Necromance vs. Willpower

Headed up to Forth Worth yesterday to see Gigan, Neuraxis, Blackguard and Belphegor at The Rail Club. I really enjoy going to shows in Fort Worth. Sadly, the massive Ridglea Theatre is struggling to rediscover its identity after being turned into a country bar. Rumor has it there will be another go as a metal club, but I find it unlikely. In the meantime, the Rail Club is filling the gap well.

The 2009 San Antonio Scout Bar Drinking Disaster was fresh in my mind as I drove up IH-35. We'd hung out with Belphegor after their set on the Exodus/Kreator tour. Helmuth, peer-pressure master, used his well honed skills to get me to drink. Faithful readers of this blog know I don't generally imbibe. Helmuth got me to do three whiskey and two vodka shots with him. In an hour. You can imagine the results. I could have said no... but when Helmuth wants something to happen, he will repeat the same phrase every 5-10 seconds until you give in just to get him to leave you alone.

I promised myself I'd never get drunk like that again, since drunk can't be turned off like an annoying light. Alone I knew I'd not be able to resist, therefore I brought along Morgengrau bassist Prokingu and another good friend to sacrifice their livers for me.

We got to the Rail in the early evening, a nondescript facility in a spare, commercial district. A few quick circuits of the building proved Belphegor was nowhere to be found, so off we went for some sushi at Sushi Yoko.

After stuffing our faces, we rolled back to the Rail and began bus stakeout. We had a liquid gift to deliver to the master of necromance. As the first local opener trudged through some anonymous riffs, we finally got word that the man himself was in the club, shooting pool. A frenzied attempt to get in without paying resulted. IDs were left at the door, the club hustled through and all of us wondered how someone as big as Helmuth could appear and disappear so quickly. We knocked on the bus door for a third time, cringing, as we all hate being "those people" who won't leave the fucking bus door alone. Instead of the poor confused roadie who'd patiently spoken to us the two times before, Helmuth's wary face poked out. His closed expression changed to friendly then quite happy once we handed him the bottle we'd been trucking around in its "you're not fooling anyone" paper bag.

Helmuth (to me): "So. You are drinking?"
Me: "No, I'm driving."
Helmuth: "Okay."
Me: "Yep."
Helmuth: "So you want a beer?"

Game on.

After 30 minutes of socializing, Helmuth announced he needed to "train and then take a fucking nap." We headed inside just in time to catch most of Gigan's set. I have to admit, I don't get music like Gigan's. Stop-starts, arpeggios, complex forms and a theremin had me standing in the back of the club feeling as I had while watching Atheist in 2009. This is how metal sounds to everybody's grandmother - arhymthic, clangy, impossible to decode. I did my best to appreciate the effort being expended. They sure were working hard. The singer screamed and gesticulated. The bassist, his strap entombed to his instrument with clear tape, played complicated runs. The guitarist's beautiful flame top BC Rich chunked and wanged and wailed. The theremin screamed. The drummer blurted out 32nd notes on the kicks like a baby with the runs. I just couldn't get into the music because I couldn't FIND the music.

Neuraxis was up next. We'd seen these guys doing pushups and bicep curls across the street from the club in the grass; another activity that would only serve to confuse grandmothers driving by on their way to dinner at the local cafeteria. I liked Neuraxis more; they were techno-brutal-death like Gigan but less mathy. More groove. The hugely muscled singer's shrieks threatened to burn out the over-loading PA on every third syllable. Two enormously fat chicks with gelatinous, innertube bellies conducted a flailing two-person mosh pit. They were soon joined by a gigantic young man in a gray collared shirt who tried his damndest to swing his right arm out of the socket while simultaneously attempting to hyperextend his left knee with a series of random kicks. Ignoring them was almost impossible; my final impression of Neuraxis was a catchy, driving last song - very heavy, worthy of banging, the band a whirlwind on stage, their performance sadly upstaged by the frenzied ballet of limb-flinging, belly-busting fuckery on the dance floor.

Blackguard was up next. We took a spot at the stage corner, keeping a wary eye on the fatstorm behind us. I've been curious about Blackguard for quite some time as they have one of the few female drummers in extreme metal. Justine did not fail to disappoint. She kept it steady and relentless while her bandmates put on a performance worthy of an arena rather than a small club. It's been a long time since I've seen a band with that much personality. Vocalist Paul, similar in beefy look to the Neuraxis singer, bounced around with the energy of Bruce Dickinson, screaming endlessly without a break. I was incredibly impressed; he was a testimony to youth, vigor and fitness. The bassist wielded his Rickenbacker with panache, leaning over the barrier, his expression intense, engaged, smiling to the audience members who happily soaked up the energy. The two guitarists played solid, melodic, folky-bouncy riffs. Although their music and performance borders on cartoonish at times (think Metalocalypse), Blackguard is seriously having a great time and they want you to know. I could not help but get caught up in the sheer joy flowing from them; they are clearly in the middle of a wonderful dream.

After that, it was time for the Schweine. The set change was quick; soon the Austrians stalked upon the stage. Covered in blood (which Prokingu wisely refused to drink when Helmuth, that trickster, offered it to him earlier), Belphegor ripped into a track from their new record. Their set was solid, albeit far more staid than any other band on the bill. Helmuth throttled his guitar, roaring and screeching. In between verses, he expelled vast amounts of white phlegm into his goatee where it swang, glistening, our very own death metal Alien. At one point, he had hawk threading off his beard, his guitar and the knee of his pants. I kept waiting for the spit to be directed into the crowd but Helmuth was content to cover himself in his own sick through the set.

It was probably the best Belphegor set I've seen; a month's worth of touring has them honed sharp and efficient. Helmuth punctuated still points in the songs with grunts of "Texxxxxxas" and some rather tour-weary utterances of "Fuuuuuuck." Soon they were at the last song, "Stigma Diabolicum." The set felt short to me. I could have used a few more sonic blasts of diabolical evil.

The house soundman promptly came over the PA with overly loud strip club patter about "The party's not over, getcher $3 wells, let's keep this place hoppin'". If we hadn't been wincing enough already, he then proceeded to pump Ministry's "Jesus Built My Hot Rod" at max volume. Boo. We dashed outside.

Once he was sans blood and sputum, we joined Helmuth back on the bus. My plan fell neatly into effect. All drinking peer pressure was directed towards my two companions, while I was kindly given a water then allowed to enjoy the conversation and company unmolested. There was punching, pinching and tussling, many toasts to various things mundane and profound, a run to the convenience store where I learned you can't buy beer after midnight on weekends and a few near wipeouts on the deceptively flat bus floor. The hours flew by. Helmuth announced "Cigarette! Outside!" We all stood up. Crashing ensued. I picked up a camera, several bottles and Prokingu from the floor.

Out in the parking lot, Helmuth tried to put his last cigarette in my mouth. There's something faintly terrifying about a big, blood covered fist clutching a glowing Marlboro heading straight for your eye, while out of focus in the background, Helmuth's face is a rictus of determination as he shouts, "COME ON! SMOKE IT!" The heat of the ember flashed across my cheek as I dodged backward. More staggering and tussling ensued. Finally, I announced we were leaving; it was 5am and I was all in. That did not please our stalwart pal. Austrian and Texan went head to head:

Helmuth: "Let's go inside, one last drink!"
Me: "No."
Helmuth: "Come on, Erika, please one last drink on the bus."
Me: "No man, we gotta go."
Helmuth: "Fuuuuuck, come on!"
Me: "I'm sorry, we have to go."
Helmuth: "Well then one last drink on the bus then you can go, yes?"

This exchange was repeated four more times. You gotta love the guy for his focus. He really does try.

We finally bid him goodbye at 5:15am, sending him on his way to a badly needed shower, two final shows, then a "return to the civilized world." Not a drop of alcohol had passed my lips (many thanks to my companions for taking the pain). Belphegor returns in May. For now, the record is even - 1:1. I have proven it is possible to resist the master badgerer. Til the next challenge, then! I accept!