If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that I hopped a flight to the west coast, swallowed the entire Las Vegas strip and spent the next twenty four hours ensconced in the throes of acid reflux.
Or maybe it’s just that we saw the Trans-Siberian Orchestra this past weekend and my poor body hasn’t yet recovered, because it has no idea where to even begin to address the onslaught of sensory overload befallen it.
That’s saying something, considering my body went through the eighties, as well as two c-sections and is currently raising two daughters, one of whom is firmly entrenched in teenage angst.
That show was loud.
I don’t mean loud, as in Hey Nate? Do you think maybe we should get a new muffler sometime?
I mean L*O*U*D as in WHO’S BRIGHT IDEA WAS IT TO HITCH A RIDE TO THE MOON INSIDE THE SOLID ROCKET BOOSTERS OF THE SPACE SHUTTLE, HUH? I HOPE YOU CAN BUY EARS THERE. MINE EXPLODED OFF MY HEAD DURING TAKE OFF.
My body hasn’t stopped vibrating. I think this is due to 7,855 decibels of deafening roar from drums and guitars and violins and keyboards, blasting from the stage directly into my mouth, down my esophagus, wrapping around my spine and shaking my entire skeleton like an oversized maraca.
Not to mention the continuous acid flashback I’m having, courtesy of the stunning pyrotechnics and laser light show that burned themselves into my retinas. I think if I connected all the spots in front of my eyes right now, I could create a reasonable facsimile of the Apocalypse in high definition.
From our dinner beforehand to the mild weather to the warm and friendly strangers sitting next to us, it was a thoroughly enjoyable night, dampened only briefly by my thirty minute detour into self-induced paranoia when Nate went missing in the stadium, leaving me sitting in my seat, worrying that he was (1) kidnapped; (2) injured, unable to communicate due to a massive, gaping head wound; (3) having a quickie with some bimbo; or (4) whipping out our charge card and buying an outrageously expensive assortment of TSO memorabilia.
If you ever experienced the shock and awe that is our monthly credit card statement, you wouldn’t even think twice as to why I was rooting for any of the top three. As it is, we are now the proud owners of a TSO program so big, thick and heavy, I had to leaf through it twice to ensure it didn’t come with Paul O’Neill and Jon Oliva stapled into its spine.
They’re some of the founding members of TSO, in case you were wondering.
And no … Nate has never had a quickie with a bimbo, in case you were wondering about that.
I am not a bimbo.
I completely loved this show. The first half was dedicated to TSO’s spin on the traditional Christmas carol and I have to admit, I don’t think I can listen to Holy Night or Pachelbel’s Canon in the same way again. And Bryan Hicks, the narrator? If I didn’t think it meant being cuffed and bringing in the New Year with a cellmate of dubious gender named Butch, I would have smuggled Mr. Hicks home as a belated Christmas gift to myself, stuck him under our tree and made him read The Polar Express to me until sunrise. The second half was a classical heavy metal assault upon all of my senses, as well as my entire skeletal system. The sheer volume of sound reverberated within me with such ferocious intensity that at one point, I think I almost choked on my fifth metacarpal.
But the facial I received from the blasts of heat radiating from the explosions of fire across the stage more than made up for nearly asphyxiating on my own marrow.
It was a spectacular mesh of the classical and the heavy metal, full of holiday spirit and rock ‘n roll soul. It oozed sexiness and hotness. The music wasn’t half bad either. It made me want to leap into the nearest fountain of youth, shower off the past twenty years, liposuction my entire body, squeeze into a slinky little black dress and some high heeled, black leather boots, weave in thirty pounds of hair extensions and bang my newly adorned head onstage to some heavy metal, rocked out version of Requiem, shoulder to shoulder with a few tuxedo-jacket clad, idolized, long haired, guitar screaming icons. And an occasional explosion or two.
In case you’ve never experienced the wonder that is TSO, here’s a little taste of what you’ve been missing. Approach it with an open mind and you might be surprised to discover that somewhere lurking deep inside your conventional, traditional, middle-of-the-road-behind-the-wheel-of-a-minivan heart lies the soul of a freaky, long-haired, hard core, classical rocker wannabe, just waiting to deck the halls in a way you have to see, and hear, to believe.