The Spiritual Implications Of Mosh Pits, According To A Drunk (Me)

(Rewind: Spring 2011 ) I had learned of Danno's death a week after it transpired. Strangely enough, the day of his death and the day I got news of it had a lot in common. They were Friday mornings for him on the East Coast, Friday nights for me in the Southwestern mountains. And for both of these nights, W21 hosted Metal shows, and both concerts featured the band Obelisk. As such, obelisks have come to symbolize resilience, endurance, and the ability to turn pain into art. That is the glory of Metal, despite its grotesqueness.

The loss of a loved one is one of the most alienating experiences you can ever know. It's like being stranded in the middle of a vast desert, all alone and completely lost. No matter which direction you wander in, it feels like you'll be in this barren wasteland forever. But if in your wanderings you stumble upon something like an obelisk, you'll know that someone was in the same desert as you, they suffered the same loneliness you did, but their sorrow inspired them to create a massive testament to their injured yet ever-present dignity. And you know that maybe you could do it too.

So much for the imagery. As for the actual band, I don't think it was a coincidence that I happened to see them perform both on the night of Danno's death, during which I was ignorant, and the night I learned of it exactly a week thereafter. To paraphrase Albert Einstein, either everything is a miracle or nothing is. Of all the amazing musicians of which I call myself a fan, none were so commensurable with my own psyche as Obelisk was at the time. Their music sounds like melancholy sublimating into rage.

I remember when the bearer of bad news concluded his sad story, something like "...Peacefully in his sleep." My jaw dropped and I walked back into the concert hall, in a daze. I hated the audience for having a good time when such a travesty occured. I hated myself for having even more fun than them just minutes before. I hated the band for sounding just like how I felt. Then, lost in self pity, I was brought back down to earth both literally and figuratively as I was shoved from behind. A mosh pit had spontaneously broken out. I figured Danno's blood will never again pulse, let alone spill, nor his heart ever beat, let alone race. I might as well do it for him. I picked myself up and pushed back. I was moshing for two now. It felt good to knock some anonymous strangers around for a while. It also felt good to endure a little manhandling myself.

I didn't want to "take my mind off it", to distract myself from the tragedy that still stings me to this day. To the contrary,l I've never been so intently focused on one thing in my entire life. My brains, my bones, my blood, my bruises... They were all saturated with the memory of Danno, and that memory has not faded since.

Anyway, I just want to dispel the myth that mosh pits are futile exercises of violence and/or stupidity. Not everyone has the luxury of close proximity to the gravesites of the beloved. Even if I was granted that blessing, I have already aquired a taste for blood. And unlike the ephemeral flowers which rot faster than the graves on which they are placed, my scars are here to stay.

Band Review: Eat A Helicopter

Do you like stuff like Whitechapel and Chelsea Grin, but your concert budget consists of of $20 and a bottle of cheap vodka? Worry no longer, comrades. Eat A Helicopter is just as awesome at a fraction of the cost. If you don't believe me, here's a music video. If you like what you hear, buy the album Descend Into Darkness,  available on Itunes.

The drumming is the typical Metal style, a relentless machine-gun fussilade. The aggressive guitar riffs are reminiscent of the better Miss May I songs. The vocals sound like a pissed off demon. Unlike many Metal acts, the lyrics follow a traditional poetry structure of rhyming couplets and a solid meter. The result is not necessarily melodic, but extremely rhythmic. The music has an underlying groove to it, albeit agitated and heavy.

I rather enjoy the moments when the band vocalizes in unison. It sounds like an angry mob of protesters who are about to erupt into a headline-making riot. There's something tribal, almost cult-ish about the "Us vs. Them" vibe I get from such moments. It's morbidly intriguing. The lyrics are usually poignant without being preachy, but sometimes they are just plain boss. ("All you zombies bounce!" comes to mind here. )

The album art is brilliant in its simplicity: The band logo above, the unassuming CD title below, and a disintegrating hottie in between. The image on the back appears to be a sillhouette of a gravestone wrapped in barbed wire. Seriously, after the aforementioned cheap vodka and this bottle of pills I found, I couldn't look away.

The CD's lifespan is cut tragically short at about 16 minutes worth of music. I could listen to this stuff for hours on end. Thank God for the repeat button, His gift to humanity. The concerts are even better than the recordings. I love a good mosh pit, but I also know how to choose my battles. Stray away from EAH shows if you are faint of heart, lest you have a faint heart attack.

Seriously, these guys will put you in the hospital.

Five stars outta five.

Metal Alliance 2012

Well, fuck. It's been a rowdy ass weekend frought with mayhem and debauchery. Warehouse 21 hosted yet another Metal show on Saturday, but more about that later. Today, I'm going to focus on the craziness that was the Metal Alliance tour. First of all, it came to my neck of the woods on Easter Sunday. The Holy Day is a pretty weird time to do anything, let alone have a freaking Death Metal Concert. And on Zombie Jesus day, too?! Thankfully, I gave up Christianity for Lent, so I wasn't too worried.

Unfortunately, the tour manager was kind of a bitchy diva, so the local bands had tiny sets. Seriously, I  missed half of Fields Of Elysium's set just by blinking. They only played two songs, both of them recently composed, and both of which are available on the new CD. Last I heard, it only costs $7, and it has some killer cover art to boot.

Whoah, trippy.

 The other local band was From Sacrifice To Survival, who even in their 30 minutes (if that) pretty much upstaged the headliners. You don't have to take my word for it though. They too have an EP, available to download for free. Heavy, intense, and insane.

The only other extaordinary band was 3 Inches Of Blood. Don't get me wrong, the line up was truer than truth itself, but I couldn't tell one band from the next, awesome though they were. 3 Inches Of Blood, however, stood out as a paragon of modernized Traditional Heavy Metal. Think the high-pitched hooks of Judas Priest juxtaposed with contemporary screams and riffs. It was amazing.

Like I said, I love all the other acts to death. That doesn't mean I can differentiate them from each other. For the record, though, it was Wretched, The Faceless, Dying Fetus, Job For A Cowboy, and Devildriver. The lattermost band was the headliner, and boast one of the largest Circle Pits in history.

Speaking of mosh pits... I took a beating or two that night. I can usually fend for myself in a slamdance, but this time things got all crazy. I'm not complaining, mind you. It was cathartic as hell. Plus, I look like a badass now. I even have photographic evidence of how cool I am.

Fuckin' owwww.

This might just be the brain damage talking, but I give it five 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!

Scattered Hamlet: Hard Rock with a Southern Twist

Scattered Hamlet has filled the void since Four Locos were banned from virtually all sane establishments in America. The rowdy, intoxicating, energetic vibe that was illegalized to drink is now accessible from concerts, such as that which took place on November 19^th at the El Rey. The show promised to crank it even louder than 11, and Scattered Hamlet fulfilled expectations. Not that I’ve ever read any cheesy romance novels, but you know the diamond-in-the-rough stable boy with whom the Southern Belle always has an affair? The rugged scoundrel who inexplicably becomes a babe magnet? That’s pretty  much each member of the band.

 Hillbilly high-jinks  combined with Metal mischief  makes for a rambunctious live show with wide appeal. Shotguns, mosh-pits, and deer-skull pentagrams are a great transition from the rut most Metal has fallen into, without straying too far from our Hard-Rock comfort zone. It’s how Hellyeah would be if the songs were catchier and the musicians were less ugly. 

(I shall now digress to an anecdote of awesomeness. When a mosh crossed the line from slam-dance to oh-shit-where-is-my-mace, the lead singer forsook the stage to give Security a hand. Meanwhile, the rest of the band kept playing like it was another day in the life. Given evidence for their sheer bad-assery, it probably was.)

Scattered Hamlet is a taste of good ol’ Metal injected with some rarely seen Southern intensity, a gimmick which sets them apart from the masses. Another deviation from the Metal norm is the fact that these dudes were totally hot, whereas, as the fictional Strongbad so eloquently stated, the gift of Death-Metal does not smile on the good-looking.

I may not have my beloved Four Locos, but at least I have Scattered Hamlet (who happens to be sponsored by Jagermeister, so alcohol still wins.) Four stars outta five.

Check out Scattered Hamlet's website here...

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.

Obelisk: Further reflections on mosh pit spirituality

     The pain of a pit is practically sexual, combining karma and libido into a Tantric event, like iron evolving into gold. The moshers are sadomasochistic; some dominate the pit with a vengeance while others submit to their pain and love every minute of it. The only true gimps are the spectators who do nothing, but stand in the perimeter and behold the moshers with mild curiosity or feigned indifference. But the Tantric vibrations are alive and kicking in the moshers, throbbing and pulsing like a bed against the wall. We jump in unison, we pump our fists in perfect sync with each other, we bang our heads as individuals and then as an entirety. Headbanging in and of itself is provocative. Anatomically speaking, thrusting the torso downward puts you in the same position as thrusting the hips up. Headbanging is the coquettish hairflip of a tease amped on acid. Headbanging is distorted flirting, distorted passion, arms awkwardly slung around each others shoulders as we move our bodies in unison, sweating and screaming all the while. We lose ourselves, we get dizzy and fall, we stagger to each other when the blaring speakers and schizophrenic lights overwhelm us. Each metalhead is a source of support for the others, a solid obelisk to withstand the barren desert that the individual can not endure alone.

   The beauty of metal, in all of its grotesqueness, is unison in entropy. While we jump and push and lunge in a bedlam state, we know what we are doing. We are fully conscious, aware of every blow we suffer and reciprocate. Although the multicolored lights can dazzle us, we can differentiate them from the shadows. We are as sentient worms, writhing and struggling in the soil which imprisons us. The psychosexual violence of the pit aims to unite us in our solitude, our self-induced isolation. We delve so deep into negativity that we absolve ourselves of it.

   A good metal concert is like being unable to take a religious fast, so you just drink straight whiskey until you vomit. If that’s your way to cleanse yourself, then just indulge in the blood orgy, knowing that you need to take a little poison in order to heal yourself. A good concert is a glorified primal scream, it is the lead singers vocals solidified throughout the entire venue. We growl when we feel threatened, shout when we’re horny, yell when we’re hurting. There is always an eternal scream, one in which we wallow until it possesses us. Under the control of this demon, we twist our hands to resemble his horns and raise them high, reaching toward the heavens that we may taint them. Somehow our militant anger is neutralized, though I doubt this is the work of angels, lest they are of the fallen variety. If stage diving has taught me anything, it’s that gravity’s a bitch. But at the same time, my fallen comrades are waiting for me below, some with devil horns, some with fists, some with open hands, ready to catch me and bring me to their world.