The rage makes me giggle.
Last night I was one of the drivers for a youth trip to London to see Haste the Day, A Plea for Purging, something-about-a-bride, magic-thingamabob, and the opening band. Screamer bands, all of them. My personal musical preferences include Ella Fitzgerald ... Chicago ... Smokey Norful ... Jamie Cullum ... and others. But of course Spike has introduced me to the darker, louder world of metal, and screamers aren't far behind. So I pulled on my red rocker tee that Spike bought me while touring once - it has black and shiny silver gothic-like designs on it, and it helps me fit in - and headed off to London with a car full of pizza-eating, screamer-loving teenagers.
Having done this sort of thing before, a few of us knew to head for a distant corner upon arrival, where the sound might be ever so slightly less assaulting. Even so, when the first band hit the stage, my jeans started moving. Literally. I was standing still, they were moving. That's a lot of sound, baby.
But it's the rage that makes me giggle. The angry, roaring, gutteral screaming with no discernible syllables of any kind ... never mind actual words ... never mind actual words in a language I speak. I think it's because I've been behind the scenes with Spike - I know how nice most of these guys are in general. In fact, one of them had to race through the door ahead of us - "Excuse me, pardon me, I'm sorry, but I'm in the opening band, so I need to cut in front of you." How does one transform from a polite "excuse me" to "GRRRAAAAAAWWWWWWRRRRRR" in a matter of minutes???!!!!
And so I giggle. And on the way home, with everyone asleep but me, I tune the radio to late-night e-z rock, knowing that my coolness factor will really take a beating, and deciding that I'm OK with that.
I'm too giggly for rage.
