Looking through CDs, live music, books, theatre and all kinds of things that fit in your mouth. Injecting the mindstream via the tearduct with reviews that connect you to the experience, whatever the form.
For anyone looking to have their merch, music and/or mayhem reviewed at The Wax Conspiracy, get in touch with us.
There is something rotten in the air. A dead noise. Volume is cranked up and lips are moving at the beat of the strum. Nothing much comes from it. It is the sound of being halved and it runs the whole night.
Funko Pop! Vinyls are all over the place. Three booths side-by-side are guts overflowing with the generic looking figures. Turn again and another booth is chockas with the stuff. Blank eyes for all the aisles to see.
Emptiness rings out at the late night session. Nobody sidles up to plonk down in the theatre seats beside. Gone are the crowds ready to drown out the on-screen dialogue. It’s hours from midnight when the bleeding starts.
Time keeps slipping. Life putters on and stumbling is the better part of trying to catch up. Watching it fall apart is where the audience comes to mind.
Coarse hacking coughs linger in the air between silences. Tension cuts itself with a dusting of deep swallowing sounds. The audience has saliva no more.
Needles of the spruce shake off and litter the base of the Christmas tree. There in the middle of Pemberley house, a cut of nature stands in a spot of water dressed for the occasion. The awkwardness is centre stage.
Each souvenir booth is neck deep. At least three spot the arena with lines banking out a dozen from the table, and the same in breadth. Not a structured line in sight. Branches of arms weave up and around somewhere toward the tills. It’s a half hour from the back before a chance to see what T-shirts and other merchandise are worth the base twenty-five dollars.
Fatigue quickly sets in when there is a lack of rest, of some kind, between the long stretches of going all out. Taking off half the day to run errands is a respite worth acknowledging for being necessary in framing a cumulative narrative.
Wild abandon is part of a healthy disregard and distrust for authority. The Merc with a Mouth shovels it deep and shovels it fast to explore what it means to be responsible for living such a lavish life borne of hiding the true cost of consequences.
Between the scenes the lights go black save for a lamp on a desk. In the back corner is a man looking over notes over glasses. This is not a part of the play, and he is no manager of the factory. A mere trick of the light.
There was a time when watching Foo Fighters play as headliners of the Big Day Out meant being punched in the shoulders as a couple of idiots kept slapping on stickers from some marketing brand again and again.
There is an inherent peace within Thanos’ motivations. A quiet want and quest for setting a scene that sets the Mad Titan up with a pathos worth following and admiring in its boldness and interpretation. Here, destruction is not for its own sake, but as a necessary instrument of balance.
Beyond teeming to the gills we’re standing still hinting at the notion of moving forward. It’s a whole weekend of costumes, get-ups and cosplay seeing how long you can shuffle on a mosey before needing to go to the toilet again.