When descending into the molten valleys of sonic barbarism, down the twisted briars clouded with sulfur and the soul-searing screams that last for eternity, the intellectual altitude hovers just above reptile, gladiator, and Oracle, all tripping balls on rye fungus.

The visions one sees from perspective of shaman-Mussolini (as I’ve been called) is at once frightening, liberating, and empowering. In the shades of rage and butterfly colors of elation that flood the eyes of our audience, the whole history of the world splashes about like tiny snowglobes burning in their skulls. But these cataract savages are not evil, though Luciferian indeed, it is the light within them that burns the darkness away. Aside from the body painted symbols of support and ascending choir of voices singing the songs louder than I can through amplification, there are a few instances that stand out.

I’ve seen a packed, sweaty, horde of screaming bodies carry a quadriplegic man, secure in his wheelchair, in perfect upright position, safely over the violent entirety of their mass, from the back of the venue to the stage, and lower him carefully to the ground before us.

I’ve witnessed a drunken degenerate get his ass handed to him by a woman who just happened to be a United States Marine enjoying some R&R after extended duty in Afghanistan. Apparently he had been walking through the crowd surreptitiously fondling women in all the wrong places until, that is, his fingers found someone quicker than he was. She snatched his hand, broke 2 fingers, then proceeded to pummel his face with an honorable snarl and the dignity of her iron fists. When she was done with him, his nose looked like a deflated balloon stuck to the left side of his face.

I’ve seen a man get his leg broken, snapped backward like a flamingo leg, in the madness of the pit. I saw a few brothers and sisters break ranks from the cyclone of flesh and form a protective circle around him, the eye of the storm, then lift him from the bloody rubble of people falling over each other, to the safety of the medics nearby.

Live shows are rituals. They are cathartic exercises of purity. Where the tribe of the human species can unite and stand together and yet perform their duties of independent existence and solo exhibits of art. The show is the gallery for the artists, for the audience, for the spiritual intercourse that surges between us all. And when the last cymbal hits, and the amps fuzz to white noise, and the lights dim and then explode with intensity, we return to our lives, to our daily grind, but will remember the wild spirit of this night, forever.