A journey into the great white plague up north and how I narrowly escaped with my sanity in the Canadian twilight was the equivalent of a positive HIV test that's later negated when the doctor runs in and yells "sike!"
And to whom do I owe us, us free? None other than the melodic pinion of industrialized self-expression and anti-establishment Trent Reznor... and one of his loonie, toonie followers. Yeah, it was a strange night.
Let me explain.
It all starts back in the summer of '69. Okay, last August when Nine Inch Nails pegged Cleveland, Ohio as one of the stops on their Lights in The Sky tour. Myself and Mr. Matt Zajac, who currently wears a managing editor nametag for this publication, secured solid 100-level tickets and instantly cranked the excitement switch to pumped. As the night approached, I kindly asked my employer for the golden Friday off. As he said no, I watched my fragile dreams shatter and my mood turn to filth.
You better believe happiness isn't slavery.
Hearing stories from Matt on how amazing the show was and how it fired up the vixen on his arm furthered gashed the wound in my chest. As an email surfaced stating that NIN would be extending their run, you can only imagine how happy I was.
I promptly purchased a floor, general admission ticket for the show in Hamilton, Ont., the closest of the dates to Buffalo. Beforehand, Matt had been handed a ticket from his friend, who's name I've changed to Mob Rercurio to protect his identity.
Salvation arises.
As the night arrived, I accordingly checked out of my later classes early and got ready for the show, with a little, OK a lot, of help from my now-brunette girlfriend who doubles as my stylist. Matt showed up around 3 p.m., a bit later than we had planned, but all was well as we were on our way.
Before we hit the border, we stopped at his buddy's produce establishment to pick up Mob and wait for what seemed like an eternity. As the NIN adventurers headed for the vehicle of choice, we quickly realized Mob didn't have his birth certificate. Or passport. He's a bright one, let me tell you.
Upon hitting the border between the U.S. and the great white not, customs grilled us on why Mob was without proper identification and who my hairdresser was. Now I'm pretty sure that was a slight at my masculinity, but seriously, is it a crime to look that good?
The answer was no as he let us over the boarder. Personally I would not have let someone over with a mug like Mob's, but that's beside the point.
Fast forward Through Traffic (yes that's a brilliantly named Canadian street) and to our pre-show festivities.
We walked around the industry ridden, depressing town of Hamilton with a determination to find something positive in that dreary place. After Mob got into an argument with a bartender with a long, gray ponytail over paying for his Hemp beer, we ended up back at the car.
We kicked back. Let the tunes play out on my iPod. And left the light on.
Guess what? The car's battery died. Yep, we were stuck in purgatory.
After a bunch of locals said no to the "do you have jumper cables" question, we finally came across two younger fans that were kind enough to give us a jump. As they hooked the cables up and Matt cranked the ignition, sparks started to light the Canadian sky.
After Mob came out from a slumber, which was necessary seeing how tiring being obnoxious is, he called us dunces and held the cables on the battery. Unsurprisingly, smoke rose from the engine and the car died altogether.
We then spent the next 40 minutes trying to secure a ride home, which finally came in the form of a text from Matt's friend Marcus, who said he would come after his shift ended, at 11p.m.
Letting everything go, we gave in to the only person capable of saving our broken night, Trent Reznor. As the lights went low and the sea of clearly Canadian screams were met with drowning reverb and lighting straight out of the movies, it was as if sunlight and warmth fixed our day zero.
As Reznor opened with a slew of tracks from his ironically titled and literally priceless online release The Slip, a huge backdrop of lights moved and morphed with the music, following "1,000,000," and "Discipline" throughout the arena and into the skulls of the trancees in attendance.
Immediately following the heavy instrumental onslaught of "March of the Pigs," fans shoved forward, inching closer and closer to their wild savior.
Following NIN classic "Closer," which was showcased early in the set, blinds of lighting descended and were washed clean of older graphics, spawning new ones for each track.
Alongside failsafe drummer Josh Freese, zoned guitarist Robin Finck, Grammy award-winning bassist Justin Meldal-Johnsen and keyboardist Alessandro Cortini, Reznor dedicated a healthy amount of the nights set to his eerie instrumental release Ghost I-IV, stretching selections from the set to the excess of 20 minutes. Watching Reznor play a vibraphone for nearly a half hour and Meldal-Johnsen play an acoustic, stand up bass created this mellow, moody and colorful atmosphere that was absolutely hair-raising.
Intertwining older tracks like "Piggy" and Terrible Lie" with newer selections like the seamlessly blended "Only" and "The Hand That Feeds," Reznor played to everyone's hands that need.
As the Glowing red NIN-lit background trickled down from the sky and onto the stage, fans roared with desire and appreciation.
Reznor and his crew came out for an encore and offered spot-on renditions of "Hurt" and "Reptile" in front of a moving graphic of an industrial hell. Hamilton anyone?
As they left the stage with the haunting "In This Twilight," there was no question within anyone's mind that for just one night Trent Reznor and his Nine Inch Nails not only saved our trip, but made Hamilton into something far greater than it could ever be.
After the show, the kind-hearted Canadians from before and their older friend, donning a Megadeth shirt and a blonde mustache gave our car one last try and shockingly, this time the jump worked.
Call it Trent. Call it the Canadians. But this night made us that much closer to God.
Photo: Courtesy of SUNY
