Jumping around with the muted exuberance of a man who's been on tour forever, Chino Moreno has a bit of a problem. As much as the situation demands it, his attempts to join the moshing classes packed in at the front, while raising the immediate level of excitement, has simultaneously decreased the amount of oxygen the unfortunate souls squeezed against the barrier have access to.
Chino draws back from impending disaster, pauses the music to allow his fans some breathing time, and returns to the stage. Skinny male bodies, stripped to the waist, torsos unsheathed for combat, take a moment to recover, in preparation for 'Lifter', unaware that in just a few moments, the lead deftone will try the same trick. Again.
With predictable results. To the rest of us, it's a simple cause-and-effect situation. Chino's presence amongst the moshing masses will cause chaos. To the lead singer, barking out the inquiry, "are you guys cool...", it's an absurdity.
Absurd because, as a rule, the deftones are about solidarity. Thundering bass-lines coupled with selectively evocative lyrics, momentous if ever-so-slightly obscure depictions of the frustrations of everyday life, tales of fear and isolation accessible to anyone of such a mind. Tales designed to mask the divisions between us, not create new ones based on talent, wealth and stardom.
As such, you sometimes get the feeling that Chino doesn't understand the adoration he is subjected to on nights like this. You sense the signs of strain, indications that the deftones might prefer to be down here, as opposed to up there, disaffected prophets, the focal point for five thousand displaced disciples.
For that reason, you don't mind the fact that guitarist Stephen Carpenter plays with his back to the crowd throughout. You don't mind when Chino interrupts the show, once again, to tell the crowd, "we've got music to play - pay attention please", particularly when it precedes an authoritative rendition of 'My Own Summer (Shove It)'.
And you don't even mind when they end the show, coldly and brutally, after a concise rendition of 'Headup'. You don't mind because they'll (probably) never, ever let you down. Stardom, adoration, and adulation are the by-product, not the end result, of what they do, a state of mind that puts light years between them and the recognition-craving likes of Fred Durst, Manson, et al.
Particularly when, even after a wearying tour of multikit European arenas, aircraft hangars, car parks and the like, you can still see the rage in Chino's eyes, every single time he crouches, angst-ridden, over the monitors, screaming his all into a defenceless microphone. In a world where the baton carriers of teenage rebellion run record companies, it's a sight genuinely worth beholding.
