Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence

Finally, after eight years, I had the distinct pleasure to be in the same room as Daryl Palumbo, Justin Beck, Durijah Lang, and Manuel Carrero, better known to the layperson as Glassjaw. It was an experience, rivaling some of the best live shows I’ve seen.

To get the crowd in the right headspace, the RX Bandits opened the show. Trapped somewhere in the Bermuda triangle of Mars Volta, Bob Marley, and The Who reside the RX Bandits. Sadly, a description like that doesn't do the Bandits justice, mainly because after fifteen years, they’ve earned the right and honor just to be mentioned by name to my fans (ha!) and you should all know the awesomeness that is the RX Bandits. I close this quick paragraph by saying the RX Bandits sounded perfect.

But now to the men of the hour (or actually two hours, because that is how long their set lasted).

Their set list was a blur. Renditions of Mu Empire, Pretty Lush, Tip Your Bartender, and The Gilette Cavalcade Of Sports, sprung forth like gospel from the speaker system at the little independent record store warehouse in Pomona, California better know as the Glasshouse. Nothing during my two-hour drive through side streets on my way to Pomona could have readied me for what GJ had in store.

Known for their habit of canceling shows since Palumbo’s diagnosis with Crohn’s disease, I was constantly worried my dream of seeing GJ live might not come true. I’ve been a fan of Glassjaw from the moment I first spun Worship and Tribute on my old CD player in college. Having gotten cancelled on when I was living back in Philadelphia, I had yet the privilege to see these, dare I say, legends of hardcore in the flesh.

On November 12, 2009, this night, the dream finally came true. And Glassjaw did not disappoint. From note one Glassjaw was on point, and for the next two hours I lived and breathed every inch of madness, which spewed forth from that stage. Palumbo’s voice was all over the place, as it should be, ranging easily from a calming croon to an eardrum-shattering scream. Justin Peck’s guitar work was superb. I was a little weary the songs might lack something with only one guitar in the mix, but not one detail was missed. Lang and Carrero filled out the remaining noise with tireless perfection, layering each song with the right amount of backbone and power.

Against my better judgement, I took my aging body deep into the pit. I’ve been avoiding the pit my last few shows because my body can’t recover as fast as it used to after the massive pounding it usually takes. However, after missing my chance to dance last time around, and unsure of when the next dance will come, I ran immediately to the center of the recently awakened giant. I pushed and shoved with the best of them. I made a few passes in the mosh pit, luckily receiving only one fatal blow during the last moment of the last song, a quick elbow to the nose signifying not only the end of the show, but possibly the end of my career in the pit crew.

It could not have been a better time to call it quits. I emerged from the Glasshouse, hair matted down like I just broke through the surface of a swimming pool, shirt soaked to the core such as after a hard days labor, and shoes once colored purple and blue now remain the cool color of sludge.

My body ached, my neck killed, and my shins are bruised.

And it was all worth it.

My Turkish prison is knowing I fit in… And, and, I fit in…