It's possible that I was over reacting, but I was still confused and somewhat angry. The only sense I can make out of the experience is this: it seems like Shields wants to demolish the popular conception of MBV, and issue a big "fuck you" to all those who held the band's name in high regard during the hiatus. Maybe Shields thinks that the hardcore fans are the reason he never released any more music. It's as if the band wants to discard the illusions on their own, and banish themselves to an unperturbed existence in the barren depths of musical wasteland. After this short reunion tour, a stretch of no expectations and no pressure for Shields might be the hot ticket.

No matter what other people want, inspiration can only come from within. It's possible that Shields emptied his reserves long ago, and has found no source of replenishment. I read on AllMusic.com that he actually completed, and subsequently tossed, two albums after the band broke up. Why? What was the reason? Why not go on as a solo artist? Probably because the world of music is so volatile, and music fans are so fickle. Most legendary bands end before they fade, either due to death or irreconcilable differences. When that happens, the group's accomplishments are frozen in time, protected from any future backlash. Another example from the same era is The Smiths, who, due to the clashing egos of Johnny Marr (now with Modest Mouse) and Morrissey, might never again play together. But I have a feeling that if they did, they would fulfill my mind's image of them. This could be because I have Rank, their officially released live album, which stands as evidence of their ability on stage.

Up until now, I never understood why my brother doesn't like attending concerts. I've always thought that the live performance was as important, or even more so, than the album recordings. But my brother doesn't always want to risk breaking the illusion afforded by private album listening. If you worship a band's albums alone, when you can control everything -- the volume, whether it's played through speakers or headphones, whether you're driving or sitting still, etc, etc -- you must relinquish most of your control in order to attend a live show. Two of the biggest upsets for me in recent years have been the shows that I built up the most in my head: Daft Punk at Lollapalooza 2007 and Radiohead at Lollapalooza 2008. Neither instance had anything to do with the band not playing well. It was mostly the crowd: the number of people, the fact that at least half of them were present for the event itself and not just the band, and the excruciating lack of intimacy. Especially during Radiohead, I felt like I was watching a DVD of the band being projected on a screen in front of almost 200,000 people.

However, this MBV show is one of the strongest instances of finding myself in agreement with my brother. This show could have very well ruined Loveless for me. It won't, but it could have. I sacrificed that in order to see them perform live, since it might have been my only chance to see one of my favorite bands. Instead of leaving with a face wet with tears of joy, it seemed that I should have left with a shirt that said, "I survived My Bloody Valentine's Holocaust." In an environment filled with the rare people who herald MBV as the best band ever, I somehow felt like an outsider. There's no excuse for that. I should have felt like a guest of honor, even if I wasn't given any special treatment.

I'm not going to stop listening to any of the band's recorded material. I'll keep playing Loveless (and, to a lesser extent, their earlier album Isn't Anything and some of the EPs) for the same reason I have thus far: because it's evidence of the divine, wrought through the minds and hands of human beings. It's a reminder that, no matter how low we sink or how terribly we're treated or how painfully we hurt or how badly we fuck up, there is still hope for recovery. Despite the relentless despair, the flashes of brilliant redemption are worth the wait and struggle. Every once in a while, the air illuminates in bright pink and purple waves, electricity beams through us, and all feels well. My Bloody Valentine's recorded music will always remain, and no one -- not even Kevin Shields himself -- can take it away.

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