1. Massive overbooking of the venue whereby it was so crowded that there were people hanging off the balconies and I spent the entire show picturing an imminent Republica Cromañón style fire disaster.
2. Me gullibly believing the lady from the venue who told us on the phone that it was numbered seating and there was no need to turn up early (yeah I know.. never again will I make this mistake).
4. My posse on the stairs being behind a surprisingly tall Chilean and thus with a view of nothing except the back of his head apart from the moments (approximately 50% of the time) in which he was occupied by making out with his girlfriend to which I had an uncomfortably intimate perspective.
4. The band getting spat on by the crowd in a marathon of flying saliva - apparently a sign of affection and homage for FNM fans.
Despite all this, and more importantly despite the pitter-patter of lightly falling spit globules onto the body of Mike Patton and every other member of the band, Faith No More were amazing. What makes this more of an achievement was that they were wearing slacks. No need here for ripped jeans, or all-over vinyl bodystockings, or goth make-up, or rat eating antics. No siree, these guys could have stepped off a golf course. Or out of a retirement home in Miami, so clean and neatly pressed were their beige pantalones. And yet they rocked on a monumental scale, making me for a short time forget about Cromañón fires, completos, and exchange of bodily fluids both near and far. And that right there is the greatness of Faith No More.
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