The first knock on my door at 2:30 pm, awakening me from four hours sleep following a terrible morning of drinking and pissing away money at the casino, was the UPS man. I signed for my package and went back inside to the fridge for a Gatorade. Soon, without very much time at all to consider what day it was, what time zone I was in and what the balance of my checking account may or may not be there was a second knock. It was Nik.
“Let’s get the show on the road.” He said.
“Just a damn minute, I’ve got to put the um, clothes in the dryer and the um, stuff…’ I mumbled, standing shirtless and bleary-eyed in a pair of gym shorts.
“Jesus*, did you just wake up?” Nik said.
“Yeah. Interesting morning.”
I went in the bathroom to finish my Gatorade and piss. I put on a grey wife beater and covered my tattoos in suntan lotion. I stared at myself in the mirror. I went back to the fridge as Nik worked out an impromptu fuzz bass concerto and grabbed a can of Rockstar Recovery. I was painfully hung over.
There was no thought in my mind of how I was going to survive the day as we mounted my black Dakota, affectionately known as the Cobra Death-Fuck Sled, and set off for the 2010 Rockstar Mayhem Fest. Metal Summer camp.
Both Nik and I approached this event with trepidation. Of the fifteen bands on the bill we were interested in seeing maybe four. Maybe. Yet as faithful servants to the disciples of Nik’s brainchild monstrosity, seattlerockguy.com, we were prepared to meet the festival head on and give the true believers an account of its awesomeness or suckage or both, whichever applied at whatever time.
The parking lot of the White River Amphitheater looked like the rapture had happened at a trailer park. Shells of beater cars were strewn everywhere on the gravel lot. We trekked the half mile to the gate and obtained our media credentials.
“This… should be interesting.” Observed Nik. Thank you Captain Obvious. I think I replied, “Yo soy concurro,” or some nonsense, resisting the need to vomit a stew of electrolytes, antidepressants and bile all over the shoes of the yellow-shirted security monkey that was patting me down.
We walked among the masses through the greedy claws of commerce toward the noise protruding from the parking lot stages. Some garbage band was playing that could have been any of a dozen shitty bands, shirtless frontman hyping the crowd, crappy guitar players, chick keyboard player. I smoked a Newport and didn’t care. Nik fished his camera from his bag.
“Holy hot topic hell.” Nik said.
I looked around. It was true. The crowd was the worst aspects of a Hot Topic store come to life, zit-covered living breathing mannequins in tight day-glo jeans and ridiculous Five Finger Death Punch t-shirts. There were many beautiful girls, usually a sign that there is shitty music very near, most with their boyfriends keeping a tight hold on them for fear some other metal jockey was going to move in and lock horns.
Thankful for my shades, I stared neck-breakingly at mounds of cleavage and ass in both flattering and dry heave-inducing configurations. I carefully determined the odds of talking up one of these girls and hopefully having a tryst in a porta-potty. Not worth it.
“Dude!” I shouted over the noise. “The Metal Mulisha is here riding freestyle! Let’s check it out!”
We went and watched the motorcycles as Chimaira hit the stage, providing the first kick ass moment of the day. As Metal Mulisha riders did huge back flips, Hart attacks, seat grabs and completely sideways whips Chimaira blasted the crowd with legit metal, likely the first genuine shit of the day. Nik took several pictures and then set the camera to ‘retard’ mode and passed it off to me. I took several pictures as well. Of boobs and ass, that is.
Noticing a huge Rockstar tent, Nik suggested we fuel up. Thus I consumed my second, third and fourth cans of Rockstar for the day. The shit was free, so I thought about drinking as much as I could and began to wonder about the over-under on either shitting myself or throwing up. I seriously considered making a push for this, but thought better of it at last.
A tall fence cruelly separated us from the Jagermeister tent. It can only be assumed large portions of the magic elixir were being served free of charge within. My own painful sobriety was beginning to impose itself with the telltale feeling of nails being driven into either side of my head.
Nik and I scoured the row of band tents in search of (of course) heavy metal beer cozies. I was depressed to see only lackeys manning the tent of In this Moment as one of my goals for the day was to ogle the ample bosom of their singer and we had arrived after their (probably terrible) set. No dice. The show must go on.
“Give me a big smile!” I yell to a passing coed, pointing the camera at her. She gives me a thousand-watt flash of beauty and the camera loves her. The ogre behind the camera would never have a chance.
The dispersion of the crowd and its reassembling into an entity of very high dude-to-chick ratio could only mean one thing: Hatebreed. Finally a band with some originality and balls was taking the stage. I stood well back, knowing there was about to be chaos in our midst. And there was. In spite of a bass-heavy mix Hatebreed delivered their signature energy and inspiration to a dense crowd. It was only somewhat ironic to note the day-glo skinny jean crowd was evenly matched with chicks who knew every word. A thousand fists pumped with metal vigor and I finally felt some of the community spirit that I knew we shared, somewhere.
Following Hatebreed and a few songs of 3 Inches of Blood’s set we made our way through the throngs of mannequins who were somehow becoming more repulsive as the day wore on and sweat began to pour, open wounds festered, clothing was removed to expose cellulite and bargain bin tattoos.
The bathroom was revolting. I took a monster shit.
My own status was eroding as well.
We meandered toward the main stage area for a much needed sit down and were subjected to the worst band of the day, Five
Finger Death Punch. My knee-jerk reaction to this band is to not even spill ink lambasting, berating and tearing them to shreds in this document, yet as I was at Mayhem presumably to report upon its happenings I will utter fair warning to the faithful.
Take the worst aspects of retarded popular metal in the last ten years, throw ‘em in a pot and let it simmer then give a bunch of Neanderthals the task of presenting it and you have a close representation of Five Finger Death Punch. Much to our collective dismay, the crowd was quite enthusiastic about this garbage. It was depressing. We left the main stage area.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and Nik and I had taken the path to Mastodon, to Torche and Baroness. This crowd had very predictably taken the path to Godsmack and Disturbed and whatever else the deep pockets pay KISW to throw out for the scavenging masses. We were the outsiders at a show that was supposed to be the big ass festival for all our kind… It was surreal… I felt no connection to these people, to their music or fashion, nothing aside from wanting to fuck a large percentage of the females present but now that I think about it that is the case for any group I find myself a part of and is therefore of no relevance to this story at all aside from solidifying any notions of dislike you may be harboring towards me. Ah fuck it.
We were among the kind of folks who purchase ‘Back in Black’ and think it’s really cool, legendary. We were among the meathead redneck hicks who were into “rock” and “metal” and inbreeding and the like. We were among lost and confused pre-teens, yet having at one time been a confused pre-teen (and arguably now a more confused adult) I did not see any of myself in the kids. It was an opposite scene from the Iron Maiden show at the very same venue a few weeks ago. There was no unity, only degeneration.
Nik paid $9 for a hot dog. He slathered it in catsup.
We went back into the stands and began trying to make sense of all the shit that was going on. Usually this is a humorous process. Usually we are very drunk, though. Today was solemn with a lot of pauses looking vaguely upward and then shrugging as there were no words found.
In front of us was a parade of mutants carrying unsafe amounts of venue food which likely cost a day’s wages for any working stiff like me. Old, annoying bastards wove their way through the crowd selling armloads of Mayhem Fest shirts at $40 a wack. Lots of people eagerly bought them. I realize it has become common place for a plain old shirt to go for such an ass-raping amount, but trolling in the crowd with them? Bullshit. Let the fucking idiots burn off a few of those chicken strips and Budweisers walking their god damn asses to the merch booths to fork over the cash.
Another strange thing Nik and I observed, at first thought to be an isolated fluke but suddenly becoming regular, was the pervasiveness of novelty t-shirts. We saw at least a half dozen each of “Fuck me I’m fat” and “We totally fucked. Now go make me breakfast, bitch.” shirts throughout the day. Barely worth a chuckle the first time and annoying as all hell thereafter. Imagine wearing that shit. I’ll bet their mommas are real proud.
Thankfully, before the psychosis really set in and we bashed our own skulls open to alleviate the misery, Lamb of God took the main stage by storm. Yes! They played and sounded as tight as some miserable bastard’s death grip on a $40 Mayhem shirt. Nik broke out the camera and started getting great shots of the band.
And then shit got real weird.
I’m enthusiastically bobbing my head along to “Walk with Me in Hell” and I look over to see some security grunt talking to Nik. This wasn’t the usual dude in a yellow shirt standing around trying to look menacing, this was some douche in an official-looking collared shirt and slacks complete with a secret service earpiece that I highly doubt was turned on or even functional. He’s flipping Nik shit about the camera.
This wasn’t the “no photos allowed” spiel. This guy was being a serious dick. First he tells Nik to clear his camera, and then asks for a driver’s license when Nik shows him his photo pass and asks a few questions to try to figure out what the hell is going on.
Finally, Nik looks at me and goes, “Fuck this garbage, let’s leave.” We get up. Mr. Big Shot comes along, motioning two more grunts to trail us. Apparently we are not leaving.
As we walk along Nik asks more questions and Mr. Big Shot keeps being a dick. I loudly announce that “White River is the WORST fucking venue EVER!”
Dickmo Jones points at a building and says, “We’re going over there.” I’m thinking we kick it in some lounge for a few minutes while the SRG credentials get verified and then we’re gone. Instead, we round the corner to see a cop and what is obviously some kind of holding area.
“Really?!” says Nik.
“You took us to the pokey!” I laugh.
None of the amateur fascists present are impressed.
Dickmo Jones tells his boss, we’ll call him Virgin Assraper, that Nik was violating the photo policy and giving him attitude. Virgin Assraper starts lecturing us about how photo pass means taking photos from the pit only for the first three songs of a band’s set blah blah blah blah blah and goes back and forth in circles with Nik while I look as unthreatened and apathetic as possible. I can still hear the rumbling of Lamb of God in the distance and start to get annoyed that this couldn’t have happened during some shitty band.
I’m about to ask just what the hell we need to do to leave when Virgin Assraper’s need for authoritative posturing seems to be sated and we are turned loose. I could get into the nitty gritty of the ten-minute circular exchange between Dickmo Jones, Virgin Assraper and Nik but it would be a waste of time. No more photos from the stands, we get it. Godfuckingforbid we give our readers a view of some other angles while promoting these stupid fucking bands playing at this stupid fucking venue to these stupid fucking people.
Again, had we not been stone sober it would have been hard to believe that shit really happened. I mean, that shit really happened. We really got taken to the White River slammer for taking some photos for the website. Really. Happened. Really.
Don’t say we never do anything for ya.
We make it back from our tour of the facilities in time to see Lamb of God play most of “Redneck” and then very nearly incite a riot with the set-closing standard “Black Label”. I try to rally and get back into digging the scene but my heart just isn’t in it.
There was more sparse conversation while some random asshole comedian told poo-poo jokes to the crowd during the set change for Rob Zombie.
Eventually Nik says, “Do you even want to stay?”
“Nope. I am completely over today. This is bullshit.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We leave before either of the headlining acts hit the stage.
If the masses and the media are trying to completely ruin metal, this is the way to do it. The people have proven beyond any doubt that they will take any shit they are fed and lick it up. The infrastructure of major label backed imprint labels and their corporate sponsors shamelessly pull the strings of performers and consumers alike. The venues obviously care little about the people, charging ridiculous ticket fees and $5 for a god damn water on a 90 degree day in Seattle.
And there we were, a couple of hacks from a little website that prides itself on reporting on music as passionately and authentically as possible… there we were right in the middle of it. It wouldn’t be so disheartening if it wasn’t such an obvious race on all fronts to reach the absolute lowest common denominator and wallow in it.
They take the art and passion out of the music, they take money like smiling criminals and they take your humanity by making you sit in their fucking silly little jail for taking pictures of a band you were glad to see, who you have seen several times, whose albums you own, whose t-shirt you wear.
Cowards.
Fascists.
Motherfuckers.
My only hope is that the true believers, the defenders of the faith, see the writing on the wall and stay well away from this abomination. The bands and the labels that are struggling to keep the music that we love so much alive and thriving, should they feel a need to take it to a Mayhem-level strive to bring it to the people fairly and with love. If I lost this music I would die.
I got home, climbed in the shower, sat down at the typewriter, looked at the keys, shook my head and went to bed.
--
Words by Matt Abramson
Photos by Nik Christofferson
You said it, hoss.
ReplyDelete