Uzi and John Cale at The Rat in Boston on 1 Feb 86

[nessus (Doug Alan)]

You are lying in a trench -- a soldier in the Psychic Wars.  Bursts of
automatic weapons fire defines the rhythm of your existence.  Next to
you a woman dying of emotional wounds chants... moans a healing mantra
"The sun is black to me...  The sun is black to me..."  Is there
anything you can do to help?  You hear strange noises in the distance.
The sounds of heavy machinery and strange backwords things.  You don't
want to know what they are.  The psychic weapons are starting to wear on
you.  You are suspended in time.  Your mind drifts back.... back....
back to a time when the world was just as crazy, but not as obviouly so.
You were watching a band called Uzi...

You had gone to the Rat in Boston to see John Cale, driving in a snow
storm -- laughing in death's face.  You slithered on into The Rat,
shedding your Mighty Mac tertiary skin and hiding it in some hopefully
overlooked cranny.  Then you were assaulted with Uzi.  You no longer
laughed.  The four member band created a dense musical cloud of
psychedelic gloom.  The lead guitarist crunched and swirled -- his feet
pounding over an array of 12 or 13 effects boxes nearly as fast as his
hands pounded over the strings.  The drums are a fire squad of automatic
rifles, and power chords blast from the bass guitar.  The singer chants
words of pain.  Her voice is nothing special, but it is quite
appropriate.  She also plays guitar, to add another piece to the sonic
attack.  On tape, strange sounds add an eerie background texture.

The croud is fascinated, but is too drained to ask for an encore.  The
most urgent thought in your mind as they leave the stage is "Why the
fuck don't they have an album out???"

John Cale appears after a while, bearing little resemblance to a
revolutionary 60's acid rock hero.  Here is a middle-aged
avant-traditional songster.  The Rat is now packed like a packed rat.
The audience is dedicated and enthusiastic.  He sings with only his own
guitar playing or piano playing to accompany him.  The guitar is
acoustic with an electric pick-up and the piano is a Yamaha electric
grand -- the kind that Roger Miller plays.  He can't match the sonic
assualt of Uzi, but there is a depth of sincerity to his songs that
makes all other considerations vanish.  After each song that goes over
really well, he stands up and takes a cute little British bow.  Women
are swooning right and left.

The first set is perfection.  You hear the most stirring version
possible of "Heartbreak Hotel" and much other heartrending music.  The
second set isn't as good.  At times, Cale falls into a pattern in his
piano playing that is annoying -- continously playing the chords with
his right hand in a steady metronome beat.  When he breaks from this
cliche, however, the music is once again stirring and inspirational.
When he is done you trudge back to your car through the cold snow with
a fresh beer stain on your tertiary skin and a warm feeling in your
heart.

Unfortunately, you are shocked back to the present as a neuron bomb
explodes overhead.  Jagged light pentrates your soul, and as your
nervous system dissolves, inevitable mortality becomes apparent.  You
hallucinate a lifetime's worth of torture: reality.  The wounds are on
the inside.

				-Doug