Well, not exactly - but it's better that you hear this from me before the virtual gossip machine kicks into gear.
I was deep in meaningful conversation with my new pal, the esoteric and suave Al Di Meola - maestro of the jazz-fusion guitar - when those loud and vulgar types Steven Hangbuddy Lukather and Robert cuddle-me-quick Kimball persuaded us to venture on to their stage at the Munich Olympia Halle last night.
Yes, I know we were actually at the concert anyway but only to steal their beer and check out the young girls who flock to Toto shows to see what their aging mothers were knicker-wetting about. Leslie Mandoki warned me about the possible effects on the psyche when engaged in giga-bel volume guitar and flute lick trading, but would I listen?
So, it was thus that the regrettable and disgraceful display of phallic-flute-thrusting involving the lower anatomies of said Lukather and Kimball and the perfectly innocent Sankyo Japanese flute came to take place. OK: I was reacting instinctively to a Rock and Roll moment of Spinal Tappesque proportions, but it wasn't really my fault. That well-meaning but overly enthusiastic bugger Di Meola was presenting me with such impossible phrases and licks (how I distrust that word) with which to trade, that I took the theatrical option of diverting attention to the well-hung and endowed nether regions of my new (but sadly temporary) bandmates, Roberto and Stephan.
Blame Di Meola.
Mr. Steven L. showed more restraint with his guitar outbursts (partly due, no doubt, to the previous two-and-one-half-hour's of Rock-god phallic thrusting of his very own, which had left him - clearly - shagged out and desperate for peace and redemption). His acoustic solo spot was particularly fine, but beneath such restrained sensitivity beats the pulse of a maddened sperm whale with a penchant for young goats.
Roberto K. sang his big heart out and, from where I was standing, the monitors were completely unnecessary or advisable. These guys have orgasmic moments from just being on the crew bus. Totally (now there's an LA word) committed to the passion of performance and the sheer joy of being re-united with their repertoire on this, the Toto's 25th Anniversary tour, these good folks nearly persuaded me to have a Toto-oscopy - a minor surgical procedure requiring the fitting of a small waist-worn bag to gather accumulate male hormones secreted in impossible amounts as a result of flute-thrusting opportunistic moments.
I set my alarm this morning for 07.00 to listen to the new Alberto Di's album Flesh on flesh. This is a sterling record with great and eclectic performances from - amongst others - Anthony Jackson on bass. Of course, Big Al already has a flute-player - wouldn't ya know? And New Jersey's only a bus-ride away. Or British Airways Concorde if Al's paying. And after I told Chick Corea I was washing my hair………. Stop right there.
Mucho-macho thanks to Leslie Mandoki for a weekend of diversion and musical taste - even if that Steven L. guy came close to ruining my reputation for only kissing men with no moustaches whatsoever.
And to Jack Bruce and his lovely daughter, Natasha - you did the right thing in getting the hell out of there before Stevie-weevie Luke-at-her got you logging into toto99.com and purchasing merchandise with no connection whatsoever to Jack Bruce, Al Di Meola or Jethro Tull.
The world is a cruel place.
IA, www.j-tull.com, November 4th 2002
