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Nothing involving Killing Joke is ever fucking easy.
I’m sitting at my desk in my home office in New Hampshire after returning from the most insane travel experience I’ve had in decades of flying. The journey to Chicago from Boston had already been a logistical shitstorm, but nothing prepared me for the 24-HOUR ordeal that followed when it was time to leave.
My luck ran out shortly after getting what was quite possibly the last flight out of O’Hare early Saturday morning (before the snow made leaving the city untenable), only to then endure several hours of faulty airplanes, missed connections, cancellations, rebookings, more cancellations, service-desk showdowns, and the near-miss of being stranded in Orlando until Tuesday. (Don’t ask.)
I’m quite certain it was all Raven’s doing. The most charismatic charlatan I’ve ever encountered and I had a surreally epic falling-out in early 2007. (Pro tip, kids: approach writing about your heroes cautiously.) Despite a few mutual friends assuring me that it all could likely be sorted out over an in-person spliff and handshake, the man went upstairs (downstairs?) before that opportunity. And he’s been fucking with me to varying degrees ever since. (I’m not bullshitting you. One day, I grabbed the first of several unlabeled microcassettes I found in a storage box, put it in the player, pushed “play,” and immediately heard his voice. Another time, an old address book fell out of the closet while I was moving boxes, hit the floor, and opened to Raven’s phone number.)
Here’s the thing: I’d head to Logan Airport RIGHT NOW and go through it all again if it meant I could experience last Friday night at Reggies a second time. Killing Joke is a complex entity that has been comprised of more than one epic pain in the ass over the years, but I would walk through fire for that band any goddamn day.
If you care enough to read this post, you already know why. That unexplainable thing that drives us all to be in that band’s presence. To listen to their music. To let their sounds touch our souls. To connect with others from around the world who feel the same thing.
We all felt it on Friday night
There hadn’t been a public memorial for Geordie, nor had there been one for everyone’s favorite pirate. Martin’s Extremities shebang finally gave us the chance. It was also a long-overdue celebration of Killing Joke’s most incendiary era. An event concocted by everyone’s favorite party planner/mad screen printer. There were problems leading up to the show (because Killing Joke), including the controversial decision to swap out guitarists mere weeks before the event. It could have all gone pear-shaped very quickly, but I always trust Martin to somehow turn a shitshow into something magical.
He did, and it was. Leaner, thinner, and happier than I’ve seen him in years, Martin assembled a group of disparate musicians (because Martin) and gifted us the opportunity to embrace this music live once again — giving our beloved Joke the respect and emotional sendoff it deserved.
Sitting with Roger (dear friend, travel buddy, life coach) in the VIP balcony, it was impossible not to shed tears as the show unfolded. Fuck, my eyes were watering by the second verse of “Money Is Not Our God.” By the time the somber trumpet-and-cello interpretation of “Love Like Blood” began, I was a full-on mess. Killing Joke was/is the most special part of my life’s soundtrack. Martin and co. cut the rose in full bloom. They broke my heart and put it back together multiple times on Friday night — just as Killing Joke’s music always has.
Mark Gemini Thwaite. Far too nice a man to have been handed the pants-shittingly high expectations that came with his role in the proceedings, especially with Ginny in attendance. How did he do emulating the coolest guy not in the room? Well, many of my tears were due to the tones he got from the guitar. Thanks for giving Geordie back to me, MGT, if only for an evening.
Tara Busch. What a talent.
The evening was already a success well before the first note. Seeing Karen and Ivan. Wysh and Alfred. Reidy and K W. With this thing of ours, the hugs are always tighter, and the moments shared are always more meaningful.
Other highlights:
• Grabbing a quick dinner with Mark and Geno shortly after arriving at Reggies.
• Giving Dirk a hug after not seeing him in person for nearly a decade.
• Watching Martin set a cash register on fire post-show, at the same spot behind Reggies where Jaz had done it in the “Money Is Not Our God” video, after showing the crowd the building where Invisible was located in the ’90s and where Lab Report lived during that era. (Moments later, I saw a new text on my phone from Matt Schultz. There’s no such thing as a coincidence.)
• Getting in a super-quick post-show hello with Randy just as the Uber arrived to pick up Roger and me.
There’s more, but I’m knackered. I need more sleep, although I’m a bit reluctant to let my guard down in case Raven decides to burn down my apartment while I snooze.