The music was uneven and unintentionally jarring, what with certain samples jumping out in the mix, giving a choppy, unrefined sound. But I know they’re good.
The singer was a slim boy, with black hair and an absolutely gorgeous face. He sang like a young Robert Smith. The music was fluid, graceful, and moving.
EBN’s brand of multimedia assault – combining video, audio, and all around spectacle – is far too much for the un-turned-on mind to assimilate all at once.
He had a penchant for doing “the stadium intro” (where he yells the name of the upcoming song hoping for applause of recognition) but nobody got into it.
Dylan is not a great performer. May I be struck with hundreds of voodoo pins, but Dylan has not progressed. He can write a good lyric, but that’s about it.
The lights lowered and a man crouched behind his mixing board and computers and cued the intro for Last Train to Lhasa. That’s when all hell broke loose.
Ah, bourbon. The premier of brown liquors. Visions of rednecks with Jack Daniels T-shirts and tuxedo-clad socialites in ballrooms sit comfortably side by side.