There's a reason Mark Mallman claims a star on the wall of First Avenue. As anyone who has ever seen the guy live can attest, he's one of the Twin Cities' most electrifying performers.

Mallman invests an undeniable passion in his concerts, whether he's playing to a dozen people in some faraway bar or in front of a sold-out local crowd. Think Kiss, Elton John and/or Queen, and you're getting close - although none of those guys would dare play a single song that lasted more than 26 hours (as Mallman did in 1999), let alone one that topped 52 hours (as he did in 2004).

The challenge: How do you take a book and make it into a concert? Add on top of that, the fact that the author will be reading parts of the book between songs. "Waiter, I'll take an order of that Buddy Holly served in a Joy Division reduction sauce with a side order of Sid Vicious and a couple of those Michael Hutchence home fries. No, scratch that, I think I'll have the Kurt Cobain burger instead."

It's ironic, really, that something as common as playing rock music in a bar on a Friday or Saturday night can move us as deeply as it does. There are nights, still, when I get on and off the stage and simply don't remember what happened in between. The first time I ever played in a hotel lounge was in Pensacola, Fla., when I was 14 years old. I suddenly felt terribly at ease. And I could feel the music in my blood, as if it were the most essential thing they've ever encountered.

"So, Mallman, make sure you aren't wearing any blue onstage, because there's a football game this weekend," said Stephanie Finch, Chuck's wife and keyboardist. The tour bus was abuzz as to Glasgow being the "toughest" city in the U.K. There is a sign on the front door of King Tut's that reads: "Persons who throw bottles at the stage shall be immediately removed from the club."

The room was sold out, and by the time I hit the stage, I was ready for war. My fingers were on fire, and I played piano faster than a courtroom stenographer at a Jennifer Lopez divorce hearing. The next morning, drummer Peter Anderson and I walked the Glasgow streets in gray overcast. Aha! This industrial Mecca smelled of my hometown, Milwaukee, a factory city of beer and motorcycles. I've seen hundreds of cities, all over the world, most of them under night sky - only to wake up the next day and find that nothing is how I had imagined it to be.

One minute before showtime, the promoter comes up and says, "Hey, man, I've heard all about you. This is Linda Ronstadt, so don't freak out up there." Me? Freak out? What? After all, this was Linda's hometown - sacred ground, right?

So here's what I did. I hit the first song real mellow, the second song I stood on my piano stool. I was testing the thousand-some people out to see what they wanted. Third song, I stood on my piano, and I was beginning to realize we all were on the same page. So I reached out and handed it to 'em with a fist in the air!

By the end of the set, I had the keyboard over my head and was yelling, "No. 1, No. 1, Heavyweight Champion of the World!" It worked. That night, I wrote in my tour journal: "I've begun to realize it's not just snake oil I'm selling up there, there appears to be a shred of substance to the monkey dance. … NOTE: Beware the power of the monkey dance."

The Derby is an old swing club in Los Feliz that has a very nice piano onstage. (I'm told it was in that movie "Swingers," but so is most of L.A. hipsterdom.) Exene has always been a punk hero of mine (I had covered "Hungry Wolf" with my band earlier that year). In the mid-'90s, Possum Dixon was a sign to me that slacker/grunge could actually be smart. And Eleni Mandell is one of the most talented songwriters I've had the fortune of being close to in my life.

After the show, I motored through Laurel Canyon 90 mph in my college roommate's new Cadillac. Beck's "Midnight Vultures" record blared, as the California night poured in through the sunroof. Once again, I could see the future, and it was charmed.

They've called me "The David Blaine of Rock" and "The Lenny Bruce of Glam" - and called "Marathon" everything from "stunt" to "performance art." I've learned to shrug off labels, because there is no objectivity in this business.

I dove into the first "Marathon," thinking "total absurdity," and was handed "rock shamanism." What I like about rock music is that no matter how "deep" the experience becomes, nobody expects you to be Stephen Hawking or Simone de Beauvoir. At the end of the day, I'm just some dude in a van with shaggy hair.

Those last 30 minutes left me forever changed. I have never felt more lucid onstage or more connected to the elements that make up this "genre." If rock 'n' roll has taught me anything, it is that nothing is ever what you expect it to be. Five years later, I would double the length; three years from now, I will triple it.

This is cache, read story here