The Mars Volta

Rapture is incredibly hard to translate into eloquent prose; indefinitely more so than disgust. If I could get away with it, this review would consist of a video of me, arms outstretched, saying “Wow.” over and over again. Failing that, I’d have settled for a picture of Macaulay Culkin (Home Alone era, not druggy and bloated era). Unfortunately, higher powers dictate that I must piece together words to form phrases which, when read in order, will hopefully resemble an informative piece of writing. So please, everybody, be gentle and patient while I think of some words that are good enough, and don’t snap if I stumble here and there.

Opening acts are for suckers. The Mars Volta strut onto Festival Hall’s considerable stage to an Ennio Morricone tune, and they know that’s all the warming up we need. The first song is a new one, Rapid Fire Tollbooth, and it’s fucking stunning. Within about 30 seconds, new drummer Thomas Prigden proves he’s Jon Theodore’s match in every respect, and we all breathe a sigh of relief and then a few more sighs of awe. It was a brave move, opening with a song about 1% of the audience have heard, but fuck – are you really surprised? It’s not like they’ve ever played it safe before, why would they start now?

As if he’s intent on showing us just how safe they aren’t planning to play, frontman Cedric Bixler-Zavala leaps offstage as his bandmates provide a soothing soundtrack for a bloody rampage. He’s throwing wheelie bins into the seating areas, he’s twirling people around, he’s up on the sound desk waving his arms around his head like a mad conductor of both orchestra and audience, and then, magically, he’s back onstage. There’s nothing like having God stalk right past you to wreck some shit.

With Cedric back, Tetragrammaton gets underway, and Festival Hall loses its shit. There’s a word that doesn’t exist (at least not in any language I speak), a word that’s halfway between majestic and ecstasy-inducing, that should go right here where this poorly-constructed sentence is instead. We’ll have to make do with clichés instead: there are shivers running down my spine and I’m unable to stop dancing. Ah, but this is just the foreplay!

Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of) jams shit up a notch: the first of many instances of my kid brother grabbing me and yelling “PSYCHADELIC JESUS!” occurs, and indeed, Omar is shredding shit up so sexy you wouldn’t fucking believe it. I still don’t. While Cedric and guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez are the core of the ensemble, their bandmates match their intensity and energy without fail, and it’s awe-inspiring witnessing eight people hold their own in a collective consciousness. How eight people play so loose and so tight at the same time, and how they play with such precision while maintaining – nay, exuding - such incredible atmosphere, how I’m still breathing… It’s all completely beyond me.

When Meccamputechture kicks in, I instantaneously have the most intense aural orgasm of my life. Frances the Mute’s Cygnus…Vismund Cygnus is an excellent sole ambassador for the album; and I’m sorry, but I know I’m not the only one who’s stoked they didn’t play anything else from it. Drunkship of Lanterns is hypnotic and then manic and then hypnotic and then manic; it’s the kind of performance you’d play someone all day every day if you wanted to send them completely fucking crazy. Vermicide is just so gorgeous I make out with one of my friends. When Cedric wails the final chorus, I have another aural orgasm. You’d think with so much going on up there, there’d be no room for subtlety, huh? You’d be wrong, and I’d slap you.

There were a few other songs in there, including a new one, but can I be honest? Every time I try to write this review, I end up dancing around the room and then feeling sad that the show is over. I really just need to finish it now so that I can pick up the pieces of my brain and move on with my life. Is that cool with you? Wait, don’t answer, I don’t give a fuck.

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