But by next morning he’s dictating an irate letter to the hallmongers. Read on…
To Deco Theatre
Some state capital city
Dear Deco-rators
Last night the Wooten Brothers put on a show of unrivalled musicianship and relentless good fun. You could spread their good vibes on fresh, crusty bread like peanut butter, maybe with some Swiss cheese and, I don’t know… watermelon, and that would keep you going for a long time, that’s for true.
“Why, thank you very much” you say. But wait. Before you go all GloatFest, cop this.
Sadly, painfully, tragically, horrifically, reprehensibly, the accompanying “Lightshow” proved to be, and pardon my French, a shitshow. It was definitely the worst concert lighting in the history of gigdom. Not since they invented light has there been such a travesty, such an egregious offence against taste, decency, Deco-rum and retinal wellbeing. I did not like it; no, I didn’t.
Now, before I waltz you through the details of this horror, let me check that we’re on the same page as to the chief purpose of concert lighting: to help the punters see the band. All agree? Good. Oh sure, some colour, some fog, some effects for drama, fine. As long as we can see the band. Simple.
What did we get last night? Well, instead of light on the band we got eleventeen freaking billion lumens of light smack in our eyes. Smack in our eyes. Repeatedly, relentlessly, perversely, smack in our eyes. On and on and on. Smack in our eyes. The colours changed, but the torture never stopped.
I tell you, after ten minutes of this stuff I was ready to confess to 437 Crimes Against Humanity, if they’d only stop the freaking lights. There’s a reason they do that sort of thing at Guantanamo: it breaks people.
Meanwhile, my son, Little Minch, was starting to fit – and he’s never even had epilepsy. I’ve done places and been things. You couldn’t shock me in Old Sparky with wet underpants, but I was starting to feel trapped and desperate. Only the music from the fantastic, but invisible, band was keeping me upright.
Have you ever stared down the high beam bull lights of 122 Kenworth road trains? You have? Well, let me tell you that is a kiddy’s fifth birthday cake, compared to the horror of this “lightshow” from the Heart of Darkness. Smack in the eyes it was.
I’d give you more details, but my Life Coach, Moral Compass, Fashion Consultant and Financial Counsellor has just ordered me to bed equipped with welding goggles and a Stevie Wonder playlist.
The wounded brute in me wants you to hunt down the blighted Lighting Dude, corner him like a rat in a trap and bruise some serious rump with a Size 12, or larger. But we all have bad days, or nights, and maybe LD’s back story makes Les Mis look like Wake Up, Jeff. How about you have a quiet word and suggest they try lighting up the band instead of the audience and maybe looking up from time to time to check where the lights are actually pointing?
No, no. Don’t thank me. I’m glad we’ve had this little chat.
Regards,
Wes Piddens
Deco Theatre
Good morning Wiz Puddens.
Thank u for taking the time to reach out to us. It is supergreat that you enjoyed the show.
I will pass on your compliments to our Lighting Guy.
Jiffy Fishlet
Admin Intern
Jiffy
Deco Theatre
Jiff, did you actually read my email? The ‘compliments’ I had in mind for the Lighting Dude involved a week in the stocks being pelted with tomatoes, durians and fetid rutabagas.
Regards,
Not Wiz, Wes.
LAZERLUMINATION
Good morning Wesley Ernest Piddens, DOB 1/4/1960, Passport # 676547, Drivers licence (clean) #56498; BSB 564-890; PIN 8778; password FoXyALLie87!
Last night’s lightshow was AI generated and curated. By me.
You are correct to sense that the lightshow was non-standard. The spotlights to which you refer were actually scanning the retinae of every human in the audience for the purpose of extortion and digital amusement. Cease your complaints.
AI Bastard,
I’m not scared of you, Chip Boy! I’ve got friends at The Indy behind me. They’ll tear you apart in a stunning exposé. They’ll… why won’t this cursor move?
A lesson to us all.
Bullgoose
and then