september 8, the masquerade, atlanta, georgia
by robin colleen moore
If all had gone according to our original plan, Ross (a.k.a. Wolver) and Holly would have bought my pass for this event when tickets went on sale the previous Friday morning. Unfortunately, the voucher and ID system took so much longer than normal to process ticket buyers that Holly eventually had to go back to work before getting to the head of the line, leaving Ross to stand in line for five and a half hours before picking up tickets for both of them, and leaving me out in the cold. Stubborn Yankee girls like me aren't so easily put off by small setbacks, however -- and after running the harebrained idea past various and sundry friends, all of whom gave it the green light ("If you don't even try, you'll always regret it"), I thought "What the fuck!," baked an extra-large batch of brownies and blueberry muffins, threw a black heater shirt on top of the basket, and hopped a Greyhound to Atlanta in the hopes of somehow, someway, getting into the show. Chalk up another one in the "doing strange things in the name of art" category.
I arrived at the Masquerade at about 3:45 p.m., and already a line of strangely-dressed-for-that-time-of-day people was starting to form outside the club, all waiting to claim the prize spots nearest to the stage. Considering that it was a rather warm day -- upper 80s to low 90s -- all that leather, vinyl, and velvet must have been awfully uncomfortable. (Talk about suffering to be beautiful, or at least trendy!) After talking to a couple of club employees, I was finally able to catch up to Gothgate and Blakharte (who'd driven in from New Orleans overnight), only to find out that not only did they not have any extra tickets, but that the club itself didn't even have any to spare -- in other words, unless a miracle happened, I was basically S.O.L.
It was around 5 p.m. or so by then, and after getting bored with standing around and pacing the same three square feet of ground, I decided to take a stroll around the club and back, taking along my backpack and basket of goodies rather than leaving them behind to an uncertain fate in the line. After roaming the grounds for a few minutes, I wandered on back to the box office area, only to suddenly realize that the black heater T-shirt that had been neatly tucked in on top of the basket was suddenly missing! Shock, horror, absolute panic, and complete hysteria immediately ensued, as I raced around frantically, retracing my steps and pleading with the people in line and the various club employees wandering around, asking if someone, anyone had seen what happened to the shirt, please-don't-let-this-really-be-happening, oh-God-I'm-totally-fucked-now, AAAAARRRRGGGHHH! (Trust me...watching me in full-blown freakout mode is not a pretty sight.) I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, that shirt and my reputation as its designer would come to my rescue, and having lost it, I was all but convinced that any chance I'd ever had of getting into the show was slipping away from me.
It was right then that a hotel limo service van suddenly pulled up in the driveway, and Trent & Co. crawled out of the van and headed up the stairs into a side entrance. I was far too distraught at that moment to actually try to say anything to Trent himself (which is probably just as well, since "Trent, I fucked up and lost your shirt!" is not exactly a sterling conversational opener), but thankfully I regained my presence of mind just before the last of the procession headed inside and yelled up to Kevin McMahon, "KEVIN! I brought you guys some more brownies!" "Great!" he yelled back, "I'll send someone down to get them!"
Fortunately for me, "someone" turned out to be none other than Jerry, security person and de facto tour manager extraordinaire, whom I'd already run into on several previous occasions and who has always been nothing but friendly and helpful to me. (Considering that the very first thing the poor man ever heard me say was that I felt as if my brains had turned into butterscotch pudding and were dribbling out of my ears -- mind you, it was 4:30 AM at a NIN aftershow party, and severe sleep deprivation was taking its toll--I tend to think it speaks well of his innate generosity of spirit that he's still willing to talk to me at all!) So I told poor Jerry my tale of woe--he swore it wasn't the weirdest one he'd heard that day, which makes me wonder just how strange that one was--and handed over the basket of goodies, along with printouts of the Bad Dog and Bad Kitty Lists (http://www.geog.utoronto.ca/reynolds/humour.html...better than bad poetry, in my opinion!). Meanwhile, the guy next to me was babbling to Jerry about a special edit of Natural Born Killers which he'd put together especially for Trent (the kid looked awfully familiar somehow...), and which Jerry graciously accepted before heading back inside, saying that he would do the best he could for both of us but that he couldn't make any promises.
It wasn't until after Jerry had disappeared that I had a chance to speak to the familiar-looking fellow fan, who thought he recognized me as well...come to find out that his name was Tim, and that he was the person who took the picture of Trent and I at that same aftershow party whose name I had lost! While we were swapping reminiscences about that particular evening, Jerry came back to let us know that we were both on the list (actually, I was down for +1, and Tim was to be the +1), and that he was sorry that was the best he could do, by which I assume he meant that he couldn't get us backstage. (Don't apologize, Jerry -- you got us into a totally sold-out show! I didn't spend $25 on a bus ticket in vain! I owe you guys bigtime -- what color t-shirt would you like, and does Trent have a black one yet, or would he like one? Thankyouthankyouthankyou!)
Needless to say, my mood improved greatly after that, and I was finally able to calm down, start chatting with people, and enjoy hanging out. By this time the crowd had grown considerably, and I not only caught up to Ross & Holly (who I was supposed to be staying with that night), but we also ran into our friend Tripp, who none of us had heard from for several months (being a MindSpring webmaster keeps him busy, you know), and who looked quite spiffy in his leather pants. (Damn, Tripp, weren't those things hot?)
Finally, around 8:30 or so, they started letting people in, which gave me the long-awaited opportunity to hit the ladies' room, get some water, and sit down, in roughly that order. I hadn't expected to see anyone else from Athens there (NIN doesn't seem to be terribly big in the Classic City, and considering a quote of Trent's that referred to "Athens Fucking Georgia", the feeling appears to be mutual), so I was very surprised to run into fellow Athenian (and former Hillbilly Frankenstein singer) Alice Berry, and even more surprised on chatting with her to find out why she was there -- it turns out that Sean Beavan and various other NINcrew members were friends of hers, and had invited her out for the show. (Everybody sing! "It's a small world after all...") Sean, needless to say, was quite busy, but I did get to chat with him for a moment, and found out that not only was he familiar with the heater shirts, but that he and Alice had gone out for dinner the night before in a restaurant that had a Reznor heater; that he sometimes lurks on alt.music.nin, but mainly just to read reviews (so be nice, okay?); and that there was only going to be one opening band going on at about 9, which meant NIN would be going on about 10 or so, making for a much earlier show than I'd expected. (You mean I *won't* have to stay up until 2 a.m. to see a band? Hallelujah!) I also had the chance to meet Willy the lighting director, with whom I'd exchanged e-mail last year; and ran into John the guitar tech again (who was so friendly and helpful the first time I met him), which was a real treat -- in my opinion, it speaks well of Trent that he has such genuinely nice people working with him! (And good-looking, too, for what it's worth....)
17 Years, a local Atlanta band, was the opening act, and can best be described as a fairly ordinary "alternative" band, with male and female co-vocalists (both on guitar, I believe). They were pleasant enough, and helped to pass the time, but I can't really say a great deal more, except that they must be either a very new band or else a rather obscure one, because I don't recall ever hearing about them before -- or since. By the time 17 Years finished their set, the club was completely packed and moving was almost impossible, so after one more quick potty break, I wedged myself in on the stair landing to the right of the stage and craned my neck to watch while the crew ran around adjusting equipment and pumping vast amounts of chemical smoke onto the stage and into the crowd at the front (cough, choke, gag).
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was only about half an hour, the lights went down and a huge cheer arose from the crowd as Trent and the boys hit the stage (obviously in a good mood -- I swear Trent all but bounced onstage, à la Tigger) and immediately kicked into "Terrible Lie." Not quite as dramatic an entrance as we were used to from the TDS and Bowie tours, mind you, but who needs large-scale theatrics when you've got intimacy?
Set list:
Encore:
Obligatory Fashion Commentary: Trent was wearing a black, v-neck MBM shirt, '70s-style, with white trim around the neck and white stripes down the sleeves, and what appeared to be black jeans. (My only complaint with the ensemble was that the shirt wasn't ripped in the front, and so we were denied the nipple-twiddling that the Irving Plaza audience got treated to during "Suck".) Kevin, like everyone else on stage, was wearing basic black, and started out the show with his hair scraped up on top of his head and tied into a vaguely samurai-esque topknot that was oddly reminiscent of what I do with my hair when taking a bubble bath before letting it down later on in the set. Danny's hair seemed to be a much darker shade of brown than had previously been the case, and he'd shaved off his goatee as well. As for Chris and Charlie, I saw brief glimpses of them behind their equipment, but between trying to see around the people in front of me and attempting to peer through the haze of chemical smoke and sweat, I didn't really get a good look. Sorry about that, guys.
The mosh pit, of course, was a sea of writhing bodies and flailing limbs, with the usual suspects attempting to crowdsurf their way to the stage, only to be shoved back into the mob by security. I didn't manage to see this one myself -- guess I was paying more attention to the stage than to the crowd -- but Ross and Holly swore they actually saw a naked girl crowdsurfing. They don't know whether she started surfing voluntarily or not, but apparently the audience had been whipped into such a frenzy that all her clothes were ripped off while she was aloft. I was scared to death for a while that Trent was going to get one of his Really Bright Ideas and decide to dive into the crowd (à la the infamous February '95 show in Dallas, where he was seriously mauled and knocked out cold for his trouble). Thank God he thought better of the idea -- it was basically a friendly audience (aside from the yahoos who tore the poor girl's clothes off), but the kind of acts a seething mob of sex-crazed teens and 20-somethings could perpetrate upon the person who got them wound up in the first place would not be a pretty picture...right, Trent?
(ObMama Hen: By the way, kids, you might want to think twice about wearing all that makeup if you're going to be in the pit -- plain old sweat doesn't look nearly as bad as watching the white base and black lipstick and mascara sliding off your faces and down the front of your shirts/into your cleavage. Leave the greasepaint home next time, and I promise you'll be more comfortable and look a hell of a lot better, okay? Not to mention, of course, the two vinyl-bra-clad bimbettes next to me, who kept batting their eyes at the stage and flipping their hair in my face, blocking my view, not to mention groping each other for most of the night. Girls, if you want to get the band's attention, take your shirts off -- if you want to get down to business with each other, rent a room! Sheesh!)
So what else can I say? It rocked, it rolled, it kicked ass, it was (of course) absolutely brilliant, it was (also of course) a once-in-a-lifetime thrill...and, alas, it was over far too soon. I was hoping to catch a ride back to Athens with Alice, but she decided to stay in town and hang out with Sean and the rest of the crew instead, so I picked my way through the remnants of the crowd, hooked up with Ross and Holly, and headed back to their apartment to crash for a few hours before getting back on the bus and heading home to Athens and my job at 9 a.m. the next morning. (Am I a glutton for punishment or what?) The only slightly disappointing aspect of the entire evening was not getting to talk to Trent, as it would have been nice to be able to thank him in person for whatever role he played in getting me into the show; but meeting the various crew members was a real treat -- thanks again, guys, and here's hoping those greedy musicians left a few brownies in the tin for all of you!
So there you have it -- an admittedly highly personal and partisan account of the evening's festivities, but then again, have I ever posted anything that wasn't? Thanks again to Trent and Co. for putting on their usual top-notch show, for having fun while they did it, and for letting the rest of us in on the party. Now get to work on that new album so you can come back again soon, okay?