Hesher: A Very Bitchy Movie Review

I hate to be blunt, but this movie is a total drag. When I first read blurbs hailing the film as gruesome, dramatic, and hilarious, I was expecting something between Rockstar and Dead Alive. What I got instead was something between a chick-flick and a home movie. The plot is tedious, unless you want to spend an hour and a half of watching a 13 year old suffering constantly. Seriously, the protagonist, T.J, is tormented by his own family, school bullies, authority figures, and especially by the titular character, Hesher. The bad guys are all one-dimensionally cruel, with an annoying heartlessness bordering on that of a cartoon supervillain. Even the good guys are a pain in the ass, as they seem to be pathetic martyrs who passively suffer. For a movie that revolves around death, violence, and substance abuse, it somehow manages to be incredibly boring. Like all dramas, it has the requisite family dinner scene in which the males yell at each other, break the dishes, and storm off while the womenfolk weep and plead them to stop.

As for Hesher himself...
For all the depth he has, he might as well be a stick figure shouting "Weed! Beer! Motorhead! Fire! I'm an asshole! Rawr!" He is basically a caricature of all the negative stereotypes about Metalheads. On the plus side, at least he's not predictable. Even if you don't know what his next move will be, you can rest assured that he is consistently acting like a horrible dick. The worst part is, he'd be kind of hot if he wasn't such an insufferable asshole.

I'm not just being facetious when I say that the credits are my favorite part of the movie. That is the only time you hear a Metal song in its entirety, and I was also mildly entertained by the gallery of Hesher's art that looks like obscene graffiti from a bathroom stall. 

As grueling as this film is, it isn't all bad. The scene in which Hesher smokes weed with the Grandmother is so wrong, yet so beautiful, like the breast-feeding scenario in Grapes Of Wrath.  For the most part, however, this is an account of unjust existential tragedy, the likes of which I haven't seen since the Old Testament. I can acknowledge the allure of the movie's concept, but in all honesty, I pretty much hated the whole thing. Two stars outta five. 

Wake Up Dead

You know that Megadeth song about a really brutal hangover? I'll never understand it, because I rarely get hangovers. I guess the Booze Gods are rewarding me for my piety?
Anyway, I missed that punk show in Albuqurque because I spent all day getting my ID, but the booze gods gave me further libations in the form of a Metal bar show in Santa Fe, so glory be to the saviors.

These Charming Cobras are a Punk Rock trio with a variety of musical influences, the most prominent of which is, in their own words, "Agitated Guitar Rock". To the best of my limited abilities, I can detect the same simple catchiness, insane loudness, and twangy guitars that characterize Surf Rock. The vocals are deceptively charming (heh), belying creepy and abstract lyrics saturated with dark metaphors. I love spookiness, but I admire the ability to make it appeal to a mass audience even more.  Even people who think they don't like Punk end up liking These Charming Cobras. Plus, the band members are super-nice. Charmed, I'm sure.

Obelisk are best described as "Party Sludge." Somehow, they mangage to be simultaneously lethargic and intense. The melodies are deep, low, brooding guitar hooks and the drumming is equally heavy. The vocals are unmistakably Metal, a perfect balance between screaming and growling. Apparently they have a Demo, as I discovered approximately five seconds ago. It's about freaking time.

Serial Hawk, hailing from Seattle, is Stoner Metal cranked up to awesomely painful volumes. Their music is purely primal, from the caveman-esque drumming to the creepy, chant-like vocal style. If the dudes who made Stonehenge were Metalheads (and there's no evidence to the contrary), I'm sure they listened to something like Serial Hawk before they sacrificed hot chicks to the Dragon Lord or some shit.

I may not be hungover, but all those rum n' cokes are wreaking havok on my motor skills. If anything, I might still be a little tipsy. Can you imagine seeing a show like this for your 21st? I have a bruise on my sternum from repeated impact with my chin (headbang responsibly, kids) along with some other mysterious wounds, but otherwise I'm alive and well. Holy crap.

I think this warrants saying again: GLORY BE TO THE SAVIORS.

Monster Bash

Once more, I must apologize for my hiatus from writing, though in my defense, this particular digression was fueled by neither drugs nor laziness. Instead, I got my ass kicked in a mosh pit, and have been in recovery ever since. I'm mostly intact, sans a few teeth and higher brain functions, but otherwise alive and well. Let's take a flashback to that infamous night, the legendary Monster Bash of Warehouse 21.

The Advocates were mass-appealing funky rock in the vein of Rage Against The Machine. They played with enough charisma and talent to make most local rock bands envious, a feat even more impressive when you consider this was their first live show. On the other hand, being unknown, they didn't have a large audience, yet those who were present will probably become loyal fans.

    Next on the bill were local legends Grinkai, infamous Death Metallers who boast both brutality and musicianship. Although their music is of an abrasive, barn-burning variety, the distorted riffs hint toward some kind of catchy melody. The band has gained notoriety in the local scene for their unique brand of marketable psychosis. There's no one else like them, for better or for worse.And as usual, I loved every second of it.

    HN-88 claims to be kid-friendly, but they're really Blink 182 in disguise. Yet it is a thin veil, and I have come to expect innuendos, graphic violence, and other teenage shenanigans I know and love from 90's Pop-Punk. So they're not kid-friendly so much as a magnet for rebellious teenage girls, or burnt out Metalheads filling the void with guilty pleasures (such as myself).  It was like Vans Warped Tour all over again.

     Finally, Savage Wizdom took the stage. If you don't know who they are, either read more of my shit, move to Santa Fe, or download all their songs. It's worth it, trust me. It was during this last set that the pits got even more rowdy. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but I'm pretty sure people got knocked out cold and had to be rescued by their friends. On my end of the deal, I got a bloody nose, a few bruises, and though I can technically eat solid stuff, it hurts like hell. Guess I'll just have to consume liquids... *glug glug glug*

So, ultimately, there was Funk, Death Metal, Pop-Punk, and traditional Heavy Metal all in one night, not to mention hot chicks, booze, and grievous injuries. Hell yeah, can't wait 'til next year! Four stars outta five!

Denim and Leather: Headbanger Style

   Metal was the unloved bastard-child of the hippie generation. We inherited the drugs and long-haired rebellion. Hell, we even kept the unhealthy obsession with music. It's the music itself we changed. Bands like Led Zeppelin bridged the abyss, hence the elements of Bohemia in the Metalhead wardrobe. The most obvious connection is the long hair, which was shocking, offensive, even freakish to society until the late 6o's. Other examples include the John Lennon glasses worn by Ozzie Osbourne, the peace signs and love beads of Enuff Z'nuff, and the psychedelic prints of virtually all Glam-Rock bands. The only constant, with few exceptions, was the outrageous hair. Like the mohawks and liberty-spikes of Punk Rock, the tresses of the Metal masses symbolize deliberate rebelllion. It asserts individuality in a world full of crewcuts and neckties. Songs like Quiet Riot's Metal Health even turned this feature into an asset. Now long hair was ideal for the new dance-style... Headbanging.

     Never try to bang your head in heels. The shoes of a Metalhead are generally more practical than fashionable. The platform monstrosities worn by KISS would be useless in a mosh pit. Hence the frequent use of combat boots and sneakers. Sebastian Bach, the lead singer of Skid Row, even has a pair of converse tattooed on his arm. Illegal situations were romanticised, further reinforcing the desire for functional footwar.Solid grip and tough material would make for a succesful getaway when evading cops.

     Another example of law-repellent fashion was the innovation of spikes. Metalheads attending riotous concerts wore spiked collars to  prevent chokeholds and headlocks. On the other hand, studs and spikes are of twofold origin. Bands like Judas Priest donned bondage gear as a testament to the sexuality of the genre. Therefore, the studs embody the paradox of violence and eroticism. In the case of S&M apparel, it is not a paradox so much as a blending of sex and violence. Then again, paradox defines the genre. Blues and classical, glamour and death, anger and hope. In the end, it doesn't matter what we wear. It will become bloodstained one way or another.

Machine-Eye Photography: An Image Caught in Time

Unlike most photographers, Miguel Chavez captures movement, not moments. The  atmosphere of live music is reflected in his candid shots of mid-concert mayhem. He captures the definitive examples of mosh pits, of mass hysteria, the unison in entropy that epitomizes the art of concerts. Prolonged poses are rare in his art.  Even the standstills are obviously candid, a fleeting pause between motions. His photography has been featured at galleries such as Warehouse 21, a match made in heaven as W21 moonlights as a venue at which many such concerts take place. Artistic, punk-as-fuck, and all around awesome photographs.

Visit Miguel Chavez's photography blog here...

...Or his Flickr here.