A Weenie Roast With THE DREAM SYNDICATE
The Dream Syndicate’s live shows are surreal, intense events, though they start out innocently enough. A clan of die-hard fans clusters around the stage, like friends gathered around a campfire waiting for the after-dinner stories to begin.
Havin'AWeenie Roast With THE DREAM SYNDICATE
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The Dream Syndicate’s live shows are surreal, intense events, though they start out innocently enough. A clan of die-hard fans clusters around the stage, like friends gathered around a campfire waiting for the after-dinner storiesto begin.They talk amongst themselves and exchange stories about past Syndicate shows they’ve seen—kinda like Deadheads. A blond-haired figure ambles out from the backstage shadows: it’s drummer Dennis Duck. The crowd emits a collective yelp. He’s soon joined by lanky bassist -Mark Walton, then frizztopped guitarist Paul B. Cutler, who’s armed with a few bizarre props (hacksaw, golf club, plastic cucumber) he’ll be using to maul his six-string machines throughout the set. The crowd draws a little closer, waiting and whistling. In a breath Steve Wynn appears, black-jacketed, eyes darting, expression steadfast and dark. He stalks the center mike. No nonsense. The Peter Fonda of rock ’n’ roll. The audience is rapt. Wynn plugs in his guitar, pauses theatrically, and unleashes the first chords of the show. Everyone screams.