Tool assaults the senses with powerful, intricate show

The show began where others might end, with the kind of climactic outburst of sound and energy suggestive of an atom being cleaved in half.

For most bands, a 13-minute tangle of guitar squall and hallucinogenic boosterism, backed by lysergic visuals creating the sensation of staring at the sun too long, would serve as a grand finale, something to send crowd members home with ears ringing like sleigh bells and pin-sized pupils contracted by the deluge of light.

But for the dudes in Tool, at the Planet Hollywood Theatre for the Performing Arts on Friday night, it was a hello that doubled as a goodbye to any pretense of concision or restraint.

"Third Eye" was the song in question, a knotty, tempestuous gauging of the audience's mettle.

"Is this a test?" Tool frontman Maynard James Keenan asked later in song before answering his own query. "It has to be."

"Be patient," he then advised during the same number.

Patience isn't just a virtue; it's a prerequisite when broaching this bunch, who spent a good 25 minutes gradually unfurling their first two songs alone.

Tool's dense, yet lithe tunes tend to build slowly, creating their own momentum, like a boulder rolling down a cliff, gradually gaining speed, until it's the locus of some mammoth rock slide.

Their songs are akin to jigsaw puzzles, coming together piece by piece, until a bigger picture eventually emerges.

They often begin with tendrils of Adam Jones' guitar playing, equally muscular and malleable, capable of approximating both the eerie beauty of whale calls and the deafening, bone-quaking thunder of a jet fighter at take-off.

Behind him, Keenan sings from the back of the stage, hidden in the shadows next to the drum riser, little more than a dark silhouette writhing to the rhythms, his arms and legs swaying to and fro haphazardly, like the limbs of a tree caught in a strong wind.

Keenan's voice can go from pillow-soft to granite-hard in a single breath. One instant he sounds as if he's singing while curled up in a fetal position; the next, he's lunging for your throat with a goose-flesh inducing roar.

Abetted by one of the most formidable rhythm sections in hard rock with drummer Danny Carey and bassist Justin Chancellor, Tool continually reconfigures their repertoire live, often on the fly.

On one level, Tool gigs are like taking in an NFL game, where you can get lost in the perplexities of a given team's playbook, or just sit back and marvel at a bunch of brutes pounding the snot of each other.

So it is with this band: Spectators can attempt to follow along with the intricacies of their long, labyrinthine tunes or simply revel in the overwhelming onslaught of sight and sound.

Either way, Tool seldom spells anything out for the crowd.

The band is fond of sonic feints and head fakes.

Take one of Tool's best-known tunes, "Stinkfist," which the group tore into early on during their 105-minute set.

Right at the climactic bridge near the end of the song, when Keenan erupts into the chorus one final time on its original recorded version, the band pinwheeled into a sudden left turn, delving into a concussive jam with shards of dissonant guitar before steering back to the expected fist-in-the-air moment.

They similarly fleshed out another hit, "Vicarious." And during a sweeping "Lateralus," the band brought out a second drummer to duel with Carey, Tool's expert timekeeper, a challenge akin to attempting to arm wrestle an octopus.

Carey, a tower of technique, is a highly physical player who buoys Tool's songs with brawn and athleticism.

Carey's the engine that drives the group, oftentimes to parts unknown.

But the destination is seldom as important as the perpetually colorful landscapes flying by the window outside.

"Push the envelope," Keenan instructed during the aforementioned "Lateralus," a live favorite, succinctly summarizing his band's reason for being.

"Watch it bend," he breathed, forming new shapes from old staples.

Contact Jason Bracelin at 702-383-0476 or e-mail him at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com.