Fuck today. No. Yeah. I mean, definitely fuck today but motherfucking fuck this week. This shit was a bad scene from the beginning and only got worse as the hours unfurled what with the discharge and contempt; the nonsensical doublespeak, the maladies and doe-eyed incompetence that just makes me want to shave my teeth to nubs and go full Mice and Men on any competent humanist that stands between me and my cheap beer and whiskey.
Thrash competence to tickle the skull. Not to be callous but Homewrecker isn’t likely to RAWK all the fucks out of you but they play hard and gruel and – what with their relative youth (it was the bassist’s 19th birthday) – will certainly develop into one of those steadfast beasts that feasts with battle vests and PBR and sounds so much better in the rusted bed of a Datsun.
I don’t remember what I thought Oathbreaker was going to be when I first got wind of them but they most emphatically fucking weren’t. Not by a Three Mile Island. I’m tempted to say that they aren’t like anything but my limited sense of subgenres prohibits my ability to assert that this band is the living end. Still – JESUS FUCK – are they something shattering. Black metal cum shoegaze cum hardcore cum the season of the witch, Oathbreaker bellows femme whispers and pedal-bent roars with cryptic verve, smoky patience and a demand for static worship. Seriously. There were points in the set when the performance (or anti-performance, depending on your opinion of hair) was so bombastic and arresting that all the crowd could do was stand there, mouths open, heads bowed in reverence.
At this point, I should know Iron Reagan well enough to sing along to one song but I don’t and that sucks because on a bill of such bleak (albeit welcome) capacity, these motherfuckers brought the OG thrash crossover party like no one I’ve seen since the last time Anthrax tried to kill me or maybe the time before that. Or was it Sick of it All opening for Slayer? No, that was just mean. Anyway, Iron Reagan opened their set with Dracula standup and featured T-Rex stagedives, hella headbanging, gang chants, circle pits, etc. etc. Your life needs this denim.
On a smoke break before their set, someone tried to convince me that Skeletonwitch were fun. And I bought it because I was drunk but, man…I don’t know. I’ve been to a lot of parties with a lot of different people. I’ve seen some crash shit and shaved heads and drank blood and ate hissing roaches and pigeon heads and cocaine and speed and weird naked fire and I would definitely say I had a TON OF fun throughout but I wouldn’t recommend it to a stranger.
Or maybe I would.
Or maybe I just have that “look.”
I probably do.
Point is, the concept of “fun” can be pretty fucking relative but the general universals like ice cream, roller coasters and blowjobs that one usually associates with joy don’t have too much in common with the death-first approach of these red, wet maniacs and their relentless sonic tyranny.
Still, I guess that stranger was right.
In the end, I was smiling.