I guess that, in some ways, I was long overdue for a forearm to my the throat. There’s been a whole lot of shows, in the twenty-odd years I’ve been going, where violence swarmed and cracked around me and, sure, sometimes I got hurt. I’ve been bruised, dazed and bloodied. I lost half my bottom lip at a Coalesce gig. I took a skinhead boot to the balls when I saw Rancid (which turned them black for a week). Wolf Eyes made my tooth explode. Anthrax almost broke my back. The Bronx almost broke my neck. But the throat punch? That’s a new one.
And it SUCKED!
But, at least, it didn’t come until the last song of the band’s set so I had a good chunk of time to soak up all the sweat and rat bite delirium that makes Planes Mistaken for Stars such a pivotal (if criminally under-appreciated) force in the shadow world of unbroken man rock and, goddamn, did they deliver on the wailing transcendence.
And it would be a disservice to the experience of screaming my lungs out to the slow burn of “Keep Your Teeth” or the frenzied ransom of “Belly Full of Hell” (neither of which I had heard live before) if I let the cowardly actions of one hopeless shitbird supercede the triumphal roar the evening grew in me.
So fuck that guy.
Now please dig, if you will, these pictures.