Prog Hell

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   You are Keith Emerson. It is the opening night of the final Emerson, Lake and Palmer tour and you are playing to a capacity crowd of 20,000. They said it wouldn't happen. They said ELP was over. But you, Carl and Greg, have shed the pounds, got back in shapes, patched things up personally, played a few secret fan club gigs in small venues to reconnect with people and you've even started to write new material to give ELP the final album they deserve. The rehearsals have gone brilliantly. You're not as energetic as you once were but there's a level of emotional maturity and technical precision that wasn't there before and brings many of the old songs to a new level. Members of the press who attended the preview gigs were astonished, writing breathless reviews about how ELP bring back a level of playing not seen for years, urging people to attend this last chance to see the legendary act- in fact you can't remember ever getting better treatment. You've even been able to joke together at a press conference about the Love Beach cover art. 

Show time. You take your place on the stage and a hand pushes the fourth keyboard bank in behind you, sealing you into your place of wonder. Keyboards on all side, all painstakingly configured to the right arrangements. You flex your fingers as the lights go up, itching to play the crowd roars as the announcer states "And now. Ladies and gentlemen. On the first night of their final tour. The legendary. Emerson! Lake! And PALMER!"

But just as your fingers hover above the keys to hit the opening notes, a dark skinned radiant Amazonian goddess rises out of the front row and screams "I LOVE YOU KEITH!" She rips her top open, revealing the most full, perfect breasts you have ever seen. She is quickly removed by security and Greg jovially smoothes things over with the crowd, smiling and having a bit of a laugh. "What a welcome ay?" etc The moment passes and Greg nods to you to begin,

Except the incident has completely shattered your concentration. Your hands are above the keyboards but the music isn't in your head anymore- there's nothing, only a huge pair of perfect breasts. You can't even remember what chord you were supposed to be playing in. Seconds tick by and amusement turns to concern as you fail to move in any way. Greg flips his mic off and stage-whispers to you "Keith? Are you alright? Play something!"

Your mind flails through the planned setlist but you can barely even remember the names of any songs and what music you remember seems so alien and complex. The crowd begins to get a little anxious and restless and you can see people in the wings muttering to each other in concern. Desperately grasping at the first melody that comes into your head which doesn't seem too much to ask for, you are as horrified as everyone else when you begin tapping out a stammering version of Mary Had A Little Lamb.

Edited by Textbook - December 07 2010 at 20:36