Here it is, the final act of the Nomad Records Stage, and of Total Annihilation 5...I am pleased to give you,
INFINITE!
[Infinite, Live at Total Annihilation]
These days, he couldn’t tell whether his hands were shaking because of nerves or illness. He’d like to pretend that it was the former, because that would imply a solution to a problem that’s only temporary. And what a quick solution it would be; calming thoughts, maybe a glass of wine to calm the nerves, or even an encouraging pat on the back from a close friend. Life occasionally hands us with simple problems, so all that’s needed is a simple solution. But it wasn’t the nerves, and no solution could be applied because he had long since lost the luxury of being able to refer to his problems as ‘temporary’. And the truly bitter irony behind this was how clean, and how much of a perfect circle, it was. Huntington’s is a neurological disorder, one that does away with social inhibitions and mental stability. He spent the first half of his life as a drunk, and eventually his disease will render him an uncontrollable mess even when sober for his remaining days. His mother was impregnated due to a reckless action influenced by Huntington’s, and soon his life will soon be brought to a close by the very same disease. Full circle. Everything ends as it begins. It’s hard to fight against fate when the closure brought on by the finale seems to wrap everything up so neatly. And wasn’t that, deep down, what he always wanted? It wasn’t the success or wealth of being a rock-star that appealed to him; it was the theatrics, the glitz and glamour. The bright lights that burn out quickly are the ones that live on long after being extinguished. Nobody remembers the marathon, only the short sprint. If the true virtuosos die at 27, how much of a genius will that make him to be dead at 26? Sure, it’s defeatism, it’s pessimism, it’s bowing before the inevitable… but, it’ll do wonders to his legacy. That’s all Eric Quillington had left to hold on to; the shallow idea of immortality, even if he won’t be around to bask in its glow.
But how could anyone be so shallow? Even by the standards of rock stardom, it’s incredibly vain to be looking forward towards your own personal induction in the 27 Club. If some looked forward to it, and were one-dimensional people as a result, then what did it make Eric, seeing as it’s the only thing left for him to hold onto. As a kid, he was obsessed with the rise and fall of Herculean figures, and wanted nothing more than to have his own similar, epic life. How he wished the word ‘epic’ still meant lengthy, long-lasting. At the start of his career, he always wanted to fast-forward to the end, to the final, triumphant hurrah that so often befalls so-called ‘rock icons’. And yet, now that the moment was finally upon him, he finds himself longing to return to the beginning, to the simple days before he had so much as a debut single to his name. Eric figured, at the least, that he’d be able to handle these final moments with dignity. Perhaps he had, perhaps he had convinced the world that he had accepted his condition with grace. The world knew, after all, that Eric was currently living with the love of his life, and had the potential to live a happy, comfortable existence once his exit from Infinite was complete. But the world didn’t know that in just over a week’s time, he’d be dead. The world didn’t know the anguish he was about to cause his loved ones. Eric Quillington did, and it hurt like hell.
He found it bizarre, but, in the final days of his life, he found himself relating more and more to a fictional character. Not some drug-addled Johnny Depp character, or a swaggering superhero; Eric was past those extravagant, eccentric days of yore. In the film American Beauty, Kevin Spacey plays a character suffering through a mid-life crises. But it wasn’t that aspect that appealed to Eric, as he’d be dead and buried long before he’d have to go through such a common stage of life, but, rather, the character’s acceptance of death’s inevitability. The movie is told from his perspective after he died, recounting every little nuance and occurrence that led to his demise. But he isn’t sad, or even the least bit spiteful; rather, he’s accepting of his death. Eric Quillington, marching towards his own end, felt himself thinking back to the film’s ending speech more and more with each passing day;
“I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me…”
The sound of footsteps echoing through the hallway brings Eric back to reality, back to the task at hand. He is walking in a backstage corridor, towards the Wembley stage. This is a walk that has been made several times in the past, but is one that never loses the feeling of magic. But there’s something new, or rather, something that he’s never paid much attention to before. The echoing clutter of footsteps is of three pairs of feet, and not just one. To his left and right are lifelong bandmates Matt Roberts and Greg Oldson, two individuals that, for the longest time, Eric thought could’ve been anyone. Whoever he plucked off the street, it didn’t really matter; as long as he was in the band, Infinite still would’ve become the global force it is today. That was his old viewpoint, when the success of Insomnia put a spotlight on him so bright, so blinding, that it shut out anyone else. Although that spotlight was still there, and probably always will be, Eric had learned to see through it, even if the rest of the world hadn’t. Where the fans might see the technical abilities of Eric Quillington far outstripping his two bandmates, he sees a similarly egotistical bassist and drummer, who wanted nothing more than to become a rock-star. It was why Greg, Matt, and Eric became so close in the first place; instead of sharing common interests such as tastes in movies, the three of them reveled in their flaws, reveled in the glitz and glamour that the promise of fame provided. While these were the very traits that eventually drove them apart, there would always remain memories of the days before conflict and disunion came to define them. The memory of setting off fireworks in the studio upon completion of their debut album Blue Nebula, which ruined the recording equipment and cost management thousands of dollars. The memory of Matt and Eric’s playful heckling of one another both onstage and off, the one bright spark amid the increasing turmoil of the band’s relationship. Or even the memory of arriving at the Chaos Awards with Matt Roberts and Glamazon; a best friend and romantic interest. While he lost one, he was at least fortunate to keep the other, until the very end.
“ …but it’s hard to stay mad when there’s so much beauty in the world.”
The hallway leads to a doorway, which, in turn, leads to a stage. It’s a short distance, but the space between the quiet, tranquil hallway and the utter bedlam of the stage might as well be worlds apart. To be sure, the cries of the crowd could still be heard from the hallway, but it was muted, remote. Now they were faced with it, and there was nothing between them and the euphoric crowd, no buffer. Behind him, Matt and Greg could be seen casually getting to their instruments, unfazed by the surrounding bedlam. After three years of growing desensitized to this, it hardly seemed any more intimidating than a thunderstorm. While his bandmates set themselves up at their designated spots on stage, Eric moved to the front of the stage, towards the mass sea of bodies. From here, the heat, the tension, the expectation is almost unbearable. Thousands upon thousands of eyes bear down upon him, scrutinizing his every move. But it wasn’t just an unbelievable physical anomaly; it was a sonic one, as well. The screaming and cheering pierced even the orchestral music serving as the band’s sonic introduction. But that didn’t come as much of a surprise; it pierced everything.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it. And then it flows through me like rain.”
But this wasn’t a negative riot; this was one of anticipation and, or so Eric often wished and hoped, one of love. Before him were faces ravaged by middle age, faces just barely of high-school, faces entering adulthood. There was only one element in common; the euphoria, the look one gets upon seeing their icon in the flesh. Often times, it was enough to drive a man off the edge in a megalomaniacal boost, but tonight, it simply floods Eric with a sense of relief, and of humble purpose. He may be about to die, but he could still do something very few could; put on one hell of a show. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Eric hopes that Jason Smith and Glamazon are somewhere in the stadium, and that they find every bit of this evening just as comically overblown as he does. Not only that, though, but a feeling of pride in the scrappy little eccentric from Teignmouth. After all, their approval means far more to him than that of the thousands that stand before him; it means the world to him. They are his world. Triumphantly, he raises his right hand in a fist, causing the crowd to go into a near-frenzy.
“And I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.”
0.9 Pelnav
From the base of the stadium, from those standing mere feet from the stage, the noise is deafening. Teenage fanboys scream their love for the musicians with the same passion and intensity as the lustful, pining young women. Some, particularly those in Infinite t-shirts, begin chanting out the lyrics to the band’s most famous tunes, further adding to the din and clutter rather than creating a meaningful message. Others tense up, ready for the oncoming mosh pit, completely missing the point of the band’s peaceful and insightful lyrics. But what part of the band wasn’t misinterpreted these days? After all, this wasn’t the simple act of three individuals playing before an adoring crowd; this was a spectacle, a riot in the making. Anything could get lost in such chaos, none more so than intimacy. The distance between the crowd and the stage is almost unfathomable. Not physically, but emotionally. Three multi-millionaire rock-stars, adored the world over, and a faceless crowd over one-hundred thousand strong. At the front of stage, representing this distance, this contrast, more than anything else, is Eric Quillington. Silhouetted against red strobe lights and smoke, he looks almost Olympian. And yet he’s inhuman, detached. Any chance for a random individual to relate to him flew out the window the moment ‘Problems with Pluto’ went to the top of the charts, or the moment Infinite won three @Chaos Awards in the space of a single night. This is a man with the power to influence entire stadiums with the simplest of body movements. With a strum of the guitar, he can inspire a mass crowd sing-along. With a short speech, he can create cheers and laughter. With a simple raise of the fist, as a form of greeting, he sends Wembley Stadium into a new level of furor, of anticipation. The singing begins anew, as does the screaming and cheering from almost every corner of the stadium. Loudest of all is the single, primal, deafening chant; ‘INFINITE! INFINITE! INFINITE!’
All before a single note is played.
A bass-riff played by Matt Roberts cuts through the din. It possesses an aggressive swagger, one that’s been lost on Infinite’s more cerebral work. But, before they became an enigmatic, pretentious musical force, they were a rock band, and this simple little riff represents that moment of time better than anything. While Eric stands immobile at the front of the stage, looking into the jumping, enthusiastic crowd with a massive grin on his face, Greg Oldson and Matt Roberts play as if their lives depend on it. Their intensity is similarly matched by the light show; what would an Infinite concert be, after all, without the theatrics? The strobe lights change colors and frequencies at a brutal rate, creating a blinding, brilliant spectacle. Greg pounds the drums with a youthful vigor, and Matt headbangs with an intensity not seen since the band’s early days. Against his better judgment, Eric walks over to his right, grabs one of Infinite’s roadies kicking and screaming onto the stage, and proceeds to do the Waltz with his hapless victim. When the roadie continues to resist Quillington’s not-so-alluring dance moves, the frontman simply pushes him off the stage, encouraging the crowd to catch him. Sadly, they don’t. If this truly is to be the legendary trio’s last performance together before the arrival of Amelia Florentine and the departure of Eric Quillington, at least the band has decided to make it one to remember. And one that gives guitar technician James. T. Daniels the right to sue. Spread the money, spread the love. At the cost of a broken ankle, of course.
In Heaven (Eraserhead Cover)/Black-Eyed Angels
As the drum-and-bass solo comes to an end, Eric walks up to his microphone, picks up his guitar, and begins singing a cappella. His soft, angelic falsetto already sounds like a voice from beyond the grave, due at least in part to the song he’s singing. The sinister, haunting ‘In Heaven’, taken from the film Eraserhead, changes the tone dramatically. This is more traditional territory for the band; chilling, cerebral nightmares. Even during Infinite’s time as an up-and-coming, grungy act, they had always maintained an element of darkness and unknowing.
“In heaven, everything is fine…”
As the final word leaves Eric’s lips, Matt’s shuddering, eerie bass riff comes into play. Whereas Matt’s playing was, at the beginning of the concert, energetic and lively, the intensity is toned down considerably for this next song. Eric’s voice maintains its cold, haunting quality during Black-Eyed Angels. His delivery of the words, almost indecipherable due to his usage of falsetto, sends chills down the spines of those in the crowd. The song doesn’t break away into an extended guitar-solo or an instrumental breakdown, but instead maintains its chilly groove. This type of restraint might be unusual for a stadium concert, but it was exactly the type of stuff Infinite did best during their early years. And, since this concert is meant to be a celebration of their debut album, Blue Nebula, it makes sense to return to their earlier instincts.
Styx
“I can’t… I can’t play these instruments like I used to,” Eric says into the microphone as he slings the strap to an acoustic guitar around his neck. His words pierce like a knife through the hearts of those in the crowd, particularly the fans of Infinite. Their idol had been, for the vast majority of his career, a confident and enigmatic figure. As the figurehead leading one of the most successful modern rock bands, he was held aloft on an untouchable, unbreakable, throne. But now, a shred of vulnerability permeates through his words. Eyes are drawn towards his hands, which, although resting firmly against a guitar, possess a slight quiver. Perhaps sensing the sudden shift of mood, Eric smiles playfully to relieve the tension, and continues, “But that’s alright. Most of the songs from our debut album require absolutely no technical ability or proficiency. Because I wrote them. This next song was written half a lifetime ago, when I was barely done with the teenage years. I typically use that as an excuse for why this song is so primitive. But if this little sketch of an acoustic song can connect with an audience of such diverse ages, cultures, and ethnicities… well, that’s all a former court jester can really hope for.”
The soft, delicate strumming of an acoustic guitar fills the stadium. Despite his shaking hands, Eric still plays as beautifully as he did four years ago, although it’s not quite so effortless now. The days of being able to pick up and play now belong entirely to his past; this was work, hard work. It would always be that way from now on. Thankfully, in Eric’s own mind, ‘from now on’ didn’t mean an indefinite period of time. And then it hits him, exactly what that meant. A knot forms in his chest, while pressure builds from behind his eyes. The crowd roars in approval at his sudden outburst of tears, thinking that Eric’s been touched by the beauty of his own song. The sound of an audience unwittingly cheering at his sadness over his own death erodes away whatever emotional barriers he had left. Hanging his head and turning away from the audience in a futile attempt for them not to see, he weeps uncontrollably, to the utter shock of Greg and Matt. But still he strums away, with a fierce, steely determination not to let this unexpected grief get the better of him. Turning back to face the crowd, and the microphone, he reveals an appearance that brings yet another knife to the heart for the audience. His eyes, normally so confident, are bloodshot, weary, and watery. His voice, singing of death and the Greek afterlife, is the same as ever, but there’s a new edge to it; it possesses the unshakable air of a man’s last breath, and all the urgency and regret that follows.
Through the haze of his own tears, Eric searches the crowd to find someone, anyone who could understand, or even recognize, his inner turmoil. When he wanted them to laugh, they laughed. When he wanted them to sing with him, they sung. When he wanted them to grieve with him, they cheered instead. And yet this he needed most. He needed a comforting voice, something to fight away the darkness that would be the last ten days of his life. Critics and fans had made a hobby or career out of following his each and every move, so why couldn’t they see this? Someone, anyone. But no; he created this distance with every album sold, with every ticket distributed. And not just the distance between himself and the crowd, but between himself and his public persona. He was the Quixotic Quillington; the inhuman, alien presence who ruled over alternative rock. But no one can really be that shallow, not even Eric. Tonight, deep down, he felt like a scared, confused, lost child, and nothing like the rock star he so desperately wanted to be while growing up. And yet, he couldn’t express that; to do so would alienate the mass gathering before him. They wanted the type of show Infinite was known for, not this display of tears and anguish. He was Eric Quillington, the eccentric, invincible rock star. Not Adele. Clearing his throat, he delivers the final verse of the song. The words are improvised, however; the most revealing he’s ever sung.
“All the roads lead from there, all the trials that left me bare
The endless glares were the only things that made me care
All the tickets ever sold, all the pockets lined with gold
And the payoff is the sole thing that I decided to withhold
All the misery I’m about to bring, all my hopes wasted on an unused ring
It was worth it just to hear her sing”
Supernova
“I’m sorry for that,” Eric says into the microphone, his fragile voice cracking on the last syllable. Backing away for a second to take off his acoustic in exchange for an electric, he takes this momentary pause in the show to recompose himself. While wiping the tears away from his face and clearing his throat, he makes sure to ignore the shocked, pale faces of Greg and Matt. The very last thing he wanted was to let them down, especially now, on their second to last concert. Besides, this was the part of the show where they need each other the most. Infinite had always been the most apprehensive about it for the past few years; the last song, the big closure. But who could’ve imagined that the masters of flamboyant theatrics would be so irritated by the final bow? And yet, for the members of the band, it had become such an empty bow, such an empty gesture. Their final song was usually predetermined, as it was what the audience wanted most; it was, to Infinite, such a predictable way to end their shows. “That fucking song about a floating rock,” as Matt would elegantly describe it. This time, they would play a different song; another choice that had shackled the group at one point. For a brief moment, Eric thinks of simply playing another tune, just to mess with expectations. After all, he was the vocalist; if he would rather play a different song, how could a drummer and bassist stop him? But that would make him a prima donna. During his adolescence, he was filled with a burning, jealous anger when reading stories of how Kurt Cobain, the most beloved musical icon of his time, would refuse to play his most famous song simply because of how bored of it he was. Despite how often the wild successes of the past three years had made him think otherwise, the will of the many was far more important than his one lone self. Give the dog it’s bone, and play the song that almost gave Infinite that dreaded title of ‘one-hit wonder’, if only for one more time. It’s better than being a penniless street performer.
Surrendering to the moment, Eric smiles and rolls his eyes, before launching into the guitar opening that made the band famous. It was a riff that had long since been abandoned by Infinite, but never by their fans. The passionate sound of the crowd singing along to the wordless melody of the guitar riff fills the air, prompting similarly happy smiles from all three members of the band. In one final act of unity, all three members of Infinite play in a tight-knight triangle, facing each other. While other acts like U2 often engage in these types of behavior, Infinite had always been separate, detached from one another. This brief, tantalizing look at a genuine bond between the three members shows how different things might have been. Eric occasionally takes swipes at Matt with the head of his guitar in an effort to break his concentration, but there is no malice or spite behind his actions. As the band’s frontman can’t be bothered to sing this final song, being engaged with this one true act of onstage union with Matt and Greg, it’s left up to the audience to chant out the vocals. It’s a task they succeed admirably at; while over hundred thousand voices, unified as one, joyfully sing, Eric Quillington, Matt Roberts, and Greg Oldson finally act like a band of brothers. But there’s no shame over such a bond occurring just as Eric leaves the band; better late than never. This precious, brief moment ends with Eric and Matt diving into Greg’s drumkit, both of them instantly dislocating their shoulders. After wrapping their arms around the drummer for support, Eric and Matt lead Greg up to the center of the stage and take one last, triumphant bow.
“I love you guys,” Eric says to the crowd, all physical traces of the scared individual who had just moments ago almost completely broken down. But he was still there, deep down. “Stay classy, Wembley.”
