Two For One

 Due to another Hunter S. Thompson-esque binge on everything, I forsook my stupid blog for a trip to Europe. The circumstances, being out of my control, led me not to Metal meccas such as Sweden or Norway, but to the city of lights. 26 Rue Des Lombards of Paris, France boasts Black Dog, the typical bar appealing to rich socialites who want to be rockers for a night. It's the kind of place that named itself after a song to inadvertently ride the coat-tails of the band who made said song. It's also the kind of place that charges six fucking Euros for a Rum & Coke that's mostly Coke. In their defense, the music was pretty good. The playlist includes Amon Amarth, Cradle Of Filth, Arch Enemy, and other bands who play Metal of the melodic, catchy sort to please the unwashed masses. I ventured here for the sole purpose of getting laid by a hot French Metalhead, but alas, this is not a good place to meet people. The bar is full of pre-established cliques, so if you come alone, alone you shall stay. This is a place to bring your (wealthy) friends and socialize. Seriously, six fucking Euros for a mixed drink?! It wouldn't be so bad if it was at least a normal sized drink, but it was in a fancy-pants, post-mod,  tiny little glass. I guess that's classy and chic to drink from glassware that appears to be manufactured for dolls. Fuck that.

So much for the "classy" Metal bar. On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have Cantada II, a bar far more easy, cheesy, and all around sleazy. It doesn't even call itself a bar; it calls itself a cabaret. The naked ladies were pretty cool, but I was more psyched about the fact that I could actually afford to get drunk here. Absinthe is about four Euros for the cheap stuff, and by the time I finished drinking it, I was too smashed to remember how much the wine costs. The atmosphere is far superior as well. It looks like the scene from an early Queensryche music video, with plastic skeletons everywhere, creepy lighting, melting candles on old iron chandeliers... This is a stark contrast to the modernist decor of the Black Dog, which I found pretentious and forced. On the other hand, Cantada is just another bar full of cliques, so you're still never gonna get laid.

I end this review with the drunken afterthought that The Louvre would be a kickass venue for a Symphonic Metal show. Everything gets four stars.

 

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.