Saturday Night: Creed At The Woodlands
For more fiery images from the show, see our slideshow here.
Imagine God is a million eggs, trying to fit inside the tiny little basket that is His consumers' wallet. These eggs never change, never ripen (do eggs ripen?), never move, never dance. The owner of these eggs, meanwhile, has no more room in his/her basket; and things are getting boring and redundantly white.
So the owner decides hey, wouldn't it be fun to crack these bitches open to see what comes out? Maybe it'll be fun, but for sure it'll be food. Crack, crack, crack - out slimes a smelly yellow ooze party of disgust; and now the eggs can't even be repackaged and sold again, because they're old and no longer have a shell.
God has been exposed, and His consumer is left with what? Creed - you're a yoke. Because how do you sell black and white to a Technicolor (Blu-ray)nbow? Morality just doesn't answer texts quickly enough. We now have options that leave no room for belief; we're all too busy with our heads down.
As if smacked straight in the face by a flying sack of cock-rocks, Aftermath stumbled into a suburban net jam-packed with hundreds of frat dudes Saturday, only to find a massive audience of the curiously confused. Like, "Aren't we supposed to be feeling something? Eh. Wanna get a taco?"
Back in the late '90s, when Creed was at their most popular, apathy wasn't really a thing yet. Consumers didn't understand that the appearance of not caring about anything was what made you awesome. Believing was cool; but those days are dot dot dot. The fetishization of aloofness permeates the souls of today's youth - ain't no more room at the inn.
Creed didn't seem to understand that Saturday night, though, as lead singer Scott Stapp belted (dude can really, really scream) his way through what we assume was a thorough examination of his band's catalog. It's sometimes hard to tell the time period that certain Creed songs come from, if for no other reason that they all sound exactly the same.
It's retread rock masked as spirituality, and it appeared the entirety of the audience started to understand that by the fourth or fifth song, going through the rock-and-roll motions head-bang cliché after tongue-out cliché. This wasn't a rock concert; it was whitewashed robotics.