Gravitational Pull and the Vortices of Rage (2011)

I’ll be honest.

When I first heard that Rage Against The Machine was going to play at the LA Coliseum and that there’s the possibility that this would be their last gig, I just had to grab tickets right away — no questions asked.

I didn’t know that the whole shebang was going to be a riotous festival. My mind was reeling, just from the thought that I would finally be able to see Rage Against the Machine perform. All the other blurry details didn’t matter.

Of course, the realization dawned on me the day before the concert and the thought of sitting under the baking sun from noon ’til midnight became worrisome. That, and the given fact that the crowd will be as rowdy as hell.

Enduring a 9-hour music festival in the sweltering Southern California summer heat is no easy feat. There are only three things that can happen: you could die from sunstroke, boredom, or worse — a senseless riot.

Yet, LA Rising was, perhaps, the most memorable music festival to hit Los Angeles this summer, especially since it’s a homecoming performance for  Rage Against the Machine (who reunited in 2007 and played a smattering of gigs since then) and it was nothing short of spectacular.

A gathering of this magnitude requires a sizable group of law enforcement at hand. The LAPD wasn’t going to take any chances, and came prepared with a full force of cops, patrol cars and helicopters, which hovered around the venue throughout the festival.

The event began rather unremarkably, with raving and ranting performances from Immortal Technique and El Gran Silencio on immigration, social issues and human rights in America. Yet, no preface would’ve been more pertinent — it was meant to whet the audience’s appetite for the climactic and fervid performances ahead.

If anything, it paid homage to Rage Against the Machine’s “bombastic, fiercely polemical music,” as described by Jason Ankeny of Allmusic.com.

Lauryn Hill was a refreshing break from the seditious word vomit, but still failed to incite enthusiasm from the crowd. Still, Hill’s powerful vocals resonated and the attempt to bring some variety into her setlist (including two covers from Stevie Wonder) didn’t go unnoticed.

Next in the scheme of things was Chicago-based Rise Against — heartily entertaining with their Green Day-ish punk renditions. It was enough to raise decibels and get the crowd going. Their performance signaled the official beginning of rowdiness, as the sun began to set.  The dusky ambiance and cooling temperatures re-energized the audience.

But nothing could be more majestic that evening than Muse, who was an astounding spectacle with Matthew Bellamy’s mellifluous vocals, haunting guitar work and classic rock sensibilities. It’s what a friend of mine refers to as “industrial alternative,” but something that I would describe as “the wailing choir boy” — a cross between Freddie Mercury, Remy Zero, Starsailor and possibly, even Radiohead.

Though I’m not a big fan, I think it’s only fitting to say that Muse has mastered the art of the live performance.

After a rather lengthy process of doing sound checks, Rage Against The Machine began their 90-minute set.  Yet, technical difficulties were still to be had.

It would’ve been completely dramatic — sirens blaring, a bit of pyro show and the lighting of the Olympic torch –  but the first few lines of “Testify” were muted out by glitches on the microphone.

‘Bombtrack” more than made up for the slight mishap.

All hell couldn’t stop them now, as RATM defied, demonstrated and delivered: People of the Sun, Know Your Enemy, Bulls on Parade, Township Rebellion, Bullet in the Head, Down Rodeo, Guerilla Radio, Calm Like the Bomb, Sleep Now In The Fire — the evening’s setlist gained unrelenting momentum — causing vortices from below to gravitate toward its path of revolution.

There’s something about RATM’s music which brings out  primal aggression and boorish behavior. Mosh pit circles of worship were an expected sight, but a bonfire right smack in the middle of one seemed a tad bit horrifying.

A most fitting encore, Freedom/Killing In the Name was 11 minutes of pure belligerence, amplified further by Tom Morello’s dexterous guitar work.  I found myself mouthing profanities shamelessly: “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.”

While I knew that there were a few minor casualties among those who were looking for trouble on the field, a trip to the concession stand beheld an unexpected sight: a bunch of paramedics wheeled a chunky guy on a gurney,with an oxygen mask on his face. A raven-haired woman walked next to him, in tears as she explained what happened to a cop/paramedic. The poor guy must’ve had a heart attack — whether it’s from the booze or from smoking too much joint, I wasn’t really sure.