Ronnie James Dio

It was circa 1982. I was a junior high student in the farming town and whistle stop known as Salinas, CA. Before punk rock entered my life and still adjusting to the change from the Los Angeles hustle bustle to fields of lettuce and ag kids, I was introduced to the name Ronnie James Dio.

It was second period gym and the biggest 8^th grader with facial hair, Alan Payne, had a locker next to mine. He taunted me for being new and geeky and then preceded to rat-tail the living crap out of me. Afterwards, he put on a T-shirt. DIO, it said.

I vowed then to never listen to the soundtrack that drove the mullet heads of yesteryear to perform such heinous acts on defenseless young geeks. Motley Crue, Judas Priest and Dio were all included.

Well, things change. I grew up and grew to really appreciate the dip-lipped, head shagging beats and guitar chugs that fueled a generation of dropouts and future service station attendants. It's a lot of fun, the perfect music while playing the Atari 2600 and driving real fast down Interstate 5 toward Las Vegas. I now own albums by all of the aforementioned metal bands of the youth apocalypse.

So when the opportunity came to check out Ronnie James Dio live, touring to promote his newest album, Magica, I jumped at the chance. It would be a final farewell to opinions of the past.

But, there they were! All of them! The same gym room tormentors, hanging about, smoking their joints and Marlboros, dressed exactly the same. The only thing that changed was the patch of hair missing on top, making them look like evil monks of Lodi and New Jersey, with a wife and kid to boot. As Daesha, my photographer, and I grabbed our press passes, we skulked by in strange, quiet victory, knowing darn well everyone of those bruisers would do more than just snap a wet towel at me to get a hold of my pass. In their eyes, I didn't deserve it.

"There is no access backstage," said a tough looking guard. "Only friends and family are allowed back there. Are you either?"

I tried to convince him that I shared a room with Ronnie in college. ("We both majored in The Dark Practice of combining mysticism and metal.") Needless to say, we did not get past the guard. No need though — the crowd itself loaned enough fodder for a novel. Fans new and old staggered around in a sea of blue smoke and Coors, waiting for the moment to regain the glory of banging their heads to such classics as "Holy Diver," "I Speed at Night," "The Last in Line," and the classic metal opus, filling eyes fill to the brim with nostalgic tears, "Rainbow in the Dark," causing, no doubt, lighters to be raised in salute to the true master of hard rock.

Before we knew it, the house lights dimmed and the crowed roared in hellish glee. The band entered the stage and began their incantation of pure rock cabalism.

Then HE entered, R.J. Dio himself, the meaning behind the madness, the founder of Rainbow, the Ozzy replacement in Black Sabbath. All of 5 foot 3 inches of him. At first I thought it was just the level of the stage, perhaps I was out of perspective, but it was true. The diviner of sacrificial guitar licks and hypnotist to millions of fans was, well, kind of small. It reminded me a bit of Spinal Tap, when the set piece for Stonehenge came down and these dwarves did a merry jig around the much-too-small alter. Nonetheless, the other mystic, Yoda, said it best: "size matters not."

That said, San Francisco was treated to a two-hour set of metal perfection. "I want to apologize for being so late," explained Ronnie. He went on about some problems with this and that and went right back into the tunes. He gave up a cup of beer to a flailing patron; he clapped along and smiled a lot. Ronnie James Dio is one of the nicest guys in hard rock. Which goes to prove his success through out the years. Not only does he possess the penultimate voice for the genre, spin yarns about magic and demons true to form, but his dedication to his teeming mass of fans is something to be admired. I began to understand what the rockers in my school days were up to: they found their voice, but took the moniker of "rock ‘n’ roll" all the way to the principal's office.

The sold out crowd wailed and crooned along with the band — even his new set of tunes, which barely hit the stands a week ago. Guitar solos from collaborator Chris Goldy set ears and crotches aflame. His own set of golden locks was long and wispy, feathered back like any metal head looking for love. His pants were so tight; I noticed a small rip in the codpiece, sending stares from the girls and this one guy to the pinpoint problem. Bassist Jimmy Bain kept perfect time with drummer Simon Wright, who, at one point, pummeled us with a quite long solo, but beat us right into "Dream Evil" submission. My face was stretched in perma-grin; this show as definitely worth the wait.

And, as expected, he belted out "The Last in Line" and "Holy Diver" for his encore, then, yes, "Rainbow in the Dark." Even I got a bit misty-eyed, only because I knew the show was over.

The new album has the image of Shadowcast on it, the supposed magician Magica is based around. In fact, the title track is an 18-minute narrated opus that will make any fan of Dio or Dungeons & Dragons very happy.

After the show, the dedicated gathered to whoop it up and vomit before heading back to their lives outside of metal shows. As I walked by, I instinctually covered my butt. Rock Gods may never die, but the memory of high school bullies and their evil ways comes back like a bad dream. DIO had brought us together one last time.

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