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| stage, pacific northwest, chow, cinema, bc independant media, venues, fucking free, t shirt hell, sauna, lampoon, metrotimes, message, thestranger, e cards, stranger, pathetic geek stories, regional internet registry, piercings, larry david, kosovo, | Everybody just sitting there in their seats with their hands folded listening to the music. It cook & moore was positively spooky. Finally, though, Black Sabbath came on and I settled myself on my concrete perch to enjoy the flak. It must be remarked that they don’t have the stage show of the century—Geezer Butler gets in some nice hunchover-and-rearback english on bass, Bill Ward is about average for drummer histrionics, but Tony Iommi plays guitar cook & moore in a fixed stance with eyes glued to the frets, as if he were concentrating so deeply on what he was cook & moore doing that he could be home in his Birmingham parlour and the audience a solitary titmouse. Ozzy has fun onstage, more than you might expect with material of the type they specialize in, confirming his earlier remark that "Our music to an extent relieves the tension which builds up in people. |
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| or two ourselves. Now there we were, practically (or so it seemed to me) the only barbiturate reprobates in sight for miles. Ever alert for message lurid detail, CREEMer Jaan Uhelszki reported to me that someone tried to sell her a pill called Carbotrol in the bathroom, and that at one point she saw a girl puking. One miserable fucking puke! Also, marijuana was legal in Michigan now and for about the next three weeks, due to a high message state court ruling that since the possession law was message about to convert to a misdemeanor the old one would be unenforceable in the meantime, so everybody can smoke themselves silly wherever they want with no fears greater than emphysema. Journalistic dynamite! I expected people to be walking around casual as dons puffing languidly on joints just like they was cigarettes, never even removing the things from their mouths, or maybe indulging in mass orgiastic smoke-frenzies such as prophesied by John Sinclair and Jerry Rubin, but damned if I didn’t see nary a public toke all evening. |
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