We Took Mystery Drugs and Saw Soft Moon

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Luckily, Maserati took more people by force. Living up to its name, the band felt like a European vehicle, more along the lines of instrumental Pink Floyd á lá Alan Parson's Project. Their third or fourth song even took on some Absolution-era Muse. Maserati's drummer was front and center and by the end of it, his hair was strung with sweat and his beard looked like he'd just drank yellow milk. That's energy, folks.

At one point, the drummer and bass guitarist left the stage, leaving both guitarists alone to noodle with their palette of pedal-board textures. Even if you knew what to anticipate, when everyone returned to the stage, it was overwhelming. This as about when I was peaking and needless to say, my brain was melting. More from the music than anything.

That tractor beam pull drew out the energy in people like possession. Sound waves transform into electrical signals in your eardrums, giving you the gift of auditory perception. Then, those electrical signals travel down the spine and turn into involuntary spasms. It has no direction. It doesn't have to.

Finally, The Soft Moon. By now, this mild high was subsiding and soon, all I would have left would be residual afterglow. But The Soft Moon was actually a perfect, droning comedown.

The visuals splattered against the far wall resembled white noise mixed with a Rorschach test. You could make out whatever you pleased. Luis Vazquez was all over the place, fiddling with a dozen pedals or twirling on the stage in a kind of delirium, punctuated by ghostly screeches.

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Troy Farah is an independent journalist and documentary field producer. He has worked with VICE, Fusion, LA Weekly, Golf Digest, BNN, Tucson Weekly, and Phoenix New Times.
Contact: Troy Farah