Concert Review
MUSE
Marquee, Tempe, AZ
December 12, 2004
Tempe, like most college towns, seems to traffic in two things: great shows by upcoming British bands and poorly ventilated local theaters to feature said bands. The theater in question, the Marquee, has a quaint lifestyle: it sits the crux of some would-be state park areas and a nice little river. It overlooks a lavishly decorated pair of bridges that, if not for the fact that they are littered with hobos’ living rooms, would be elegant. And in true “the universe is against me” fashion, there is limited parking.
It’s not enough that I was late for the show, it’s not enough that I lost my ATM card that night, it’s not enough that I had to park across the river and hump it across the difficult [read: hobo-infested] bridge, which (along with the steady incline) led me to consider jumping more than a few times, but Muse had to make me fall in love with them, and I’ve been burned by bands before.
I’ll not mention any bands, but I’m looking in your direction, Liam.
What can you say about a band who deftly plays their amazingly triumphant and anthem-like wonders? Songs with titles like “Apocalypse Please,” and “Thoughts of a Dying Atheist,” made me glad that dreary titles lend themselves to austere British alt- rock. Their latest CD, “Absolution,” is the freshest thing this side of the Atlantic and for a writer who was contemplating suicide in order to avoid an uphill walk to the Marquee, Muse was well worth the trek.
Matthew Bellamy (lead vocals, guitar) is a true rock star, and he’s earned his title not by sleeping with groupies or falling down drunk on stage but by sheer professionalism. His vibrato voice, adroit guitar and piano playing (they have that Radiohead-like knack for simulating studio recordings live) teamed with Chris Wolstenholme (bass, backing vocals) and Dominic Howard (drums) for the best performance Tempe could ever deserve. Muse commands their audience; not with glamour or fiasco, but with a fanatical devotion to their craft and an intensity presented for a college town like Tempe one would normally expect for a larger, more influential town.
But an influential town, Tempe is not. Alas, when the show was over the audience seemed to lament not the departure of the band, but of their high. I lamented the departure of the music, the skill, and the fact that I had to walk across the river once again contemplating a jump. But then my own personal savior, a bike-taxi driver named Hollywood, offered me a lift on his way across the bridge and I was saved. Absolution, indeed.
