Reznor rails against the void that we seek to fill with materialism and sex. This emptiness, this sense that life is entropic is what the other industrialists (Front 242, Skinny Puppy, Frontline Assembly, etc.) feel as well, but these personal feelings are what the other's avoid. This is Reznor's own head that feels like a hole. This is not vague philosophizing; these are feelings wrenched from the soul. You can hear the flesh tear and dance to it as well.

Reznor is a charismatic performer and the band, especially guitarist Rich Patrick (now of Filter), rocked with real terror and authority. The crowd was energized to the point of panic and lemming-lunged toward the stage forcing bodies to squeeze where bodies shouldn't, causing the already stressed security staff to transmogrify into Paranoids and Punishers.

Jane Scott, the Plain Dealer rock reporter and Godmother of rock and roll, had the right idea: pin your ticket stub prominently upon your person, because every time you sneezed you were going to be asked for it anyway. In fact, I was even asked for my ticket while in my seat:

"Just checking, buddy. You giving me a hard time? You wanna get thrown out? Huh?" Power corrupts, etc.

After NIN's set, I finally got backstage to interview Living Colour after its set (yeah! to Gary the Sony guy). I was glad that Living Colour was included in the show after all, which proves that all politics is local and that a horse of a different color looks great after your ox has been gored a few times.

Living Colour ended the interview shutout for me, then my batting average soared as I ran into Trent Reznor in the large communal backstage cafeteria. Therein also roamed Ice T; Dave Navarro, the guitarist for Janes Addiction; various Surfers, and even Henry Rollins.

I had penetrated the inner sanctum, an act that I had been biologically programmed to perform. We men spend our entire lives trying to penetrate impenetrable inner sanctums - it's in the jeans. At least that time I made it.