Regular readers might remember a series of posts, last year, that unspooled a weepy, tragicomic epic poem about my endeavors to witness my beloved Killing Joke’s 40th Anniversary tour. For those who were fortunate enough to miss those laborious entries, here’s a quick recap.
I’d procured tickets for their September gig at nearby Irving Plaza, only to later learn that a work event would have me in Nashville on the very same day. I managed to get my company’s travel representative to move Heaven and Earth to get me plane tickets that would get me back to New York in time to catch the show. However, an uncaring God intervened by way of a prohibitive thunderstorm, which diverted my plane to the chilly barrens of Syracuse. By the time we were back in the air again, the show was already underway. By the time I got out of the airport and back to Manhattan, the show was over. I did not make it.
While I was congratulated for my work on the Nashville project, I was inconsolable for having missed the Killing Joke show, assuming that given the significance of the anniversary, they weren’t likely to undertake a tour this way again. Fate briefly smiled on me in the form of a cash bonus – a reward for my hard work in Nashville. I took said cash and immediately spent it on plane tickets to catch the final two dates of the tour in England.
In November, the day my flight was to depart from New York City to London for these shows, God again tried to take a giant dump on my plans by conjuring a freakish fucking blizzard -– in NOVEMBER, once again -- that ground the city to a virtual halt and delayed several flights – notably my own.
I did, however, eventually get out and made it to both of those shows, which were amazing. Should you give a damn, you can read all about that chapter here.
Further mocking me from on high, our sadistic deity then saw fit to bring Killing Joke not only back to New York City, but for two goddamn shows, one of which in my very fucking neighborhood. Hilarity.
So, yeah, tonight they’re playing at the comparatively intimate Le Poisson Rouge. Tomorrow night, they’ll be tightly ensconced in St. Vitus. Both of these tiny club shows are sold the fuck out, but guess who got tickets?
I mean, honestly, how could I NOT?
Details to come.
Here's a shaky bit of the last show in London (I did not shoot this)...
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