My plug in baby
Crucifies my enemies
When I'm tired of giving
Woah, my plug in baby
In unbroken virgin realities
Is tired of living
**
One of my favourite teenage memories. Those early days, before Muse lost the plot (it's not that they got popular, it's that they got tame.) Only two albums out, Origin of Symmetry still brand new.
Standing in the dark in an enormous festival crowd with the rain hammering down and the suspense building.
Gap in the clouds, the downpour stops.
The lights rise a little and with them comes the gentle tinkle of a piano. New Born. The whole thing. Bellamy stands centre stage and the crowd oozes forward, bunching up, it's cramped and the tension is electric.
The ninety odd seconds passes, he hangs the last note, there's silence.
Then, boom. THAT riff. The place goes crazy, I've never seen a pit at a festival crowd stretch that far and I've been to plenty. From the stage to beyond the sound tower the field is absolutely rocking.
It's the steam that sticks with me. To this day, nearly fifteen years later, I remember the atmosphere and the noise and the clouds of steam rising off the crowd as the heat evaporates all that rain water, lifting the deluge from our manic selves.
The word epic is overused. Here it was warranted.
The love for what you hide.
The bitterness inside.
