Lobotomized Masses. With Pictures.

I know what you're thinking: Hey, didn't you go to All Points West Festival last weekend to see Radiohead, Kings of Leon, Animal Collective, et al? Well, yes, I did. Thanks for asking. Let me tell you about it.

Quick wrap-up of Animal Collective and Kings of Leon: First off, the crowd reception at these festivals is hit or miss. When you sandwich a band like Animal Collective between KoL and some shit-brick neo-80s dance-rap band Chromeo, three very different bands, there's a weird vibe ... an odd mix of annoyance and patience. People aren't as open to new music as they claim. AC was average. I think most of what they played was new, so I was lost, but "open to new music." KoL, though, were a bit of a disappointment. I can't put my finger on it, because they played essentially the same set from when I saw them twice last year, and I thought those shows were good. The more I think about it, the more I don't like their third album. And they lean on it heavily, so there you go. Or maybe I was distracted by the buzzing in my head.

Fast forward an hour or so. The buzzing has only intensified as the lights above Liberty Park dull. I'm thinking it has to be the crowd; if I see one more faux-hawk or ironic mustache, I'm going to intentionally choke to death on my own puke. That'll solve things, right?

My 18'' x 18'' box of living space amid the mass of followers gets tighter with every passing minute. My ear starts to ache and the buzz-hum has morphed into a shrill ringing. I try to ignore it, but it feels like I've got one of those ear worm-things from 'Wrath of Khan' rooting around in my brain, first burrowing, then feasting on whatever matter its jaws can handle. Facial tics and minor muscle spasms kick in ... "The show's about to start," someone says in the distance. Not only has the sun disappeared for the night, but the stage is pitch black. The noise that's engulfed my brain for the last 30 minutes is now blasting from the speakers, as if my own brain waves are being transmitted for all to know. Can they hear my thoughts? Will everyone know my inner-monologue? Stop thinking, I think.

A voice from the loud speaker interrupts the pulsating cacophonic melody that has engulfed the atmosphere. "Attention," a bland female voice insists of us as the stage lights activate, flooding the crowd with a yellow hue. I look around wondering if anyone can hear this, or if I'm purely lost in my own hysterical thoughts. I'm not alone; every other concertgoer faces the stage attentively, eyes concentrated on the speaker waiting for what comes next. Silence. The rooting influence in my ear is only getting worse, but I'm too fixated on the stage to care. "Attention," the speaker barks again. "Radiohead will not present themselves tonight. Rather, you will be automatically entertained by projectile holographic replication." The revving engine in my head begins again, but to a degree unlike ever before.

The crowd waits, transfixed on the empty space. I notice the stage lights are now off, but some kind of lighting still exists. It begins from behind me. It's getting ever brighter. I'm starting to sweat, a cold, profuse sweat. My face is paralyzed, and the crux of my headache has moved to my frontal lobe, down to my eyeballs. The lights to the stage are brighter and brighter, but nothing appears. The pressure on my face is immeasurable, as if a team of horses has been harnessed to it in an attempt to pull it off my skull. I'm blinded by the glow coming from my own eyes. The stage is littered with tiny sets of golden beams, as we all supply our own contribution to the fully-lit platform. The beams begin to coagulate into coordinated shapes of differing size. The defined figures begin to move on their own, controlling the beams that shoot from each in the sea of people. Our heads and bodies must follow suit. They control us now.

The five fully-formed illuminated holograms stay silent as they move about in spastic activity. Our beams supply instruments, three guitars, a bass and a drum kit, microphones, amplifiers and a litany of machinery that flicker, as if animate objects themselves.

The smallest of the figures approaches the microphone and opens his mouth. The buzzing and ringing I've heard for the last what seems like hours shoots from him, but in a soothing cadence that is a welcome respite. A fuzzy, hypnotic rhythm comes from the side of the stage. A drum beat from the back. A crunching from yet another side. The beams from our heads begin to change color, flashing and cutting across the air. Words spew from his mouth now in perfect sync with the sounds unleashed from behind him, onto us.

"I have no idea what I am talking about!" he screams. "I am trapped in this body and can't get out!" My head no longer aches, my body no longer twitches, my pores no longer sweat. They dictate the feeling now. "They got a skin and put me in ... all the lines wrapped around my face ... and for anyone else to see!" he directs to us. "I'm a liiiiiiiieeeeeeeee!"

That's when the drugs kicked in.