SEE THIS!” he shouted, o’er Facebook messenger.
“Not now,” I told him, as I had to fill out forms that no one would ever read.
“Dude! This is Steve Perry-flying-Airwolf cool!”
I just sat there, my mouth agape.
“What’s wrong?” said Mike.
“It’s just… but… No! Luc would never take Steve Perry’s name in vain!
So, I clicked it:
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DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT! HOLY SHIT LET’S WATCH THAT AGAIN!
That’s right. John. Fucking. Wetton. What was he doing before he started ASIA? He was in UK, and he was kicking ass; ’cause the dude’s only got the one setting. Armed with his bass, two emergency back-up basses, and the hair I ought to have, you can tell he’s someone genuine — and someone who is not to be crossed.
Check out that dare-I-say Neil Peart-worthy drum kit! …and that drummer looks like — no! It is! It is Terry Bozzio! Not only can he drum, he can drum… for everyone. His ex-wife, Korn, Dokken, fuckin’ Frank Zappa, and a bunch of random sh-tuf like Ricahrd Marx and some-a Duran Duran‘s side projects.
Oh, and the animé androgen in the pleather pants, enclosed in the Keyboard Command Center Playset? Eddie Jobson. He another Zappa alum who bro’d out with Yes and Jethro Tull for a while too. While Whetton and Bozzio blow my mind, Jobson fractal-blows my mind. Every portion of my mind is equally, and in parallel, blown; and while the whole thing rules, my favorite part happens… now:
He’s playing the keyboards, then, turns around — and BAM! More keyboards! Look at that! No, look. LOOK.
Dude, fuckin’ Depeche Mode didn’t have that many keyboards — and they were Depeche Mode! Oh — but there’s more! For he is also the Keeper of the Clear Acrylic Electric Violin of Virtue. According to legend, this was painstakingly injected molded by thirteen vestal virgins from oils extracted from the decaying bodies of the slain gods of our ancestors. Fear not, gentle reader! Such power can never cannot fall into the hands of evil men — for it is to be snatched from the clutches of the unworthy by the Chintzy Springy Phone Cord of Judgement. Also, it begins to catch fire around 2:10.
Needless to say, this immediately dispelled my depression. I listened to this video for no-joke — five hours, non-stop. Needless to say, Mike started to get sick of it, but he couldn’t say anything, because of his diplomatic nature. Instead he tried to find something that could drown it out, but the shrill electronica could pierce through anything he could dig up. Empirically, Mike determined that the only thing that could drown me out was the low, bass driven rumblings of Devo’s “Mongoloid,” and looped that with his desk speakers pushed around-shoved around until they were spaced such that they drove his desk to resonance.
Good times, good times.
