By the end of the two-hour set, the band of so-called humorless aesthetes once known for albums of ponderous dirges had brought this crowd of over 2,000 to its feet no fewer than four times.

The audience was one of the most diverse this reporter has ever seen. The black-clad goth contingent was quite prominent, but seemingly every musician and artist between Taos and Phoenix were in attendance. Several children wandered about and babies were carried; on the other hand, scores of individuals in their 50s and 60s were present as well. Bare midriffed teens and tough-looking vatos with assorted piercings mingled with interesting-looking people of all ages. The Southwest's disenfranchised Grateful Dead refugees may have even found a new surrogate: one whole section of the 2,900-seat Paolo Soleri amphitheater was devoted to whirling-dervish dancers. Spontaneous eruptions of involuntary movement seemed to occur everywhere.

This atmosphere seemed strangely different from the band's Denver show in 1993 or the Santa Monica concert deified on their film Toward the Within. Instead of quietly worshipping in stunned reverence, these fans took the concert and turned it into an audience participation extravaganza.

It was obvious from the expressions on the band's faces that they fed off the crowd's dynamic energy. Gerrard's usually reserved trance-like state was broken by broad, uncontrollable grins. Gazing in disbelief at the twirling dancers in the stands, Perry beamed ecstatically.

When the full moon rose over the amphitheater and illuminated the swaying dancers, and a two-year-old next to me became intoxicated by Gerrard's heavenly voice, the concert became much more than the testosterone-fueled pep rally or carbon-copy regurgitation of studio material that most shows are.

The crowd was nearly drained, emotionally and physically, by the time Perry and Gerrard closed the show with their chilling 1983 composition "Dreams Made Flesh." Gerrard warmly embraced Perry and blessed the attendees, blowing her requisite kisses.

Nearly a hour later cars were still streaming from the parking lot into the moonlit night. At a tavern downtown, a woman who had traveled from Albuquerque to witness the show had recovered from her speechlessness long enough to explain the appeal of Dead Can Dance: "They take me to a place in my spirit that I don't remember anyone else ever touching before. They blend spirituality, sensuality and musicality, wrap it up and hand it back to you."

Dead Can Dance's recorded work only indirectly points to this type of emotion. Live, their work takes on a triumphant and celebratory aspect that must be experienced to be believed.