Maryland Death Fest Day 3: Surprise, Surprise

The sun rose blazing on Sunday, May 24 but was sorely outclassed by the magenta sunburns walking around at the end of Saratoga Street. The crowd was thinner and clearly tired. Not everyone has the stomach for three days of humid, sunny metal. We were there to persevere. This is when fitness and proper hydration come in handy. Exquisite lunch #2 at Miss Shirley's helped as well.

A friend had informed me as we were leaving Saturday night that Pestilence had dropped off the bill. The running order promised a "surprise performance" at 10pm - it took us about 2 minutes to run into one of the bands who informed us the surprise was Bolt Thrower. How awesome! Twice in one weekend!

The Red Chord started off my afternoon to tepid indifference, both my own and the crowd's. Perhaps it was the heat or maybe they are coming to the end of their run as the thrash resurgence quickens - by next year we'll know. Not one of my favorite bands, that's for certain. Listening to them clash and scream, I had a moment where I heard the music as an outsider would. Like Atheist, this is what all metal sounds like to people who don't listen to it.

I can see why parents worry sometimes.

Absu was up next, so we wove through the departing Red Chorders to find stage space up front. Today was not my day for barrier time; I settled for second row behind two Satanic Hispanics in full leather patch vests. They weren't particularly tall, so I figured the spot would serve. The band took forever to start; Pestilence's cancellation loosened up the changeover time. We stood and melted patiently.

The crowd had been storing energy like solar batteries for the Dallas black metal masters. When Absu started, they exploded into motion. I had about 5 seconds to realize the Satanic Hispanics were going to cover me in a storm of thrashing black hair the entire set and then...

WHAM!

Something rock hard connected with my skull - fist or forehead, I'll never know. A constellation of pain exploded across both sides of my head and down my face. Commupance for my pushing to gain front row for Axphyx for sure, but it wasn't to end there. Two fists hammered my back, shoving me into the flying hair of the SHs. A large male body connected to a screaming mouth slammed into me, pins and patches scratching my bare arms. Another fist connected on top of my shoulder. The drunk behind me was going to be a pleasure to endure.

The next two Absu songs went like this:
Band: chugga chugga chugga
Mr. Exuberance: "Swords and metallllllllllllll!" stomp punch smash scratch shove
Me: retain footing and resist the urge to kill

After Mr. Exuberance dragged his razor-edged three day wrist band down the back of my arm for the tenth time and brought his elbow down on the juncture of my shoulder and neck for the third, I'd had enough. I threw him off me with a Krav butt check, knocking him, his girlfriend and several other people back. When he recoiled into me I threw two light rear elbows, connected glancingly with midsection and then stood down. Message sent was message received. He laid off.

Annoyance addressed, I could now focus on Absu. They put on a tight performance, much better than their SXSW gig. Proscriptor hammered the gold sparkle kit like no other drummer. It held, unlike the rented SXSW kit. Ezuzu shed his sunglasses halfway through to fix the crowd with his wild eyes. The two vocalists traded parts to great effect. Several crowd members supplemented falsetto screams at appropriate moments, further adding to the fun. Proscriptor garnered laughs with his numerological run up to "Four Crossed Wands" ("In numerology, spell 181 is 1 plus 8 plus 1 which makes 10 so why the hell is this song called 'Four Crossed Wands'?!"). Why indeed, Proscriptor? Why indeed?

I do hope that Absu's upcoming headlining tour goes well; the crowd clearly wanted more than what they had time to deliver. More people should get the chance to experience the magic that is Proscriptor McGovern on drums. He is a rhythmic genius.

By set end, my feet were pleading for reprieve. A short rest, then back out to watch Abscess, another drummer-vocalist outfit. I spent some of their set crowd-watching and storing up stories about bad tattoos (red shopping cart on one arm, green mop and bucket on the other) and worse piercings. The pierced fat hump at the back of the neck has to be the worst - it's bad enough chicks are so overweight they develop the metabolic issues which result in that hump, but then they have to draw attention to the fucking thing by driving 2 or 3 barbells through it. Your mother's got a right to be disappointed in you.

Aura Noir was up after Abscess. I'd found their first few albums enjoyable then lost track of them. We found some curb space quite close to the front and had a great time. "We are Aura Noir, ugliest band in the world!" the vocalist announced. I found some pictures of him the next day and concurred. Their set was an energetic surprise, tight and true to form. It made me promise that upon my return home I would go dig out all my old CDs.

Finally, it was time for Destroyer 666. I'd never seen them live, so I headed back up front to get a closer look. Mr. Exuberance was still up there, this time hollering "Satanic thrash metalllllllll!" over and over again. I prepared myself for end-of-night-hijinks but he was clearly worn out. Whew.

The Aussies took the stage, ready to fill us full of evil from down under. Bassist Matt reminds me of a Tazzie devil - squat and jaw-heavy, KK Warslut a large and somewhat tatty kangaroo. Some people remind me of animals, what can I say? It's not a bad thing... both are violent creatures and the Destroyer boys no different. They tore ferociously through their tunes, sawing away at their instruments as if they wished to leave them in pieces. Their set was clearly the highlight for many attendees, especially a fellow sporting a giant "Destroyer 666" tattoo across his chest. Now that is dedication, my friends. The predominantly red light show catching on Destroyer's abundant spikes added to the feeling of Satanic mayhem. The last crowd riders of the night did their thing, including one girl who executed a beautiful surf. I caught her solid, muscular calf in my hand as she passed over me, stiff and tidy and easy to support. Her band logo underwear was clearly visible beneath her short skirt. I applauded her for making sure she matched all the way - good for you, most put-together metal girl. Keep it up!

Mr. Exuberance continued to holler "Satanic thrash metal!!!" between songs and finally KK obliged with the song "Satanic SPEED metal." I laughed to myself quietly - if you're going to yell the song title, please make sure you've got it right, for fuck's sake. After a short negotiation with the sound man over continuing to play, they ripped out two more tunes, finishing with "Australian and Antichrist." KK thanked the exhausted crowd: "It's been a pleasure and an honor." Perhaps an outsider would be puzzled that someone, who seconds before had been screaming about Satan, would then sincerely thank his audience, but that's the thing about us metalheads: we're full of surprises.

As I left the stage, a girl shoved into my spot, triumphant in her body language. Guess not everyone had gotten the memo that Pestilence had cancelled.

Bolt Thrower was already thundering away inside the Sonar as we staggered down the street. We peeked inside, saw that it was jammed to the gills, smiled, and opted out. We were all in. Immolation was collected again and back to Paper Moon we went, to stuff our faces with Southern Love Burgers (burger, pulled pork BBQ, bacon and cheese!), sweet potato fries and decadent peanut butter pie. Some metalheads have hangovers; we have foodovers.

In closing, this was an incredible event. Well run. Timely changeovers. Security who did their jobs well. Nicely behaved fans. Decent to great sound. A lineup to die for. Perhaps my most wonderful moments of 2009... as I write this, I'm a bit sad - I'm missing everyone already and longing to go chasing after you all, be you close or far. It's been a long time since I've been to a metal fest so excellent, so full of good surprises. Let's give it up to Ryan Taylor and Evan Harting - they masterfully organized a wonderful event for all us crazy motherfuckers. Here's to MDF 2010 - hope to see you there!

Maryland Death Fest Day 2: Not One, But Two Perfect Moments

We awoke with sore backs from an unfamiliar bed and sore necks from Asphyx-worship. Lunch was at a mind-blowing uptown restaurant called Miss Shirley's which evoked good old Southern hospitality. Culture shock ameilorated, we made libations with sunscreen and headed to the venue.

Hail of Bullets were playing first. Donning gay white long sleeved shirt and gayer white ball cap (sun protection for my hide is a priority), I scored a choice barrier position and settled in to wait. Immolation was spotted heading through the crowd, fan entourage in tow and growing. The box of merch on Bob Vigna's shoulder held the attention of many. You could see them salivating over what goodies might be hidden inside. My husband disappeared after them; Immolation are some of our dearest friends and it had been over a year since either of us had seen them last.

Hangovers and sunburns were rife. The sullen, heavyset girl next to me with lovely, delicate tattoos on her arms slowly fried pink as the sun beat down. How people can spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on ink only to destroy it with sunburns will always elude me. MDF definitely did its part to damage a lot of tattoos and fuel skin cancer research. Metalheads are not a sunscreen-wearing bunch, that's for certain.

Compared to waiting for Goatwhore in the 105ºF heat of Ozzfest last year, waiting for Hail of Bullets was cake. The band took the stage and launched into General Winter. MVD immediately turned pink from effort. Despite the heat, everyone put on a very energetic performance, especially Paul Baayens. A storm of brown hair, Baayens' grinning energy was infectious. He's the kind of player who makes me wish I'd stuck with guitar. Just brilliant. Cute, too. Sorry folks, I have to wax girlish every so often...

The band ripped through "The Red Wolves of Stalin", "Nachthexen", "The Crucial Offensive" to name a few, then tromped into the opening strains of "Berlin". "Here it comes," I thought. "Now to find out if the moment on the plane is going to be matched by this." I held my arms up to the sky. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy when the vocals came in. Both crowd and band rocked to the slow beat of the song while MVD stood on the monitors, white hair shining in the sun, a giant timber wolf of a man, worthy of worship. The guitars soared through the somber melody and then into the grinding march, to the part... MY PART.

"Just one more battle..." Waterfalls of chill washed over me.
"One more storm..." I stood up on tip toes, both arms out, leaning to the band.
"The war is over...." The music poured into my soul and my soul poured out to the stage. Paul Baayens and I locked eyes and sang the last line together:
"It is done!"

It was, without a doubt, THE PERFECT MOMENT. What I wanted on the plane at 35,000 feet was one tenth of what I actually experienced. Transcendence. Exquisite and almost agonizing. Perfect moments are rare diamonds in the gravel of life. I will take the moment of that last line with me to my grave. Thank you, Paul; thank you, Hail of Bullets, thank you.

The band finished triumphant with "Ordered Eastward". An amazing debut performance on American soil. I hope it brings them back. As they finished, I felt a bit weepy: it was over - no more Hail of Bullets, all gone, el finito, go deal with your refractory period during Brutal Truth while you wait for Immolation.

After such magic, it was unpleasant to endure the horror that is Dan Lilker without a shirt. Maybe someone with stock in Gillette might enjoy looking at him but I did not. Yes I know, Dan's a crucial person in metal. Yes, I know Brutal Truth is not about image. But fuck, man, I hear shower drains everywhere crying for mercy... put on a shirt. PLEASE.

I'll admit, they were entertaining. One of the enormous security guards got splashed with lager and shook his head ominously, a thunderstorm on his brow. His expression spoke volumes about his rate of pay in relation to his work. The crowd-surfers kept them busy. I kept waiting for the singer to lose control of his flattened SM58 and render someone in the front row unconscious. The drummer wore a permanent expression of "OhgodImnotgonnamakethispart" and the guitarist wore Crocs. My eyes kept ticking to the "Gay St." sign visible behind the stage. I would not have been surprised had the singer dropped his pants and mooned everyone with what I'm sure was a very hairy (although not as hairy as Mr. Lilker's) behind. The set ended with all pants still up, the stage soaked in beer, and the security looking quite relieved.

Time for Immolation. No one brings rosy-cheeked death metal like these boys from Yonkers. The crowd became restless while the line check dragged on - nothing like a set of suddenly misbehaving drum triggers to tap into every sound man's Dickaroundinator tendencies. Eventually, the issue was remedied (the other kick mike plugged in - how NOVEL) and thunderous death metal poured from the mains.

Ross Dolan has the best hair in the metal scene, while Bob Vigna has the best moves. Vigna's angular, sharp movements paired with their squeal-heavy riffs conjured ancient alchemical symbols in the humid air. The man creates magic with the headstock of his guitar. Immolation's set positively streaked by (although to listen to them tell it later, it felt like an eternity with the setting sun searing into their eyes) and soon, they were finishing up while the crowd chanted along. I'm always happy to see them get a great response; they've been doing this for over 20 years and the recognition is well-deserved.

After Immolation, it was time for a well-needed rest. Atheist took the stage and started jangling out incomprehensible chaos eons away from the classic album Piece of Time. We all winced, then headed inside for some sit time. Ah god, my aching ankles.

As the sun went down and the temperature dropped, anticipation for Bolt Thrower rose. So many years since the band last set foot on US soil, almost an entire generation born in the interim. The street was jammed with sunburned bodies as the intro music boomed across Baltimore. Standing rather far in the back, I made a half-hearted attempt to get a bit closer but ended up surrounded by 6-foot plus men, my only view of the stage being the upper light rig. Shit. Eventually, I found a decent spot directly behind the sound booth - not perfect but at least my view was mostly unobstructed. The set list resting on the unused faders gave me insight into what would come next. It was interesting watching the sound men monitor the output - they had an impressive stylus-controlled touch-screen software complimenting the standard analog board.

Ah, but I wax geek: back to Bolt Thrower. They are a solid band indeed, perhaps not the most original or innovative, but their brand of 240 BPM war metal has remained consistently enjoyable since their first album. I'm not sure what I liked more: the music or watching the crowd. Some fans had gotten atop The Sonar roof and were banging with abandon at the railing. The view must have been enviable. Others, farther back than I and most likely unable to see, were losing their proverbial shit regardless.

During "In Battle There Is No Law," I was granted another moment: in college, we'd tormented our floor mates with a jury-rigged superstereo made from a high fi stereo supplemented by two Crate amps. We'd crank "In Battle There Is No Law" at near top volume, then make it worse by belting out the intro in our unpracticed death metal voices. Jesus, the 1990 6th floor residents of Kate Gleason Hall at RIT hated the four of us. As the song started, I was once again overwhelmed. This time, instead of being filled with aching transcendental longing, I was refreshed by the riotous innocence and joy from when I was 18.

Two moments in one day, two diamonds... tears threatened to well. Last year in August, Tony Iommi's solo during the Heaven and Hell had brought on a moment. That time the tears had spilled, such was the beauty of his playing and my joy in being part of such a wonderful event.

All too often we adults forget what made us vital when we were young. Lose that and all that's waiting for you are death and taxes. Metal serves to keep those times, those triggers, fresh. That's why we can't stop. That's why the bouncer checks my ID and says, "Heh, you're old." That's why all this is so special and why events like MDF are so important. Bolt Thrower made me 18 again, Bolt Thrower took away my worries about my job. Bolt Thrower made me be utterly present and undistracted for 90 minutes straight. Tell me that's not good for my health. Tell me that's not meditation at 140 decibels.

When Bolt Thrower finished, everyone started to droop, yours truly included. Destroyer 666 were the exception. Lit and rowdy, the Aussies were jostling about in front of the main Sonar entrance, busily giving each other front wedgies. Ouch. We collected Immolation, then headed to Paper Moon for some amazing food. I managed to not piss myself laughing or choke to death while eating - that crew is beyond hilarious. Superstars, all of you. Oink Oink.

With throbbing limbs, I went to sleep knowing the fest could have ended that night. That would have been enough, that would have been sufficient. But, like I said in the last post, the metal flagon runneth over... another day, more great bands to come! Life could not be better!

Maryland Death Fest Day 1: Mayhemic Asphyxation

Ahh, finally... The three days of metal I've been waiting for about a year! My week started hectic and compressed on Sunday with a work trip to Cupertino. Work trips are always a mess, as I've blogged before. Our site, formerly 4 blocks from the hotel, is now 2.83 miles away but I chose to walk it each day knowing it would provide me with 40 minutes of exercise and mental down time. Northern California is pleasant and cool at this time of the year, fragrant with blooming flowers and abundant with birds. Despite the copious outside time (not to mention sushi as well), by Wednesday I was thoroughly ready to say sayonara to my place of employment for the next 7 days.

Fearing a delay/cancellation, I had pre-packed all my metal necessities (bullet belt, army pants, Martin van Drunen T-shirt, 100 different colors of eyeshadow) so prepping for MDF was a breeze despite my 12am arrival from Cupertino. My bed greeted my back at 1:30am and was abandoned by it 5 hours later, as our Thursday flight to Baltimore left early at 9:30am.

As far as flights go, the trip out to MD was perfect. No screaming babies, no complaining adults, a few entertaining moments making fun of fellow travelers. While flying, my husband chose to endeavor in unconsciousness while I plugged into Hail of Bullets for some final pre-show lyric memorization homework (van Drunen sets a high bar - his narrative lyrics are packed with facts and not particularly easy for me to remember). Like always, the doomy breakdown in "Berlin" made the hair on my arms and neck stand on end: "Just one more battle, one more storm, the war is over; it is done." I find that part overflowing with the ache, exhaustion and sorrow soldiers on both sides must have felt at the end of WWII. It never fails to stir and chill me at the same time. I was filled with anxious hope that the live performance would elicit the same response as the recording.

We landed without event. After a fine dinner, we went to ground. MDF tomorrow!!!!

Friday: culture shock sets in. Living in Texas, one gets used to cheery, quick service - neither of which we experienced at Grill Art Cafe in Hampden. My $13 field greens salad took 45 minutes to arrive and consisted of olives, tomatoes and onions atop desultory bed of aged romaine lettuce. Had I not been anxious to get to the fest, it would have gone back with a stern reprimand but the elderly owner/server/bar keep got off light this time. We headed to the festival, hopped in line, and immediately saw Martin van Drunen (MVD) shambling through the crowd, probably heading back to his hotel. Martin is unmistakable with his long-limbed Dutch height and mane of white-gray hair. I resisted the urge to dash out of line and hop at his feet like some eager Jack Russell terrier begging for a treat - he is one of my favorite metal luminaries. Consuming Impulse kept me company on many a lonely afternoon in college. To this day, CI is one of my top three albums. I would be happily abandoned on a desert island with it, Deicide's Deicide and Morbid Angel's Altars of Madness as my only entertainment.

We went inside, attempted to find our press passes, failed, then went on a merch hunt. Bolt Thrower's shirts were already selling fast; priced at $10 and $12 respectively, they were flying off the table. My husband indulged while I went in search of a much desired Hail of Bullets shirt. Score. No camo tank tops though... will have to order from the website. We noted the locations of free or cheap water, shade, bathrooms. Old friends were met, new ones made. I found Wannes of Asphyx to be one of the nicest, most personable people I've ever met. After a good-natured eye-roll over my husband's homemade MVD shirt (and a groan when I told him I had one too, but was saving it for Saturday), he took us to where MVD was hanging so we could get a photo. I conducted a toned-down version of my terrier dance, blathered a bit and took a photo with him. MVD was very patient. I don't think I was too much the dork fangirl.

News that Marduk had cancelled due to visa issues cast a slight pall over the evening. The substitution of Cephalic Carnage on the main stage was quite satisfactory to CC and their fans. I, however, had been looking forward to missing them. Time did fly by and soon Mayhem prepared to assault Maryland. I am not a huge Mayhem fan; I appreciate their importance and enjoy a few songs, but by and large, what they do doesn't reach me. I used their set time to start positioning myself for Asphyx. Balanced on eight square inches of curb on the right side of the stage, I was in the perfect spot to be crushed when the chain link fence separating the crowd from the backstage collapsed not once, but three times. The first was the most surreal; the fence went down to reveal a foggy-looking MVD seated in a folding chair, elbows on knees, grinning at the sea of struggling bodies. After collapse #3, which found me on my back, legs tangled in those of the man on top of me, I decided I'd dared fate long enough and chose to risk the pushing, surging crowd.

Normally, I'm quite conscientious of my crowd manners. I try not to step on feet, accidentally trap hair, or whack people with my elbows when I'm raising and lowering my arms. All bets were off this time; the fresh, un-hungover crowd was slamming, shoving, pushing and being generally retarded. Mayhem garners fans who I am not sure appreciate them for their musical contributions - the murder hype seems the attractant. I used the misbehavior to begin working my way to the front, because if I'm not right in front, I'm not seeing shit. Krav Maga and HundredPushups.com came in handy - my balance is better and I can push and elbow my way more forcefully than ever before. Sorry to everybody who I elbowed who didn't deserve it. Don't worry, I got mine on day three, but that's two blogs from this one. I scored my barrier spot, wrapped my hand around the metal strut, and waited.

Mayhem ran over, eating badly into Asphyx's set time. The band rushed to set up, knowing the 11pm curfew was not a suggestion - it was going to be a hard stop. They tore into "Vermin" and the crush was reminiscent of Iron Maiden's Somewhere Back in Time tour. The thought "Oh my god, I'm seeing Asphyx" kept looping through my head as MVD, Wannes, Paul and Bob brought forth songs nigh 20 years old for the first time ever in the USA. It was clear from the smiles on stage that everyone was having a fabulous time. The bouncers' expressions didn't reflect the joy of either band nor crowd; I'm sure they would have much rather been listening to hip hop. The headbanging madness both onstage and in-crowd must be somewhat mystifying to them - I'm sure we look a ridiculous lot to the outside eye. Differences aside, security did a fantastic job keeping everyone safe; the front barrier was poorly buttressed and the only thing that kept it from going over was their yellow-shirted strength.

Wannes sent Abomination Echoes out to us (and some others) towards the end of the night: "... to the guy in the Martin van Drunen shirt - tacky, very tacky - and his wife, this song is for you!" Thank you, Wannes!

In the middle of "The Rack" the mains were taken offline promptly at 11pm to avoid a noise ordinance violation and its accompanying sizable fine. The city-enforced fade-out only heightened the perfection of the set. I removed the barrier from between my fourth and fifth ribs: exhausted, bruised and exultant. Ahhhh god, Asphyx! How I hope they come back again...

Before leaving, I spent some time craning up at Ian from Destroyer 666 while he and my husband chatted. Economy class must be an exquisite torture for men as tall as him. Ian's Aussie charm reminded me of how much I enjoyed visiting that corner of the world. I found myself looking forward to the Destroyer set on Sunday even more.

Thus closed the first day of MDF. Saturday promised even more: Hail of Bullets, Immolation and Bolt Thrower. The metal flagon runneth over and we are rich beyond imagination...

Flags of Hate, A Toxic Waltz and Too Much Vodka

The sign on the bathroom door reads:

"WARNING: Heavy use of strobe lights tonight!"

A night promising epilepsy? Sounds like a great time to me!

Kreator, Exodus, Belphegor, Warbringer and Epicurean were in Texas. My lingering bronchitis finally on the wane, I head down to San Antonio with my husband for an evening of death and thrash metal. Exodus and Kreator were two of much loved bands from my adolescence and Belphegor is hilariously brutal with their squarejaw death metal.

We arrive at the Scout Bar at 9pm to discover we've missed the first three bands. As the thrash resurgence quickens, promoters and clubs alike seem to be making the sensible move to start shows earlier, so the under 21 set can fully enjoy the chaos. I don't mind, but it's a paradigm shift in timing I have not yet mentally incorporated, and so, we miss more than half the show.

Behind the club, Belphegor is outside the now ubiquitous CruiseAmerica RV being provided to touring bands. Freshly post-set, they are sweaty and shirtless and Neanderthal. I am disappointed to have missed their set. Helmuth is quite jovial and insists we return after the show to the filthy camper to drink with him.

Mind you, neither of us drink, but with Helmuth, NO is not an option.

Inside, the Scout is fairly full, which always makes me happy. The scene is healthy, full of faces young enough to be my spawn. Most everyone is already sweating in the mid-80s Texas evening heat. Exodus is banging through Bonded by Blood. Although the band is mostly new members, they play the old material well and I am transported back to 1989 with my mother saying, "I HATE your shirt with the babies on it." Gary Holt, for whom I once held a passing 15-second fancy, still runs around the stage with good energy and enacts whammy bar torments upon his guitar to great effect.

I spot a friend wending her way through the crowd; after a quick greeting she and I head through the pit to the front. In their heyday, Exodus shows were fearfully revered: the pits were some of the most violent around. When they came through Buffalo in 1989 on their Fabulous Disaster tour, my boyfriend would not let me go. Disappointed, I moped at home and anxiously ran to the gym class we shared the next morning to find out what I'd missed. Ron was sporting a quail egg on his forehead with a large bloody gouge - that was the first and only time I'd ever seen him injured in the pit. I remember thinking, "Whew, I'm glad I didn't go."

As the years have passed, I've come to regret missing that show. Running up front with my friend, I reflect that it is now 20 years since that missed opportunity, 20 years of injuries, aging and fragility on me and where am I? At the rim of an Exodus pit in metal rabid San Antonio with my back to the moshers. But I am fine... mostly thanks to the fact that 70% of Texas metalheads have a BMI of 35+ and resemble ambulatory sacks of meal. No one is bony and no one has any stamina. It's like being surrounded by a bunch of hot, damp pillows who move crazily in cycles of 20 or 30 seconds, followed by exhausted stillness for 10 minutes or so.

"PLAY TOXIC WALTZ!" is the common cry during the set. My friend turns to me, laughing. "They aren't gonna play it, I bet they're sorry they ever wrote it!" True, Toxic Waltz tends to be roundly hated by many metal fans - it's a silly song at best, with lyrics so basic a nine year old could have done better. But... I have to admit, I like it. Always have. I loved the video: flying white Cons and the band running around the stage, Rick Hunolt's amazing leap... it celebrated what we thrashers did with no apologies. I remember sitting on the couch in my living room watching it with my boyfriend and holding his hand. Innocent little thrasher I was. That song is forever interwoven into that feeling of teenage wonder.

I am surprised when Rob Dukes announces Toxic Waltz as the last song. "I want to see this entire room - from the back to the front - fucking moving!" he screams. People oblige for about 20 seconds until their lives of Interwebz and Xbox bid them slow down, heave for breath. As for me? I think about 20 years again as I richochet between sweaty pillow-men, and how in a way, this is a redemption for missing Exodus so long ago. I am gleeful. Once I was 17 and moping I was forbidden to go see this band, now, nearly 40, I am there, in the pit, getting buffeted and having a blast.

An open circle closes in my psyche.

Kreator... well, seeing them in 1989 was a highlight of my show-going career - I banged until I was crosseyed. Frank Blackfire came straight to me and placed his pick firmly in my hand at the end of the set. Back then, that kind of contact blew my mind. I left the club moony and swooning, at least until I got a good look at a photo of Frank the next day and realized that swooning wasn't really merited.

The sign on the bathroom door about strobes wasn't kidding. Five or six positioned at the rear of the stage constantly blast the crowd in time with the double-bass. The bouncer makes an eight year old kid at the barrier put on sunglasses - can't have the kiddies twitching out in the middle of Violent Revolution. The bright lights allow me to observe how most of the front row doesn't seem to understand why they are there; blank faces stare up at Mille and crew for most of the set. A sloppy girl doing dance club hand movements seems to know the songs fairly well, although she isn't metal in the least. I quietly cheer when her slightly off-time clapping forces her huge plastic sunglasses to eject themselves from where she's stored them in her cleavage. Next to her, a 300+ pound female gothapotamus moos vapidly at the band. The brilliant strobes illuminate the tic-tac-toe board of cutting scars on her hamhock arms. I feel an intense impulse to get a Sharpie and ask someone if they want to go a couple rounds with me...

A lot of Kreator's material misses the mark, but they do play the classics: Extreme Agression, Pleasure to Kill and Flag of Hate, to name a few. Mille's unnecessary and overlong crowd-baiting before Flag has us ready to bail, but he only incites the crowd to scream "HATE!!!" three times, not the six or seven as we had heard he'd done on previous tours.

The show now over, we are beholden to keep our promise to go "have a drink" with Belphegor. Helmuth ushers us in to the den of iniquity that the CruiseAmerica has become. Greetings with various band members and tour support folk are exchanged. Whiskey is poured and knocked back. We think we are done, but no - now a bottle of Skyy vodka is thrust into our faces. "Vodka shot, come on!" We oblige. I hate beer and dislike 99% of wine, but I can handle hard liquor - perhaps because gulping is considered acceptable; the suffering only lasts a few seconds. Helmuth uses his fabulous peer-pressure skills to force another small shot down our craws before relenting. He then attempts to get us to smoke but finds no traction there. We depart the garbage-laden camper to the sidewalk outside and chat.

Five minutes later, I'm leaning heavily against the RV. The world is starting to slant slightly to the left and my eyes don't track so well. Helmuth cycles between good-naturedly insulting anyone in his line of sight and attempting to get us to drink more. I laugh too loudly and can't stop clapping my hands together over the off-color jokes and stories being told. After 30 minutes, my status as non-driver is exploited - the king of metal peer-pressure drags me back into the RV to toss back the last of the Skyy with him. Outside, I slug myself back up against the side of the Cruise and remain there until my husband announces it's time to leave. The walk to the car is done very carefully - pick up your feet - I pour into the passenger seat and promptly slant to the left.

As we drive home, I reflect on how much time has passed between the amazing metal gravy days of 1989 and now. How the thread is still unbroken. How the fire still burns. How I'm seeing a whole new generation of young kids at thrash shows - their pimply faces full of black, burning light. When Frank Blackfire put that pick in my hand I was still a round-faced little girl; now my hair is going gray. I think about how we are all aging relentlessly yet holding on to metal just as relentlessly. I think, as I often do, of my mother's desperate admonitions that this was just a phase. Yes, mother - the phase that never ends.

Home now. I flop down into bed. The room takes repeated hard lefts on a one second cycle. Gaaaah, make it stop. Yet, I am happy. I closed a circle tonight and once again saw why I stick with this sometimes crazy way of being. I renew two promises: to never let go of metal and to never, EVER let Helmuth make me drink that much again.

TXDOT has a sense of humor

Here's a little bit of tar art in my neighborhood. My husband thought this was just a patch at first but I am convinced it is something more mischievous. What do you all think? Perhaps this should be entitled: "Tits or Tarpatch?"