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!

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.

High Octane Hell Ride: The spiritual side of moshing

     A mosh pit is a spiritual experience, the name itself implies descent, as if into hell or to Plato's cave. It's almost a Karmic endeavor, purging yourself of emotional pain by inflicting physical pain on another, and they do the same to you. Although everyone is pitted against each other, punching, kicking, and slamming indiscriminately, it is mutually consenting. Genuine hostility has no place among fellow metalheads. The reaction in a pit is alchemy, melding and mixing metal to create immortality. When a band member has suffered a loss, whether of his family or a friend, he may request a mosh pit to alleviate the death. This practice is a modernization of ancient Greek funeral games, which simultaneously celebrate the individual while mourning his departure. It is competetive, yet benevolent. In death, the blood congeals, so you want to see it spilled from the audience. Too many people die in their sleep, so wake the fuck up. Your pain is psychological, so it will be dispersed among the brave in its far more bearable physical manifestation. We voluntarily thrash for those who can no longer move. Our hair spins and falls, oscillates between gravity and the rebellion against such, pulses violently as if to fling the negativity out of our skulls. Over the heavy kickbeat and wicked guitar, we raise our heads upright for a nanosecond, lock eyes with a stranger, anyone from a cute punk girl with a lisp, to a muscular gangster whose face is obscured by scars. You make eye contact, smirk mischievously, and nod with grim acknowlegdement of your fate. You both sprint forward, teeth bared and arms crossed, bounce back on impact and crash into a bystander. He pushes you with his fists, out of pure instinct. He will pick you up when you fall just to shove you back in, then you'll feel the unmistakable strike of an elbow in your sternum, you trip over the stage, sight obscured by hair and blood, the lights are blinking and flashing to further disorient you. The sounds are distorted and echoing, you're dizzy and confused. This is the kind of high energy disoriented adrenaline rush that most people have to pop pills in order to achieve. You savor the sadomasochistic bliss on the filthy floor, when suddenly you are unceremoniously siezed by the armpits, yanked upright, and crammed back into the cesspool.