Tool are Jack Osbourne's favourite band. Apart from the fact that he's always wearing their t-shirts, you can tell from his sullen demeanour, sulky glare and the twinkle that appears in his eye whenever he gets his hands on a hunting knife. To be a Tool fan, you see, is to feel the weight of humanity on your shoulders, to look into the dark core of the white American experience and to feel hopeless, lost and alone in a heavy fucking universe - even if you've got a 50ft wide TV screen in your bedroom.
Jack has a front row seat tonight and, like the rest of us, is in awe of the only American metal group you can actually take seriously any more. No big shorts, no bad tattoos, no bad riffs or rapping, just giant, sexually confused alien forms that morph in and out of biopsy footage on huge 50ft video screens as Maynard James Keenan jerks and stomps his way through ridiculously complicated huge metal paeans to confusion, hell, love, life and alchemy and… whatever. It's amazing. All two hours of it. Even Jack leaves grinning.
Andy Capper
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