Let me e'splain why it took me so long to write about the Muse concert that happened last Thursday at The Joe in Detroit.  I know a lot of you are not Muse fans.  Some of you are so adamant in your refusal to listen to their music, that, to you, being a Muse fan alone, is a hell worthy trespass.  But my concert story isn't solely a review of the show. Read on my friends to find out why, I, Stefani Bishop, am going to hell.

Stefani Bishop
Stefani Bishop

I've been a fan of Muse since a friend burned a copy of "Showbiz" for me in 1999.  I have, since, downloaded every successive Muse album, and they never fail to amaze. The musicianship is incredible; each member a genius on their instrument. The lyrics, poignant; floating effortlessly between political and romantic passions. When I heard they were coming to The Joe, my tiny little self surged with glee. I had to see them live.

I've heard Muse puts on one hell of a show, but this was indescribable.  I stood in awe at the spectacle, dancing to the beat - not singing along... Matt Bellamy doesn't need my help; when he wants it, he'll ask for it.  Because I wasn't singing along, my date thought I wasn't having a good time.  I shouted, "Are you kidding me? It's like if Pink Floyd and Queen had a baby, and that baby was a rock opera."  I wasn't the only person to think so.  A review posted the next day said damn near the same thing. There were drones flying above the audience, lasers, streamers, confetti. You've got some time? Check out the show from Glendale, Arizona (below).  Forward to the 27:00 mark for "The Handler" and watch as they destroy the puppet master with the power of their rock.

(If you didn't have time to check that out, just know it's epic.)

On a completely unrelated note, I think the objectification of men in our society needs to stop.  Men are so much more than the sum of their body parts.  Still, I couldn't help but stare at Chris Wolstenholme's ass for most of the show (and I'm not, historically, a "butt fan", but I will give credit where credit is due).  As the songstress and wordsmith of the 1990s, Pepa, so eloquently sang, "Brother, wanna thank your mother for a butt like that."

So, being a Muse fan?  Is that sending me to hell?  No. Impure thoughts about a bassist?  Of course not. Have you seen him?  No jury would convict me.

I'm going to hell for something far worse.

X Ambassadors opened the show.  They've gotten some radio love, recently, with "Renegades" and (their too-Coldplay-sounding-for-me) "Unsteady."  Overall, a good, listenable band.  As soon as they take the stage and kick in to their first song, I can't help but notice their keyboardist is really in to it.  Almost too much.  His headbanging was all over the place. I remarked to my date, "That dude needs to chill the f*ck out. He's going to hurt himself." But the keyboardist continued. Slow song, fast song - it didn't matter. He was smashing the keys with an unbridled fury I've never before seen from someone playing piano.  I mean, it's the piano; you can only make it so "rock 'n roll".  He's talented, don't get me wrong.  He knows his instrument... but he just didn't stop! My date and I decided his name was Geoffrey.  We made up an elaborate tale surrounding him and his inclusion in the band, for example, an instance where the lead singer came home from high school one afternoon, excited that he was starting a rock band, to which his mother replied, "Only if your brother Geoffrey can do it, too."  "Fine," the lead singer says, as he looks at his shoes, "but we're going to play some really slow songs for him to head-bang to."  Giggles abounded, as you can imagine.

The set ends.

The lead singer thanks the audience and announces Muse will take the stage.

Applause erupts.

The drummer gets up from his kit; tosses a few sticks in to the crowd.

The guitarist pulls his strap over his head; hands his ax to a roadie.

The keyboardist is just standing there... waiting.


A roadie takes the stage and walks up to the keyboard...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

This is the part where I'm going to hell...

The roadie hands the keyboardist a white stick and helps lead him off stage.

The keyboardist is blind.




Yeah, so I've got be in hell at 9:00.  I have that brunch with Hitler.  I can't miss that.

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