Tours de Farce: Wunnerful, Wunnerful
That’s the question that great minds have pondered throughout the ages. Socrates and his followers, Einstein and his relatives, Da Vinci and his code – they dedicated their lives to uncovering the philosophical underpinnings of concert routings so that they could teach those who followed the utter perfection contained under those wondrous headings known to us as date, city and venue.
Yet, even today there are those who refuse to grasp the significance of something so eloquently simple as Killswitch Engage playing in Sacramento on August 28. For those who fail to follow those who lead, tour dates are only listings of appearances for musical bands and artists, and a routing for Kris Kristofferson, or an itinerary for Paul Carrack, falls on the scale of need somewhere between a cold Budweiser and two-ply tissue.
But somewhere, yes, somewhere between the intangible notion of Metallica crisscrossing the countryside bringing thundering joy and bombastic vibes to the multitudes, and Tony Orlando’s eternal knocking on the ceiling lies the answers to which we all seek. Purpose, destiny, inner fulfillment – all that and more can be found deep within a notation as seemingly innocuous as Barry Manilow, Anaheim, November 13. So innocent in innocence and yet as profound as prophylactic profundity, tour dates form the spiritual spinal cord to which the ribs, organs and skin of our existence so desperately cling.
How wonderful are tour dates? One might as well question the joy found in the sounds of children singing or the pleasure hiding beneath the surface of a dram of expensive single malt. For tour dates, such as the routings for Bob Dylan, Allison Moorer and “Weird Al” Yankovic, lift our souls from the daily drudgery of the latest news, rumors and Drudge. For if truth, beauty, and grace are synonymous with perfection, then concert listings are the Velcro straps that bind humanity in a joyous wail of delight as we ride this big blue ball known as Earth to our cosmic destination.
That is, as long as there’s still two-ply. And a cold Bud. After all, there’s something to be said about the metaphorical icing on the cake.