Local metal is its own form of entertainment. There’s no big stage productions for the musicians to hide behind and nobody knows their lyrics so they can’t rely on the audience to help them out. Which means each show is just pure, unadulterated aggression and cordial violence.
And that’s pretty cool. Unless you’re a pretentious, high-ciety prick. And I always wondered what a pretentious, high-ciety prick might say if they were unknowingly thrust into the pit of a local metal show.
So that’s what’s going to happen today. I’m going to write this as if I was a pretentious, high-ciety music critic. Aka, the complete opposite of me. While I pour chocolate milk into my box of Cocoa Puffs and fist mouthfuls of cereal, the fictitious character writing this piece will be the type to import the finest European oats, the juiciest south Asian fruits, put them into a handmade Italian bowl, take a rideshare to an organic farm, and pay an immigrant below minimum wage to squeeze a cow’s teat directly into this cereal concoction.
Basically, a huge pretentious, high-ciety prick. But before we get there, I think it needs to be said that the Roxy ran a tight fucking ship. Bands started on time, they had synced light shows, there were no empty beer cups sitting precariously on the ledges waiting to fall, no dropped audio, the bands were cohesive in the lineup.
It was well done production, and I think it was obvious to everyone. Except, well…
……….
The smell of urine greeted me as I stepped outside my Uber Lux. Denver, an artistic depository known to be welcoming and vibrant; this was nothing like that. Decay and graffiti attempted to welcome me but with poor results.
I begrudgingly approached what I assumed was the forum of the night. No box office; no show brochures; no valet. The only thing to greet me was a line of tattooed, vest wearing bohemians and a man I hope was not just acting as security because him and I got very well acquainted as he fondled my buttocks.
He apparently found nothing of concern within and unfortunately allowed me into the establishment.
My ears were instantaneously bombarded with screeches and squeals from the surrounding speakers upon stepping inside. I attempted to hide in the washroom, but woe is me; the doors to the washrooms were wide open allowing voyeurs to witness any person inside at their most vulnerable. I composed myself through deep breathing and meditation instead.
A group of young men stepped on stage. Some might describe them as musicians. I would describe them simply as wannabe thespians. The name of their club is as good as anybody’s guess; the brochure on the wall behind them was written in sticks and stones and was illegible to anybody with any amount of educational history.
The first thing I noticed once this atrocity loosely called “music” began was the thumping inside my chest; it wasn’t my heart, but rather, it was the kickdrum. The kickdrum never should make somebody’s chest bump so aggressively. It should be a calm, serene feeling meant to keep steady time for the rest of the musicians to ogle over top of. This night it was not that; this night it had made my chest pulse inside me in the most uncomfortable of ways.
Not one word of English was uttered during this escapade of supposed entertainment. Anger; injustice; frustration; yes, these feelings were felt. But were they heard? No one could tell. And it made me wonder what made these young men so angry. Why not form a jazz quartet and play real music? Why scream for help when you could simply help yourself with calmness and meditation? These questions churned inside my head as I did my best to keep my innards from being discharged from my body during, as one young gentleman told me, this “thrashing”.
The next gaggle of wannabe thespians entered the stage and left me with little hope for the remainder of this dreadful experience; colours of all shades on their heads; buttons covering their blackened clothes; and their clothes not even covering their entire bodies. One only hoped the abrupt surroundings outside would cause a distraction to stop this madness.
But it never happened. Suddenly, and without warning, they began prancing around on the stage as if they had just snorted fresh Colombian Snow. How their pants managed not to fall off with each and every bounce and leapfrog I do not know. The only thing lost was my dignity as I listened to the audience parrot back the screams of dying sheep coming from the vocalist. An entanglement of dying sheep, angry bats and motherless fawns was what resulted from that constant ongoing struggle for vocal dominance.
As an aside, I would like to find the name of the trainer for this company. Their inability to tire on stage despite the constant traversing and springing was something to be admired. It almost made up for the lack of subtlety in, what some might call, their music; the lack of subtlety that comes when they sing about, and I quote, fucking ones face.
That’s just what I needed on my Friday night; a vibrant, half naked group of superbeings telling me to make everlasting love to my own face. Last night’s piano bar escapade is looking ever more glamourous in retrospect.
The delight of them getting off stage was minimal as soon after, a portrait mural was placed where the troop once was. On this portrait mural was a nun taking drugs. Why these grown men not want to try to make an attempt at getting into the pearly gates I do not know.
They raped my ears with their blasphemous music shortly thereafter. And my disgust only grew like an oak tree; these men thanked children for coming out to the show, of which there were many many children, before diving right into a song about, as they described, “eating pussy”. Yes! That is what children should be listening to! Not the perfect transition note between F#Min7 and GMajb9, but rather, the eating of female genitals! If my regard is lost on you, I apologise; children should NOT be listening to grown men scream about the eating of female genitalia.
The closeness with which I felt to Satan only grew as I saw these children pushing their own mothers; I saw a man clawing to the sky while horse death escaped his throat; I saw a 50 year young man brag about how lucky he is to be able to make all this occur!
Do you know what makes me feel lucky? Sitting on the blissful rooftop of fine wine bar with a glass of vintage 2002 Cabernet Sauvignon from the precious vineyards of Napa Valley in my hand. These men feel lucky when they get to scream at children with a microphone. Am I the one going silly? What makes one feel so lucky when they channel Satanic entities and scream these entities at the young?
This event made me want to apologise to my pastor for all my past sins and start investigating priesthood as a potential new career choice. My night could have been quite lucrative if I had had the ability to exorcise these people of their demons.
The next gaggle was already wading in the depths of Hell; sluggish and tame, yet somehow they created a whirldwind inside my intestines which caused me to nearly excrete in my pants; alas, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen since hygiene was seemingly nonexistent here. Sweat, cheap beer and the waftings from the open door washrooms filled the aroma profile of the establishment.
I managed to keep my pants clean, fresh and smelling of love and fruit during the entire dramatics; and for that, pride coursed through my body. Just like demons coursed through everyone else’s.
The last mimicry of music was finally upon us. But this was perhaps the scariest and unruliest of them all.
Getting the police involved pervaded my mind; I was standing nearby the stage in a half hearted attempt to enjoy myself when a young man, no more than 30, punched me in the back! Why would you punch somebody in the back?! I quickly made my escape away from the stage in self preservation. But when I looked up, no help; no apologies; no salutations just to acknowledge my presence. When I looked up, horrifying does not even begin to describe what I saw.
On the stage was a half naked man with stickers over his teats gyrating his neck in sync with three other large men. And in the mob on the ground was presumably the leader of this pack. Instead of being onstage, he had jumped into the crowd and was punching people in just the same manner as what happened to me! My God! What kind of parent brings their children to THIS?! He punched the very people he was hoping would support his growing career! And then when he finally made his way back onto the stage, his microphone had died out! Of course young man, you were hitting people with it!
And what did he do to solve his precarious dilemma? Why he of course went BACK into the horde of people punching people and began punching more people again! That wasn’t even the most quizzical part of this exhibition! After each event, which consisted solely of racuous pleas for help, they smiled; they thanked their guests; they acted as if what just occurred did not actually just occur!
Watching this entire stooging created a cacophony of questions in my mind. How does no one’s neck break? Why do parents allow their children into such a gruesome and mature environment? How does Satan manage to possess so many people in such a small space? Why do people not wear shirts in this obvious public forum?
The questions remain unanswered, but my memory will forever be stained; stained of grown men smiling while letting out screeches that would normally be cause for concern; stained of the aroma of sweat and the cheapest liquor possible; stained of the pains of assault near the stage; stained of the worries for the many children in the audience.
I did arrive back at my hotel safely. In my hand as I type this on my Corona No. 4 typewriter is a Domain Romanee Conti Montrachet 1977. A jazz quartet serenades the seated audience around me. The gentleman next to me does not punch me nor make any contact. The jazz quartet does not leave the stage. There are no demonic screechings invading my eardrums.
And now that I can forget tonight, life is once again grand.
……….
Well that itch has been scratched. Turns out, if a high-ciety prick goes to a local metal show, they remain a prick.
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