A profoundly stupid tragedy

The Great White club fire has now been called rock's worst tragedy. Ninety-six people are confirmed dead. Whatever the official designation, it was a terrible way for anyone to die. I can only imagine what the people of West Warwick are going through.

And yet I have to admit that I find an unspeakable humour underlying this tragedy. It's not in the body count--there's nothing funny about that--but it's in the set up. A third-string hair-metal band wheezes through New England and burns down a small club with their unauthorized pyro display. It's Spinal Tap crossed with Barton Fink. Or, as a friend said, it's like an SNL skit gone horribly wrong.

The pyrotechnics, and whether or not Great White had approval to use them, are now the centre of the controversy. Though it seems clear that Great White just didn't bother with the proper permits (due to the time and money required to secure them, I'd think), and just assumed nothing would go wrong. A band that tours with pyro would know that you need a fire marshall's or bylaw officer's approval before setting them off.

The pyro was, I'm sure, nothing more than an incendiary ego boost for the performers, an explosive reminder of their "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" days. Sort of like stuffing a foil-wrapped cucumber down your trou, but more dangerous. I've heard this called a senseless tragedy, but I think it's more like a profoundly stupid tragedy caused by a bunch of guys thinking with their cocks. And, you know, therein lies its dark and untouchable comedy.