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. 

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!

Space Trip

There are no re-entries at Launchpad. Just like a real rocket mission, once you’re in, that’s it. There is no escaping the celestial spectacle, unless you feel like being thrust into an endless vacuum of instant boredom or death, respectively. The interior is ornamented with dazzling graffiti and stickers juxtaposed on the grimy walls. The floors are sick with gum and spit, and even the ceiling looks like it’s been wounded by rowdy rockers. This is definitely a venue which is as scarred as its patrons. But once the lights fade, it’s all about the music, and even the sight of such beautiful gore takes a backseat to the audio assault.

This is the back-ground noise of stealing everything you hate and burning it alive. This is a forced catharsis, a necessary sedation. When the door closes, you are ensnared in the hot-box. Claustrophobia is a catalyst for mosh pits, some of the best I’ve ever been in. The sounds pulse on the floor and echo off the walls. The lights reflect the bloodstains on your shoes. Everything culminates and congeals into a high-octane hell-ride. The aim is to delve so deep into the darkness that you are absolved of it. A concert at Launchpad is like being unable to take a religious fast, so you just drink whiskey until you vomit. By the time the ritual is complete, the sky is dark with rare stars, and the desert night is cold. At this time, there is no cause for complaint. All that remains is panic upon realizing how far you are from home.