Words by Jay H. Gorania; Harm’s Way photo by Steven Tippett

A stone’s throw southward from the railroad—on the “wrong side of the tracks,” of course—the show’s DIY venue was the gutted-out, rented-out spare space of an auto repair shop. Sometimes the car shop owners/employees are heard outside chatting in Spanish while they’re choking down cheap beer. The leather couches outside the venue stood out like a sore thumb from the interior’s rubble-like chunks of concrete, as well as the jagged poles and wires that wind down from the ceiling as though they’re reaching down to strangle or stab you. And there’s a blood-stained teddy bear. There is no rock star lighting, no rock star excess.

The venue had once been an underground black metal store. It was either here or at the other location at which the store was located (a few years ago) that an elderly Christian man who owned the property inquired about a dead chicken that was being carried around. “Is that for some kind of Satanic ritual?” Apparently it was, and the black metal shop owners were subsequently evicted, not surprisingly. Why would the scruffy-faced, barely-bathed heathen relating this story to me admit that to the old man? But I digress…

Fast-forward to 2011, the DIY venue was the crossroads at which two separate hardcore tours met for a much-anticipated eight-band bill. Take Offense started things off with a decidedly metallic spin on old-school hardcore, sounding like a bunch of metalheads doing their best to channel the spirit of the Cro-Mags.

Betrayal followed up with the kind of generic breakdown-after-breakdown approach that gives hardcore a bad name.

That hiccup aside, Harm’s Way picked up the violent thread Take Offense was sewing and figuratively jabbed the needle through the audience’s collective heart. The musical brawn and burliness took shape in the commanding presence of Harm’s Way vocalist James, a short, shirtless, muscular dude who looked like he was born to kick ass. Yet this wasn’t an exercise in tough-guy hardcore simplicity. Instead, Harm’s Way’s coarse music was down-trodden and essentially the backdrop for which James could unleash a session of primal scream therapy.

If Harm’s Way’s desolate energy provided the soundtrack to someone committing a crime and spending time in prison, New York’s Backtrack provided the soundtrack for that person’s “getting out of jail” party, a much more interactive performance typical of what one would expect from a hardcore show. Anthemic and energetic, driven by bare-boned simplicity and plenty of negative space between and within the riffs, Backtrack’s fist-pumping mania was only that much more enjoyable because of vocalist James Vitalo’s hollering that found idiosyncrasy with its relatively high-pitched nature. In other words, he doesn’t sound like the billion dudes in metal and hardcore who are nothing but generic, third-rate rip-offs of Phil Anselmo.

If you take the balls out of hardcore, then you’ve got Hundredth. No one was pointing a gun to my head, so I didn’t have to listen to their generic cry-baby cop/bad cop melodic hardcore. I gladly left the building.

Stray From the Path’s take on hardcore was both contemporary and catchy, referencing metallic hardcore post ’95, augmented with explosive blasts of noisecore here and there, as well as early millennium metalcore. Drew York, more of a yeller than a screamer, spat out lyrics with a quick, barked delivery, doing a sufficient job of rousing the crowd. And true to the picture-perfect image of a hardcore show, fans regularly lunged forward to scream into the mic extended by the vocalist.

At one point, however, no one knew the words, York’s eyes flipping right-to-left as though he was on the lookout while stealing from a cookie jar. Awkward. A moment later he found some dude who knew all the words to pick up the dropped ball. Sweet relief!

The much-hyped Trapped Under Ice followed suit, and they certainly did not disappoint with their jarring, teeth-grinding music that transitioned from old school hardcore muscle to Biohazard-like metallic hardcore/hip hop groove. You could fight to their music, you could dance to it. What sets Trapped Under Ice apart from the pack is that their songs stay with you, entering your eardrums and gnawing on your gray matter.

A hard act to follow, but Terror is an intimidating live act regardless of how someone feels about their music. Frontman Scott Vogel, formerly of the legendary, now-defunct Buried Alive, was in fine more, ruling the crowd that already paid him the blind-eyed devotion that a preacher at church might receive. It was “maximum output” throughout their set, and an hour or two beforehand, Vogel went bonkers while watching one of the opening bands at the side of the stage, grunting and punching yours truly in the torso. Hardcore!

Every rose has its thorn, though. While their prototypical hardcore numbers were well-crafted and powerful, their more recent thrash metal-flavored material was forgettable and generic, for the most part, in spite of the proficiency with which they were played.

A last-minute addition of Letlive, a rocking post-hardcore act, seemed to excite the crowd. It was well played; it was passionate; and it made me feel embarrassed for their talented but ridiculously melodramatic singer. The last time they played here he fell before my feet in a pile of sob and emotion. I’m not sure what he was sobbing about, but I was mourning the death of Clint Eastwood—figuratively speaking, that is. In other words, when did men lose their balls?

By Jay H. Gorania

Kevin Mahoney, founding member and former singer (and occasional saxophonist) of the legendary Boston band Siege, died Friday, October 14. He worked in the IT industry, at hospitals, for the better part of his adult life; however the extreme music underground will always respect and remember him for his frantic, intense vocals for Siege, a game-changing band that was a pre-cursor to what eventually became grindcore.

Aside from a brief reformation in 1991 with Anal Cunt singer Seth Putnam—another Boston-area legend who sadly died this year—Siege played a hyper-charged, thrash-influenced form of hardcore sometimes referred to as “thrash-core” between 1983 and 1985. But they weren’t a flash in the pan. They burned a hole right through it.

Their legacy stands on the strength of their pivotal six-song demo, Drop Dead, which was accompanied in several re-issues with three tracks from Pushead’s Cleanse the Bacteria compilation (a couple of re-issues included three other songs). And that’s it. That’s all they ever released. On the strength of that alone, Siege was and is unquestionably a pioneering band for all grindcore, powerviolence and fast hardcore.

For years, yours truly has found catharsis and satisfaction through grindcore, so about a decade ago I traced the genre’s origins to several bands including Siege. Upon first hearing Drop Dead via Relapse Records’ mail-order, I was awe-struck over the fact that such brutal, fast and incredible songs were recorded in 1984. I’m still blown away, and it rivals the intensity of any band today. But who cares about my perspective? Here’s what some notable folks, including some of grindcore’s pioneers, leaders and up-and-comers, have to say in tribute to Kevin Mahoney and Siege…

Mark “Barney” Greenway – NAPALM DEATH (vocals)
It sort of blows my mind that a lot of people who, in recent times, have picked up on fast hardcore/powerviolence/what’s-its-name don’t have an inkling about Siege. There were lots of quality bands around in the early-to-mid eighties doing the chaotic speed thing, but Siege’s Drop Dead demo is the center-point for me—classic songwriting and an off-the-rails attack of the highest caliber. I never knew Kevin, but he delivered his lines like it was the end of the world. We’ve been playing “Conform” live now for a while, and it’s our nod of appreciation, if you like. Rest easy, Kev.

Champ Morgan – KILL THE CLIENT (vocals)
Sad to hear of Kevin Mahoney’s passing. Siege were a fantastic band that basically started what became grindcore. Kevin’s vicious, rabid dog vocal style and the band’s savage music were like a ripping blade to your skull. They had such raw, unbridled power. It always sounded right on the verge of blowing up. They influenced the “godfathers” of grind. Without Kevin there never would have been Napalm Death. No Terrorizer. The list goes on and on. None of it. They took punk rock, turned the volume to 11, the speed to 100 mph, and kept angry social lyrics pounding through your head. This is a big loss to the grindcore and powerviolence scenes. Truly a sad day.

Richard Johnson – DRUGS OF FAITH/AGORAPHOBIC NOSEBLEED (vocals/bass)
The first thing that comes to mind when hearing of Siege’s loss is the description Relapse used to put in their old catalogues about the Drop Dead album, which in part went something like, “If you don’t own this, you can’t call yourself a true fan of grindcore!” I suppose that sums it up, because Siege was so important to the evolution of grindcore. I could say that I would never have played grindcore without Napalm Death or Terrorizer, but they wouldn’t have sounded quite the way they did without Siege.

William Yurkiewicz – Co-owner of RELAPSE RECORDS/EXIT-13 (vocals)
Rest in peace Kevin Mahoney, singer of Siege, without a doubt the most savage American hardcore punk band, responsible for influencing the creation of “grindcore.” Aristotelian prime movers of musical extremity and lyrical profundity. I can remember flipping out over the page in Maximum Rock ‘n Roll magazine and that classic live photo. I can still recall the exact disbelief at first hearing the three tracks on Pushead’s Cleanse the Bacteria international hardcore compilation LP. I still have the dubbed Maxell cassette I got via tape trading that had the Drop Dead demo on it. Of all the recordings that I ever had a hand in releasing/distributing via my label, Siege’s Drop Dead CD has to be the top one that makes me the most proud and satisfied that I chose a career in music. I consider Siege drummer Robert Williams to be one of my closest musical compatriots and love his post-Siege band Nightstick nearly as much as Siege. I doubt any new music will ever be created that has the same devastating effect of hearing Siege in 1985. They literally changed my life forever. But don’t just take my word for it. “Siege will always have a special place in me,” says former Napalm Death drummer Mick Harris. “Still play Siege every week or so. Nothing stronger,” says former Napalm Death bassist/vocalist Nicholas Bullen. The music increases in gravitas with every listen, with every passing day and with each new stunned fan having their mind blown away by the unrelenting ferocity. Siege rule all, and this music will live forever.

Dave Callier – PLF (aka Pretty Little Flower – vocals/guitar)
If you ask me, Siege was totally pioneering extreme thrash hardcore in the United States. No one was playing that fast, or that intense in the Northeast at that time. The Neos were across the border to the north, and bands like Lärm or Asocial were all the way on the other side of an ocean. Kevin Mahoney—and the other young, pissed-off punk rockers in Siege—was certainly raging with pure, otherworldly fury to unleash such unadulterated blasts of protest and pure hate as they did. They shredded passed the pretentious mask of fashion and image that can sometimes characterize punk music, and just raged in absolute hell. His intensity as a vocalist was certainly unmatched, at the time, and paved the way for legions of bands to come. Salutes to a man who left such a mark, without posture or pretense, but only righteous anger and outrage.

Mike IX Williams – EYEHATEGOD/ARSON ANTHEM (vocals)
Boston legends are passing quickly these days it seems. It’s sad but true. Last year we lost Mark Sheehan, vocalist of the prolific and mighty Massachusetts outfit Out Cold, then my good friend Seth Putnam—who coincidently sang for a different version of Siege in the early ’90s—lead screamer and conceptualist of state enemies Anal Cunt, and now most recently Kevin Mahoney, the original raspy throated front man of the aforementioned proto-grind quartet Siege. These Northeastern forefathers of fast as fuck HC Punk were truly ahead of their time, and after hearing a probably ninth-generation tape traded dub of the so-called Drop Dead sessions, I was never the same. Along with Holland’s Lärm and the Neos from Canada, Siege were one of the super quick thrash units we couldn’t get enough of for sheer speed and intensity. It’s insane the influence and legacy they have left in their wake as not much info was available on the group while they were active; always mysteriously absent in fanzines, rare to play live gigs, and their recorded output was minuscule at best. A real musical inspiration to me, the mythology of Siege will live on. Rest in peace Kevin.

Brian Patton – SOILENT GREEN/EYEHATEGOD (guitar)
Well, I didn’t really know the man at all, but Siege was a big influence on me, no doubt. The first time I had heard them was on some crappy compilation, what feels like forever ago, and it was the only band that had three songs on it. I wondered why, and when I heard them I understood. Short and fast as fuck. One, one of the true originators of fast and ugly music; two, one of Boston’s best, no doubt; and three, one of the bands that still hasn’t aged. I can still listen to those guys and it makes me feel the same as I did so many years ago. One word: Fuck! It also make me think of another fallen legend: Mr. Seth Putnam, who I think did a short time with them in place of Kevin, and was very proud to do so. All I can say is: Another down for the count that has made a real impact to music, and he will be missed. Break Down the Walls!

Joe Mack – COMPLETE FAILURE (vocals)
In the short time Siege had to create and dissolve what ended up becoming an entire sound, most bands today aren’t even able to cue up their hair and metallic all-over print shirts properly for the next swing of promo shots. Not a whole lot was said when Siege was around, and even less is known to speak of about it today. But what was put forth was one of a kind and completely legendary. At the forefront of that mysticism and ability was Kevin Mahoney, the most notable element of Siege. It’s somewhat pretentious that I even comment as I was about four years old when the tracks that ended up becoming Siege’s groundbreaking Drop Dead came to be. But it’s something that has had an impact on me for many years and always will. Siege was raw and primitive as a sound, but honest and clear-as-fuck as a message. I’d like to personally challenge you to find that anywhere today. Rest in peace, Kevin Mahoney.

Exploiting the turbulence of the world in every way imaginable, the political campaigning cycle in the United States has become a nauseating, 24/7 machine that simply never stops. Any break from the monotony of prudish American political ads would be an event worth welcoming. Sure, we probably won’t find that any time soon stateside, but in Poland, someone is straying from the norm in the most entertaining way possible…for metalheads, anyway.

Jedrzej Wijas, a politician involved with Poland’s Democratic Left Alliance (SLD) party, has just unleashed something that resembles a death metal video more than a political campaign ad. Taking on the appearance of a death metal vocalist in the video, the metalhead politician spouts his message, which translates into English as:

“End of the useless talking / Enough of the stupid wars / Secular government / Dignified life / Freedom / Is my goal / Vote wisely.”

Politics as usual? Hell no! \m/

By Jay H. Gorania

Here is the third and final installment of Jay H. Gorania’s tour diary of being out on tour in Europe this past April with Today Is The Day. Having already toured through the UK, we now find TITD and Soilent Green heading northwards into Scandinavia before working their way back down to the Mediterranean.

April 18 – Budapest, Hungary (day off)

In addition to the expected time spent relaxing, partying and sight-seeing on our day off, Steve went to the US Embassy only to find out that his best option for entering Austria without a passport was to hope for the best and simply wing it. As we were boozing and checking out comical YouTube videos in Soilent’s hotel room, Tommy went to bed early in a side room to catch up on some rest. But his fanaticism for metal showed itself in the most bizarre fashion. He turned in early, but he popped out of his room maybe ten different times over the course of an hour to randomly talk about various classic eighties metal albums, wrapping up his monologues by stating who produced the albums and when they were released, specific to month and year.

April 19 – Vienna, Austria

Fortunately, Steve’s suitcase arrived in the mail at the venue in the beautiful, age-old city of Vienna. There were numerous good bands and old friends at this show.

Reuniting with former TITD bassist John Judkins, who was there as Rwake’s touring bassist, was great, though hang-out time was sadly limited. This was the first of several dates we had with Arkansas’ sludge slingers Rwake and their tour mates: the UK’s Dragged Into Sunlight.

But the evening’s headliners weren’t shabby, by any means. It was Corrosion of Conformity, currently performing tracks from their 1980’s hardcore era as a three-piece (Reed Mullin, Woody Weatherman, Mike Dean). Their politically-charged, bare bones approach is as different as night and day from their modern, southern rock/southern metal style. The obvious fact that they’ve matured as musicians came through with the confidence with which they played, but generally speaking, they stayed true to the originals, and they played with the energy of 20-year-old kids.

April 20 – Prague, Czech Republic

Once again, we hooked up with Rwake and Dragged Into Sunlight in Prague, one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen. In 2008 I had a better view of the magnificent city, but this time around my direct line of vision allowed me to see Steve, Tommy and Soilent’s bassist Scott Crochet. Not quite as cool.

The show also included North Carolina’s Sourvein whose southern metal was packed full with excellently played traditional heavy metal solos and the kind of throat-shredding, hateful screams that would make Mike Williams proud.

Dragged Into Sunlight’s bleak, cold musical vision is compelling and intense on its own, never mind the visual display which includes a seizure-inducing light show. Perhaps the candle display and animal skulls looked a bit too clean for Watain’s stamp of approval?

Anyway, there was a unique appeal in their anti-rock star posturing. Aside from the drummer who faces the crowd, the rest of the musicians have their backs turned to the audience. It’s something different, something distant and not personal, augmenting the cold, detached and almost mechanical experience of their music which is difficult to pigeonhole, but to pretend that I know what I’m talking about, I’d describe it as a coarse, noisy kind of melodic, blackened doom that is atmospheric as well as aggressive.

April 21 – Malmo, Sweden

Spending time on the road means that special days occur many miles away from a person’s loved ones. In light of this, Soilent Green found it appropriate to ensure that Scott got a cake in Malmo for his birthday to make him feel more at home. So there was a whole lotta bromance going on back stage, but the festivities bled into the show as Ben urged the crowd to get the birthday boy some shots.

Scott seemed well-composed in spite of the seemingly endless river of booze pouring down his mouth, but one TITD fan wasn’t so well put together that evening. Screaming the lyrics to “Temple of the Morning Star” like an out-of-tune, drunken karaoke star, an amused Steve actually let the guy sing most of the song on the mic. Terrible, yet appropriate for the festive atmosphere.

After the show, I sat down with birthday boy Scott and Ben who were hanging out with some show goers. Spastically, I kept trying to turn around to check out a good looking girl, which made Ben laugh. “Calm down, Chim Chim!” (This is Ben’s ever-so affectionate nickname for me, referencing the chimp sidekick from the old Speed Racer cartoon). A guy from Finland seated at the table actually had the balls to say, “Every group has its gimp.”

I can handle a friend joking around, not a complete stranger. I called him out on it and told him he was out of line. He didn’t apologize. My blood began to boil.

He got up to go to the bathroom, probably at this specific moment to avoid an altercation. As soon as he was in my reachable vicinity, I jumped up and pushed him toward the wall. Almost instantly, a private security guard was in my face to end the situation.

If given the opportunity, I would have finished the Finnish guy. (Hardy Har Har)

April 22 – Oslo, Norway @ Inferno Festival

The next morning we began our extensive journey toward Oslo for Inferno Fest. On our way to the notorious hotbed of black metal, and to a fest at which black metal was in abundance, you’d think we would be blaring some Nordic black metal, right? But instead of Mayhem, we got Morrissey. That’s right, for whatever reason, either Ryan or Curran made the executive decision to play the Smiths.

While rolling down the highway, Steve asked Tommy to grab something or other from Steve’s suitcase since it was out of Steve’s reach. To everyone’s surprise, Tommy snapped his hand out of the suitcase and screamed. A chunk of flesh was sliced right off one of his fingers because Steve’s razors were in that suitcase pocket.

Prior to the 1994 Winter Olympics in Norway, the people involved with figure skater Tonya Harding were responsible for the attack of her competitor Nancy Kerrigan. And only half a year earlier, Count Grishnackh of course murdered black metal scene leader Euronymous in his Oslo apartment. Now, in 2011, did Steve Austin try to sabotage Soilent Green’s set at Inferno by attempting to disable their drummer?

Of course not, but that became a running joke. Steve felt really bad, and so did I because of what followed. Attempting to delicately hold his hand steady to look at the wound (Keep in mind that we were bouncing around in a moving van), I inadvertently squeezed the wounded finger and a stream of blood squirted up in the air.

Once we arrived and situated ourselves, I caught a few songs from Norwegian act Djerv, a female fronted band that blends hard rock, traditional metal and even punk rock, whilst not surprisingly showing traces of Norwegian-style black metal. Clearly the focal point with a strong, passionate melodic voice, Agnete Kjølsrud is reminiscent of The Eurythmics’ Annie Lennox both in terms of appearance as well as her attitude and strong stage presence. However cheesy they might have been, this band is unique. She was a little bit scary, though.

Perhaps more in line with my expectations of a band playing Inferno, France’s Temple Of Baal played through a melodic but blistering set of blackened death that favored a mid-paced gallop. It wasn’t exactly innovative, but that surely wasn’t the point anyway.

Also playing on the side stage, Today is the Day tore the universe a new arse. I’m not sure how many on hand were familiar with the band, but countless jaws were on the floor. Indeed, in spite of the imagery, lore and reputation of black metal or death metal, TITD is probably as musically hateful and violent as you can get. Because it’s real. No gimmicks. Just pure, primal rage.

Over on the main stage, Soilent Green also made quite an impression with their southern-fried bombast that of course ranged from sludge to maximum over-drive. And if a southern metal band doesn’t seem odd enough for a stereotypical perception of a Norwegian metalfest, the vocal contingent of Argentinian fans chanting for Soilent definitely took the “WTF?!?” factor to the next level.

The Black Dahlia Murder’s vocalist Trevor Strnad once told me that Soilent Green’s Ben Falgoust is the best frontman in metal. That’s a bold statement, to be sure, but there’s no question that Ben is highly entertaining by virtue of his robust singing style, animated movement and imposing stage presence. Wagging his freakishly long, ET-like fingers, he stirred the crowd at Inferno like a football coach would rouse his team at half time.

Toward evening’s end, however, the band everyone was waiting for emerged. Immortal’s performance was a show in every sense. As comical as some might perceive them to be, they really are the KISS of black metal in the best possible way. With pyrotechnics and a cloud of smoke so thick that it would choke Dracula, the band bounced across their catalogue with finesse. There is an aura to the band, and there is depth and emotion running underneath their extremely well-written songs. They were feeding off the crowd’s energy and delight.

The drinks and party spilled over to the world-class hotel where all the bands were put up. Unfortunately for me, I thought I was using my better judgment by turning in before a couple of my friends. About an hour later in the luxurious hotel’s lobby, my friends witnessed a photographer convince two gorgeous women who were at the festival to strip and make love inside the lobby’s decorative waterfall. I saw the pictures. I kicked myself for not being there.

April 23 – Copenhagen, Denmark

Red bull. Coffee. Weird named energy drinks. They helped me survive the day after Inferno.

April 24 – Brussels, Belgium

We weren’t that far from the venue when the van died right in front of an intersection. Appearing like a guardian angel, American photographer and friend Aline Cote-Miladinovich, who was with us at several shows (and who was already cool enough to get us hotel rooms in Copenhagen), came to the rescue with her friend, pulling up behind us out of sheer coincidence. Aline and Rwake’s tour manager helped car pool us to the venue in time to set up shop with very little time to spare.

Rwake, who were of course once produced by Steve Austin, loaned singer C.T. to Today is the Day for “Temple of the Morning Star.” It was our last show with Rwake and Dragged Into Sunlight, and I already missed DIS’s odd humor that was frequently about penises. Very strange.

Looking forward to a day off, a good time as any since the van problem had to be sorted, we stayed overnight with our old friend, former TITD guitar tech Kevin Lerminiau, the guitarist for Belgium’s Closure.

April 25 – Brussels, Belgium (day off)

Ah. There was time for rest and relaxation, and after the lengthy travels, we really needed the time to recharge our batteries. In the midst of shooting the shit, Kevin and I, both Pantera fans, picked at Tommy’s brain a bit to gather some random stories about Phil Anselmo. Soilent Green has known Phil and Pantera for years, both professionally and personally, but Tommy actually played with Phil’s black metal band Christ Inversion. He actually knew him since Phil sang like Rob Halford and had a crunchy, hair-sprayed mane, a frequently worn Mickey Mouse shirt, and a skin-tight pair of jeans held together at the fly by a shoe lace.

Like fan boy idiots, Kevin and I had comments along the lines of, “Dude, that’s totally sick!”

But earlier in the day while sight-seeing Brussels’ Grand Place, its historical central square, we came across the most unexpected of situations. As we were eating some grub, just sitting down on a courtyard’s curb, I heard Ryan raise his voice about some guy who was trying to kill himself. I asked him where, and he screamed, “Right there! He’s gonna kill himself.”

Standing on a milk crate while trying to bind the belt that was wrapped around his neck to a tree, a shaggy haired man in tattered clothing appeared to be doing just that. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I told Steve I needed to stop him. Steve wasn’t necessarily supportive of what I wanted to do, but not out of coldness toward the homeless-looking person.

Steve said he thought it was intrusive for me to interfere with someone who “doesn’t have anything and now some stranger won’t even let the guy choose to end this shit. It’s pretty sad that when you have lost everything, you can’t even kill yourself without someone trying to take that away from you too.”

Whether or not it was my place, I hustled over to the guy to interrupt him. I extended a handshake to the stranger, and when he reciprocated I held his hand for a moment. “I don’t know you or what’s going on, but don’t do this man. I want you to live.”

He simply said, “It’s alright.” Then he slightly backed away from the tree.

It appeared as though he wasn’t going to do it. Kevin had meanwhile run over to find some cops for help. They simply laughed about it.

But apparently I bit the guy’s bait, giving him the attention he wanted. Curran told me the reason a bunch of our crew was laughing was because the branches he tried to hang himself on definitely wouldn’t have been able to hold his body weight.

Whatever the case was, I felt like I did what I needed to do. Now, with a good deed done, I earned the right to do something bad! Ryan already beat me to it by drinking a beer named Judas that day, which was Easter Monday. Metal!

April 26 – Hamburg, Germany

Since we were still awaiting our broken-down van, a backup van and driver took us to gorgeous Hamburg. We were met by fanatical TITD and Soilent Green fans, very knowledgable about both bands’ histories, and very expressive when the bands played, quite surprising since German crowds are typically stoic. After what was a terrific show, some girls took some of us to the infamous Red Light District, a place where bad things happen!

And yet somehow I woke up the next morning with a penis only a few feet above my head. No, it wasn’t a real pecker. Above my bunk, in our room behind the venue, there was a large painting of a man wearing his birthday suit, and yes, his candle was right there. Not cool. Not cool at all.

April 27 – Berlin, Germany

Earlier in the tour, Tommy was joking about his dad being the only white guy working with a bunch of black guys, saying, “He’s a grain of salt in a pepper shaker!” Referencing that while we had a hearty Italian supper right before the show, I said that on this tour I was “a grain of pepper in a salt shaker.” Our collective sense of humor was more than just a little bit politically incorrect.

But immediately after what was a great show, our temp driver hit the road for what was going to be a long haul to Paris, twelve hours or so, one that was lengthened because we had to meet our TM and jump in our regular van in Belgium along the way.

We were all beyond the point of exhaustion, but an unhealthy amount of already-unhealthy energy drinks fueled our energy levels as well as our conversations. Just prior to our stop in Belgium, I overheard Brian telling Steve about how he felt journalists overplayed the Hurricane Katrina angle when writing about Louisiana bands the last few years. “What are you gonna say? Everyone had a story. And it sucked for everyone.”

My ears perked up like that of a dog. It was a perfect time to put my feather in my cap and turn into Joe Reporter. “Actually, I kinda wanted to get into that, Brian.”

“Aw, come on man,” he exclaimed. Less than eager to get into it, he nevertheless started to talk and he was forthcoming.

When Hurricane Katrina hit the Big Easy, Soilent Green was actually on tour. While they wanted to get back home, they chose to continue touring because they simply couldn’t make it back since main roads were closed. At this point, some of them didn’t even know what was going on with their families, friends and homes since communication lines were down.

Finally making it back to his apartment, Brian said he panicked because as an emergency plan, it was understood that his mom would go there. After figuratively pulling his hair out, he was relieved and thankful to discover that some people in the apartment complex took her in to ensure that she was safe and had her needs taken care of, since she was an elderly woman.

Brian added that Tommy’s parents lost their home. So, like he said, everyone has a story, and it sucks.

And, of course, the well documented plight of their former singer, Glenn Rambo, was absolutely horrifying. Both Rambo and his mother drowned in the attic of her home when the hurricane hit and the water rose too high.

(Soilent Green has indeed endured more trials and tribulations than just about any band ever. Just a year before this hurricane, their former bassist Scott Williams was the victim of a murder/suicide.)

April 28 – Paris, France

It was great to reunite and party with Remy Cuveillier and Francis Passini, two former members of the band Four Question Marks, an opening act for TITD’s European tour in 2008; but the day in Paris was particularly cool for Curran since he had the opportunity to have supper with his mother who was vacationing there.

And we were all reunited, in a sense, with the Argentinian contingent we came across at Inferno fest in Norway. With the air of a soccer chant, they bellowed the praises of both “Patton” and “Soilent.” They came a long way for a metal trip, and considering they made the effort in spite of their nation’s weak currency speaks volumes to their fanaticism for metal.

The city itself made a huge impression on both Curran and Ryan, who at different points both said, “I was meant to be in Paris.”

I sure as hell know I wasn’t meant to be in Paris with them when a gay guy, presumably interested in one or all three of us, wasted our time at the end of the evening, saying he’d bring us to some cool parties when in fact all we did was lose sleep and follow him walking aimlessly. At least we got to check out some of the downtown area. Lying son of a bitch.

April 29 – Barcelona, Spain

Since we were late arriving at the mini festival of sorts, featuring headliners Voivod, situating ourselves in the venue was a task. In the midst of hauling gear through narrow, winding corridors and an already-wasted crowd, I had the misfortune of catching Virginia’s doom metal band Cough. I can definitely say they were one of the most boring and monotonous bands I’ve seen in my life.

“Bowww! Bowww! Bowww!” I am a fan of doom, but hearing the same, tired riff, or minute variations of it, over and over and over again is not my idea of a good time. They sufficiently stirred up feelings of misery, but not in a desirable, cathartic kind of way. I was miserable because I had to be there the entire time. I didn’t pay to get in, so I couldn’t even ask for a refund.

I didn’t get to see Voivod, but I had to see Cough? At least TITD and Soilent were badass.

April 30 – Madrid, Spain

Some bands are worth driving great distances to see. Though difficult, it’s worth it. Because I live in an isolated, small West Texas town, I have often travelled five or six hours to see good shows, including TITD and Soilent Green at the 1999 Relapse Contamination Fest in Austin.

In Madrid, there was a super fan who had travelled five hours to get there, and he was at the venue’s door before we were, hours before the show. I know where he’s coming from.

Wearing a Jerry-rigged, iron-on Temple of the Morning Star shirt, the tall dude was shy to the point of being unable to consistently maintain eye contact during a conversation, regularly dropping his eyes to the ground, especially when he was more revealing.

When he told me TITD’s music saved his life, something I’ve heard numerous times before, I was genuinely impressed and moved. But perhaps he thought I perceived his words as exaggeration. He looked me straight in the eye.

“No. I mean it. I wanted to be dead. I was going to kill myself. But Today is the Day,” he paused before chuckling under his breath. “Negative music. Just misery. But I don’t know. I wanted to live again.”

Judging by his reaction and smiles, he was on top of the world when he met and spoke with Steve.

Another uber fan also spoke at length about his appreciation for TITD, before telling me he was an educated guy, a 30-something, living once again with his parents because he has no prospects for jobs. Prior to arriving in Europe, I heard an NPR story about educated people in their 20s through to their 50s living with their parents again because of Spain’s struggling economy. For this guy, for his own unique reasons, TITD is an avenue to release frustration.

We came across more evidence of the nation’s struggling economy after the show. Ryan, Ben and I were walking through the beautiful, magnificent downtown and we passed by several hookers that were so aggressive that not only would they proposition you, they’d literally reach out and grab you in order to secure your attention. Was it a sign of the times, or maybe a local custom? In any event, they crossed the line, and it was irritating as hell.

May 1 – Barroselas, Portugal @ SWR Barroselas Metalfest

On the outskirts of Barroselas, the roads were winding through extensive wooded areas and plenty of trees. It became apparent that we were close to the SWR Metalfest once we saw growing numbers of people dressed in bullet belts and black clothing. It’s almost obligatory for metalheads to be dressed in black from head to toe, however illogical it may have been for an all-day festival on a sunny, humid day.

With an abundance of great merch on hand at the fest, metal fanatic Tommy’s head was spinning. You could tell exactly what he was thinking. “I only have this much money to work with, but I can think of about 20 things I want.”

I was a little surprised by one of his purchases. He bought a limited edition of Crowbar’s Sever the Wicked Hand. Since the album was released through E1 in North America, and through Century Media in Europe, he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to contact the right people in Europe to give him a copy of the limited edition that he wasn’t even aware existed. That’s understandable, but still, he’s in Crowbar! He plays on that album! That’s kind of like making hot dogs at your own hot dog stand, and then getting in line to pay your employee for it when you’re hungry.

Passing nearby my merch table, one of Alcest’s members was looking at some shirts, so I engaged in small talk. While telling him to have a good time at the fest, I winked at him, intending for it to essentially be the same thing as a thumbs up or something. I can understand his misinterpretation, but the dude became wide-eyed, he jolted back, and turned around mid-conversation and took off.

I didn’t mean it that way, homey.

Catching them ever-so briefly on the side stage, French black metal band Hell Militia sounded as ugly as they looked, in a good way, but their singer was terrible in the worst way possible.

Disgorge, however, faired much better with a simplistic, straight forward death metal battery that was conventional in its evil approach, yet authentic and thoroughly enjoyable.

From the same stage I was pleasantly surprised, blown away, actually, by a long-running Portuguese band called Grog. Based on an early ‘90s tech death metal foundation, they are lightning quick, proficient and lethal.

And during their set, as with probably every other band I saw there, the in-house alcoholic was running amok. He was a shaved-head, wiry old guy who was constantly screaming, jumping onstage and running into people in the crowd. Security never hassled him though. It’s almost like he was the town’s token old drunk. “Aw, bless his heart. Never mind him. He’s always like that.” Even after barfing up a about a gallon of blood ‘n booze soup, he just kept going.

During Today is the Day’s set, which Portugal-based metal journalist Jose Carlos Santos described as the best of the day, Steve directly addressed his son who was watching the performance via live streaming video online, telling him not to cuss as he just did onstage.

Some old guy told me he had a spiritual experience the last time he saw France’s Alcest. The lush guitar sound and somber tones were impressive, but the songs were simply okay and everything one would expect of a band that played a cross between post-black metal and metal/shoegaze. There was nothing spiritual about it. My friend rightfully described Alcest’s drummer’s blasts as sounding “like raindrops falling on an umbrella.” If you’re going to do any kind of blast, for any kind of music, there has to be some element of power to it.

Less than pleased after their set at Maryland Deathfest in 2009, I was hoping Atheist had improved since the release of last year’s amazing, heavy and sonically overwhelming come-back album Jupiter. Sadly, their set was a major let down.

They had the chops which one could appreciate due to the sheer talent on display, but collectively the band fit the stereotype of a prog/tech band that exhibits self-indulgent “wanking,” frantic drum fills and frantic guitar work that didn’t have much do with anything. And seriously, Kelly Shaefer’s old man Anthony Kiedis style is more fitting for, say, Styx than a metal band.

On the late night drive to our unique lodging, a boat docked at seaport, we were definitely going too fast through the twisting roads. “We need to slow down,” Scott said. “We don’t need another…”

“Don’t even say it, man,” Brian quickly interrupted. “That’s bad karma.”

For those who aren’t aware, a decade ago the band endured two major van crashes. Many bones were broken, and Ben had to have numerous surgeries as well as extensive rehab so that he could learn to walk again, which made his soldier-like response to Scott and Brian’s exchange surprising, to say the least.

“Whatever happens, happens.”

May 2 – Bilbao, Spain

I was really doing my best to snap some decent shots of Bilbao as we were making our way to the venue because I was at the end of the tour; also, it’s a large city that had more of a “true” Spanish feeling than the better known cities that are relatively more watered down with corporate and American influence.

“What’s wrong with your ADD mind?!? You’re not even listening to me,” Steve screamed at me.

Contrary to popular belief, people can walk and chew gum, or listen to a story and take pictures, at the same time. I was listening to him! Steve was in the zone. When Steve gets in story-telling mode he can, and will, talk your ear off. And whether or not one agrees with his perspective on an issue or not, it’s always entertaining. He’s very much the same guy in person as he is onstage. He’s not the fire-breathing dragon in person as he when you see him performing, he’s quite caring actually, but he’s the same person in the sense that when he’s in a room, all eyes gravitate to him inevitably because of his strong personality and distinct charm. But he sure as hell is an intense motherfucker.

He snapped at me because he thought my attention drifted away from his conversation about the time he owned a gun shop in Nashville. He had been talking about how he would be well armed as he’d regularly monitor and ward off the gang thugs that would prowl his business.

And he shared other stories about that period of time a few years ago. Coming home from work one evening, Steve said he’d had enough bullshit from a dealer living across the street who often had junkies come pick up drugs from the drug den. Steve said he already told the guy to take that business elsewhere, not across the street from his house. Apparently they got into it and the guy started approaching his lawn, prompting Steve to point his firearm directly at the guy’s head.

Setting aside his captivating delivery, the sheer content of such stories obviously attracts and maintains one’s attention. So yes, I was fucking listening!

This show at Bilbao was the third and final one at which Disgorge and Italian death metal band Grimness 69 opened. The small venue ended up being packed by the time Disgorge hit the stage, but it sucked that Grimness 69 played only to the bar staff and to the bands. It was unfortunate because their old school death metal is just as captivating as a Steve Austin story.

The next day, TITD and Soilent Green flew to Athens, Greece, to play another show with Voivod, following which TITD made their way back home and Soilent Green wrapped up their tour with a final leg in the UK.

Bilbao was the end of the tour for me, though. Spending some time soaking up some culture and alcohol downtown, I walked up to the bus station only minutes after they shut down for the day. I was literally sprinting aimlessly, more or less, to try to find another means of getting back to the hotel without having to pay an arm and a leg for a cab ride. Low and behold, some dude in an Unsane shirt who says his band opened for TITD in the past directed me only a block away to catch a train in the nick of time.

Arriving the next morning in Madrid for my connecting flight home, I found it odd that everyone at the airline desk knew my name and kept looking at me. It took at least 15 minutes for them to print my boarding passes. Maybe my name popped up because I was late for a plane that’s about to take off? The lady working at the desk ensured me I wouldn’t miss my flight. Gasping for breath as I ran up to my gate of departure, some guy working there asked, “You’re Jay Gorania? Come with me. Don’t worry. You won’t miss your flight.”

Responding to my inquiry as to why I was being walked to another security checkpoint since I had already cleared security, the airline/airport official told me I was randomly selected for additional screening. It wasn’t as cool as winning the lottery, but I guess it meant that I was special or something?

Looking a little uncomfortable when I asked him why I was selected, this airline/airport guy told me that I was “randomly selected by the United States government. It wasn’t the Spanish government.”

Was this karma in action? A redressing of balance in the universe for the fact that I was yelling at a tranny and her boyfriend on my flight to Europe?

Here is entry two in Jay H. Gorania’s European vacation 2011 on the road with Today Is The Day.

April 9 – Dublin, Ireland

The next morning, we were only looking at a brief drive southward to the Republic of Ireland. We ended up having enough time in Dublin to check out a metal store at which we ran into Boston’s PanzerBastard. Counter to the bleakness of the band’s material, their singer Keith Bennett’s demeanor was upbeat, to say the least, and his beer sharing gesture was definitely appreciated.

The store’s black metal-rich content was extensive, but what made the greatest imprint upon my memory was the CD I flipped across from a Japanese band called Cutthroat, featuring members of Sigh. The CD was entitled Rape! Rape! Rape! How pleasant.

But after having some surprisingly delicious burritos (in Ireland?), we made our way to the venue. The show’s opening local band, Drainland, a negative Neurosis-like sludge band, was easily one of the best of the entire tour.

Up next was Retox. Rather than “working the crowd,” or puffing his chest out in generic alpha male form, JP’s demeanor as a frontman is interesting in that, on the surface, it seems that it’s a self-serving form of catharsis. His biting vocals–like the band’s songs–are blunt, brief and to the point, mirroring his nature as a conversationalist.

In between one of their songs, a fan bellowed “Springer,” and briefly chanted, “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”

Not amused, JP snapped, “Wrong band.”

The crowd member was referencing a prank JP and some of his friends pulled on the Jerry Springer show years ago in which JP kissed one of his male cohorts just to toy with the show and its audience. (Part 1, Part 2)

April 10 – Sheffield, England

Back in England, we arrived at the venue with ample time on our hands, so Curran, Ryan and I walked around the streets under a bright, beautiful sun. A couple of cute, barely skirted girls drinking wine hollered at me from across the street. When do chicks do that?!? Picture the stereotypical kind of hollering a construction worker would direct toward women. I crossed the street, and the attention was nice, and they were too, but it was obvious they were nothing but trouble.

I caught up with Ryan and Curran at a large park next to some bars and restaurants. It was clearly a college town. The park was filled with young adults boozing under the sun, playing soccer and frisbee. We set up shop and laid down to relax, chat and people watch as we choked down a mickey of cheap vodka. The wine-drinking girls caught up with us and proved to be more trashy than classy and as intellectually stimulating as an episode of the Jersey Shore.

“Do you like weed,” the blonde rhetorically inquired with a slow, weed-hindered delivery and thick British accent, before she and the black girl, in evil harmony, said, “We love weed.”

After a brief line of simple questions about the town and what the girls did as far as school or work, the blonde’s response was humorous, if nothing else. “We like fun, not serious.”

Trouble. Pure trouble. I’m sure that I was probably shanked in an alley by these ladies in an alternate universe in which I made poor decisions in this situation.

April 11 – Derby, England

The next evening we had supper with Napalm Death’s Shane Embury and his wife, who were kind enough to travel from Birmingham for the show and to hang out. Shane definitely enjoyed Retox’ set, which definitely was one of their most energetic of the tour.

Retox’ impressive resume will surely garner them attention (The Locust, Swing Kids, Holy Molar, Some Girls, etc.), however as an independent entity, they’re definitely impressive. With the utmost sense of urgency, Retox plays spastic, fast punk rock that’s edgy, metallic, aggressive and filled with attitude. And yes, from the get-go, the fact that dudes from the Locust are in the band is obvious as far as style and substance.

April 12, Manchester, England

Deep thoughts – by Ryan Jones. Former Napalm Death drummer Mick Harris, along with Napalm Death’s guitarist Mitch Harris, should form a band with Iron Maiden bassist Steve Harris. This band will be called Harris.

April 13 – London, England

Outside, on an empty back street near the downtown area venue, Today is the Day was doing a photo shoot for Terrorizer magazine in the afternoon. Retox’ bassist Thor and I were just a stone’s throw away waiting for them inside the van. In the midst of casual conversation, I couldn’t help but wonder how Thor was given such an atypical name.

Did his naming entail a source of Scandinavian pride exclusively, or was there a racist element involved, by chance? However uncool, and admittedly prejudicial, my thought process might have been, I suppose I couldn’t help but think this could be a possibility since he is blonde and extremely fair-complected, and, well, because he’s from Idaho, a place that’s been known for having well-organized, vocal white power organizations.

Thor candidly disclosed that his parents are white supremacists; his father, in fact, once belonging to the white power skinhead movement. By virtue of being an open-minded dude, inherently, he didn’t follow that path. And where his lack of a racist world view came at odds with his parents was when he began to date women who were not white. Since then, his father’s views have mellowed, and Thor’s relationship with him has improved. But considering that he has ongoing struggles with a less than ideal family situation, I find it amazing that he’s such a well-adjusted and overall good dude.

After finishing up their photo shoot, TITD jumped back in the van and we rounded up the rest of Retox for the show at the Underworld that proved to be a highlight as far as both bands’ performances on the tour. Playing their old songs with the same stripped-down, rocking style as that of their new album, Today is the Day seems completely revitalized.

London was the final show at which both TITD and Retox played together. We parted ways with Retox, who had a few more dates before flying back to California, and we headed toward Holland for Roadburn Festival and to meet-up with the co-headliners for the mainland Europe portion of the tour: Soilent Green.

April 14 – Tilburg, Netherlands @ Roadburn Festival

After zipping across the English channel via the “Chunnel”–the undersea rail tunnel connecting England and France–and clawing miles across Europe, we arrived at Schiphol, Amsterdam’s airport, to pick up Louisiana’s Soilent Green.

They were initially slated to co-headline the entire tour with TITD, but Crowbar (whose drummer Tommy Buckley is Soilent Green’s longtime, original drummer) had a major North American tour alongside Saint Vitus and Helmet that came up and overlapped the time period during which TITD was already in the UK. Even though he just wrapped up the Crowbar tour, and literally just got off a Transatlantic flight, Tommy Buckley’s energy could have rivaled that of the Energizer bunny. That’s just how Tommy rolls.

Collectively, Soilent was rambunctious and lively in spite of their flight, and their obnoxious, loud nature was definitely an instantly suitable fit for my obnoxious, loud nature. See, while I definitely warmed up to Retox, it took some time because they were more calm, their humor was more dry. While a Retox dude was more apt to be sipping green tea and running through his smart phone, a Soilent dude was likely to be guzzling a beer and spouting off a politically incorrect joke.

At any rate, at the jam-packed Roadburn Fest, I had the opportunity to catch one TITD song as they performed to a full-capacity side stage.

Other than that, I might have heard a random doom riff or two when I was running through the venue doing merch-related things. Sadly, because the merch area was in a building beside the venue, I missed out the late show from Godflesh, who performed Streetcleaner in its entirety. What made matters worse, for me, is that a dude passed my merch booth and, while on the brink of tears, proclaimed, “Godflesh! My life is complete!”

The next day, Steve told me he would have let me close shop early had he known how badly I wanted to see Godflesh. Doh!

April 15 – Schwalmstadt, Germany

After asking several non-English speakers for directions and bouncing through some country dirt roads, the time-consuming nuisance of finding Schwalmstadt was finally over. Judging by the tranquil town center, filled with seniors and more seniors, the turnout wasn’t going to be spectacular. But I was eager to see the venue.

I could envision it. A place called the Bunker in small town Germany must be dingy and dirty and fit for the likes of intense German black metallers Bethlehem or Tsatthoggua. Or perhaps the venue would be filled with denim ‘n leather wearing long hairs who worship classic German thrashers Kreator, Sodom and Destruction? While the venue itself was exactly what I envisioned, I was let down as soon as I saw a show poster for Elektroboys. “Ze Elektroboys at ze Bunker beat lounge,” we joked.

Then while loading in, a short, frumpy fellow who looked like Nintendo’s Mario approached us. He even had the mustache, overalls and little hat. And he was filthy. “You from America? Band? Good?”

When the show was underway, the opening band proved to be as ridiculous as everything else in this town. They were a friendly batch of youngins playing metalcore by the numbers, yet their fans starting doing some kind of zombie dance, which was quite amusing.

I didn’t detect the slightest hint of prejudice coming from their fans–they were quite friendly, generous and sociable, in fact–but it was certainly, ahem, interesting when one of them drew a swastika on one of the joints they shared. This sparked a raucous bout of laughter. However off-color the “humor” may have been, they seemed harmless. I…think.

April 16 – Bern, Switzerland

Arriving at the left-leaning artistic collective/venue Dachstock was kind of special. It was the same venue I went to with TITD in 2008 for the show at which Unsane’s Chris Spencer jumped on stage with TITD, and then-opening grindcore band Complete Failure recorded their amazing set (review on Hellbound.ca). It was great to see some familiar faces still working there.

The large, barn-shaped venue’s green room area was filled, once again, with an extremely generous supply of snacks, cheeses, meats, chocolate, and weed and hash! The buzzing murmur of coffee and wine drinkers outside drew my attention to the green room’s window, providing a view overlooking the collective’s courtyard area where there was a live DJ and a showcase of paintings displayed on easels.

Before the show, we were led downstairs to a classy restaurant. There was enough wine to kill The Real Housewives of Orange County, and our mouths were watering at the prospect of BBQ ribs. They were filling, but the Swiss apparently aren’t aware that BBQ ribs aren’t simply ribs covered in tomato sauce, not that we weren’t thankful for the food. (For the entire tour, Soilent Green singer Ben Falgoust brought a spice shaker from New Orleans to flavor what he and guitarist Brian Patton, who does double duty in Eyehategod, regularly described as bland and boring European food).

During soundcheck, the very cool promoter that we knew three years ago asked me what TITD’s tour film entailed. Knowing well that there was a liberal/PC ethos at the heart of the collective, I didn’t really want to say there’s a regularly occurring image of a woman masturbating with a close-up of her genitals.

“You know, there’s just a variety of artistic images.”

A matter of minutes into TITD’s set, a somewhat muscular, big-boned, aggressive woman working there–who shot down my effort to woo her in 2008–looked me in the eye from across the bar. Stomping toward me, she sarcastically said she “might as well be watching YouPorn. Are you aware of our manifesto? What are you going to do about this?”

“They’re playing,” I replied. “There’s not much that can be done. You can talk to them about it after if you’d like.”

She yanked out some reverse psychology from her bag of tricks. “Well, I thought you had some authority, but I guess not.”

“No. I don’t. No authority.”

She looked agitated as she bit her lip. “Are you aware of our manifesto? This is degrading.”

To be honest, I had no idea what the va-jay-jay in the film was all about, but I had to say something, so I tossed her reverse psychology hot potato back in her lap. “It’s not smut. It’s an artistic statement. A vagina isn’t something shameful, in spite of what you might believe. This is art.”

It worked, and she stormed back to the bar. At the end of the evening, a cool chick told us there were others who were pissed off at us because of the film.

Pissed them off? What pissed me off, to be honest, was the fact that their manifesto’s framework essentially facilitates the kind of PC censorship that stabs the heart of artistic expression…um, whether or not I knew what that expression was in this case. In any event, I can’t say that I lost any sleep over the ordeal.

April 17 – Budapest, Hungary

There was a packed house in Budapest at a venue that had an American country theme of sorts. The cartoon painting of a bent over, nude native Indian woman was enough to let me know that this wasn’t the most authentic country bar in the world. It was about as authentic as the wannabe Pantera/Black Label Society opening band that I heard playing as I had supper.

As soon as TITD jumped into things, Steve’s guitars and vocals were basically absent in the mix, though on his end the monitor was screaming at him. After the first song, he smiled and began. “I love Judas Priest. It was my first concert. It was so loud. It was awesome. But that concert, I’m hearing all of that through the monitor right now. TURN IT DOWN!”

The mix accordingly shifted from bad to not-so-bad, but Steve had more to say to the crowd. “I’m illegal. I don’t have a passport.”

You see, shit happens. We didn’t notice until it was far too late, but Steve’s suitcase, including his passport, was left behind at the Swiss venue. We had an illegal with us, until we got his damn passport back, anyway.

After Soilent’s set, one fan told Ben he’d “seen a lot of good gigs in (his) life, including Slayer. You are one of the best.”

A couple of other show goers weren’t worshiping him though. Since Ben told the crowd that I am “big but not strong,” for shit-talking’s sake, a couple of Croatians jokingly urged me to violently respond. Looking at the knife I had at the back of the merch booth, which I left there for safety, one of them said, “He was talking shit about you. You cut him.”

I don’t find strange situations. They suck me in. While people were boarding my flight from Dallas, Texas, to London, England, to join Today Is The Day as their merch slinger, I was rudely interrupted while eating at the back of the plane. Don’t ever get between a man and his meal.

Some dude was aggressively trying to get people out of their assigned seats so he could sit privately with his transsexual mate. Typically, a large brown-skinned man raising his voice on an airplane wouldn’t be taken so well in a post-9/11 world, but my neighboring passengers seemed appreciative that I, as politely as I could, told the couple to sit their asses down and leave everyone alone.

After landing, I enjoyed my weekend in London and Windsor, and was treated quite hospitably by UK metal journalists James Minton and Jill Mikkelson.

Meanwhile, Today is the Day were handed a plate full of crap. Unfortunately, the late purchase of their tickets from New York to Iceland meant that they missed their initial show on April 1 at Litla-Hraun, translated as “Little Lava,” Iceland’s most notorious prison. They would have been the first American band to ever perform at Iceland’s only maximum security correctional facility.

It was the Johnny Cash-like moment that wasn’t, a humorless April Fool’s prank doled out by the heavens (or by an incompetent douche bag).

However when they did make it to Iceland, a first in their career, the next day’s show in Reykjavik, Iceland, was reportedly filled with lively, heavily inebriated Today is the Day fanatics.

April 3, Bristol, England

My meeting point with the band was at Heathrow Airport, prior to which I received an interesting email from frontman Steve Austin.

You just have to scratch the back of your neck and pause when you think about a gun-toting, Obama-hating guy–adorned with an Iron Cross tattooed on his right hand, a Confederate flag inked upon his left arm–sending you a request to obtain large white bed sheets. In reality, there wasn’t anything even remotely insidious at hand. I couldn’t get them in time for the first show in Bristol, but the sheets were needed as the backdrop upon which filmmaker David Hall’s supplementary movie was going to be projected behind the band as they played.

But the first show was actually nearly missed entirely. Prior to meeting Today is the Day, right in front of a Heathrow airport terminal, the van, the tour manager/driver and the opening band, California’s Retox, were stopped for questioning, some folks being detained for having small amounts of, you know, stuff.

But this is Heathrow we are talking about, one of the world’s busiest airports. The very real threat of terrorism kind of supersedes the impending doom posed by some goofball dope-smokers in rock bands. Yet our comrades were held for hours, presumably in order to “teach them a lesson.”

Nonsense aside, it was great to see my long time friends in Today is the Day, a band who is and always will be Steve Austin, though the current incarnation of the band includes the rhythm section of Brooklyn’s Wetnurse–Curran Reynolds on drums, Ryan Jones on bass. While waiting, I was catching up with TITD and getting to know people I would essentially be living with for a brief amount of time.

A prominent Californian accent rolled off Retox guitarist Michael Crain’s tongue as he vented about not wanting to miss the first show. He met bassist Thor Dickey at an LA-based pizza joint where the two have worked.

But our wait was finally over. Finally emerging from the cop box was our tour manager/driver Nathan, as well as Retox drummer Gabe Serbian, a man in black, from his shades and leather jacket down to his shoes. Many moons ago he was actually Cattle Decapitation’s guitarist, though of the many projects he’s been involved with, he’s most known for being The Locust’s drummer.

Sitting across from me in the van was Retox vocalist Justin Pearson, also the Locust’s bassist. I didn’t address the obvious in our initial meeting, waiting instead until he brought it up himself later in the tour, but JP bears an uncanny resemblance with Johnny Knoxville.

I also didn’t want to bring it up because he was difficult to read. Regularly sarcastic, his demeanor constantly appears, on the surface, to wrestle with indifference and coldness, and you’re left wondering when or if he’s always pissed off about something because of his steady stare and slightly crunched together eyebrows. I eventually discovered he’s a cool dude, but he is hard to read.

At any rate, we arrived in Bristol obviously much later than intended, and I did manage to catch some of Today is the Day’s set, the first time since seeing them last August in Minneapolis for the 25th Anniversary AmRep show. Because of Curran and Ryan’s shared time in Wetnurse, and because they just recorded the new Today is the Day album literally a few weeks prior to arriving in Europe, the band had tightened up immensely since last year.

After the show there wasn’t much going on, but several of us partied. New tour excitement. It made sense. While raging in one of our hotel rooms though, Gabe either couldn’t or didn’t want to wait for the occupied bathroom. Curran’s effort to stop him was in vain, as Gabe unzipped his pants and he began watering the corner of the party room. Responding to our moans of disgust while he was doing it, Gabe simply muttered, “It’s just piss.”

Yea, that’s what it smelled like. And that was the room I slept in. Thanks.

More often than not, my hotel double bed sidekick was Steve. Some people sleep walk, Steve sleep punches. Well, he sure as hell did that at this first hotel stop anyway…and again later in the tour. Thanks, Steve. That’s awesome.

But once we got going and I had a cup of coffee in addition to the punch to the collar bone to wake me up the next morning, Steve and I delved into a discussion of our mutual affinity for financial conservatism. More specifically, we spoke about our disdain toward those who have a sense of entitlement for money or things that they haven’t earned. Why should some people enjoy and receive that which others had earned through their own hard work? That’s stealing. It’s as simple as that, from our point of view, anyway.

But right before making our way out of the hotel, I remembered that we needed the white sheets for the projection of the visuals for TITD’s set. I nicked a couple of folded bed sets from a maid’s cart and took off! Score!

April 4 – Cardiff, Wales

There had been a lot going on in TITD’s world. Just weeks prior to this tour, the band finished recording its ninth studio album, Pain is a Warning, with producer Kurt Ballou in Salem, Massachusetts. And preparing for any tour isn’t a piece of cake due to the inevitable last minute nature of dealing with logistics. But things were simply absurd because of an incompetent, careless booking agent.

Yet aside from the setback of missing the Iceland prison show, things were locked and loaded for Steve and crew.

I was eager and extremely curious to hear their new album, so on route to Cardiff, Steve handed me his phone and I plugged in my headphones.

A disclaimer seems to be in order. When a journalist travels with a band, the waters of objectivity don’t just get murky, they get downright filthy. And I didn’t just know TITD from this tour, I’ve known Steve, Ryan and Curran for years. With that said, I heard a killer album, and I feel compelled to write about it. So with said, perceive this however you see fit…

Pain is a Warning is Today is the Day as you’ve never heard them before. It’s typical for Steve to adventurously morph TITD with each subsequent album, but this is the most unexpected leap one could imagine.

Steve makes use of his melodic voice much more than he has in years, but he still employs his unique banshee-like screams and hearty death metal bellow. Musically, it’s built upon a foundation of hard rock.

Steve said that after he saw Ministry, a band he’s admired for years, at Hellfest 2008, he was overwhelmingly inspired. He says he took his time to think about what the best parts of Today is the Day are, as well as what he likes best about music.

Though he likes stuff like Slayer and death metal, he said it’s harder to immediately connect with music that, as he verbally sounded out, comes across as “WIDDLY WIDDLY WIDDLY.” Then he began humming and whispering the choruses of AC/DC songs. “You feel that right away in your belly.”

Indeed, he went back to his roots.

While in high school, he was a fan of goth, and there are obvious nods and winks to Joy Division. But the first rock band Steve ever heard was from a fellow classmate and friend. That band was AC/DC. The Aussies’ characteristic inclination for less is more, a punchy kind of simplicity, is a running thread throughout Pain is a Warning, an underlying influence for most of the album that’s not so underlying on the album’s title track, the main riff so AC/DC that you might think Steve was peering through Angus Young’s window while he was writing new riffs. It’s blatant. It’s beautiful.

On “Death Curse,” there’s a blistering black metal surge and pummeling drums that break for an ultra heavy, violent pre-chorus; and that bottlenecks, then, into a slower, teasing riff that itself transitions into a colossal riff during the triumphant chorus.

Diverse the album certainly is. “Wheelin’” and “Samurai” are anthemic, bold and addictive, while the calming pastures of “Remember to Forget” reveals the most tender side of Steve that his music has ever allowed for.

In all, and while TITD’s inherent negativity and filth speaks at the album’s subtext, Pain is a Warning is the most positive, in terms of overall mood, release in their catalogue. Surely no one will cry “sell out,” but there’s no question that this is TITD’s most accessible effort.

My only criticism with Pain is a Warning is that a handful of songs seem longer than they need to be, overplaying some enjoyable riffs and structures with a little bit too much repetition.

But yes, the ride to Cardiff was obviously entertaining for me.

We were looking for some grub in town as soon as we arrived, and our tour manager led us to an affordable joint with great food and luxurious seating. We laughed at the menu because of our collective immaturity. It was the name of one dish in particular: Welsh Pantry Faggots.

Laughing the entire time, Ryan Jones couldn’t help but choose that item. It was basically a plate full of meatballs and a few sides. He liked it. Ryan Jones likes Welsh Pantry Faggots.

Their connotation for that one “F word” varies vastly from the American meaning, obviously, but there was a different word, a name, really, that irritated the locals, prompting a couple of them to spout, “Bloody Hell,” and “What the hell is this?”

Some new merch boxes were sent to the venue, and the people helping me bring them up the elevator took issue with the address. Immediately below the postal/zip code, the address indicated, “England.” The problem is, Cardiff is the capital of Wales, an independent nation.

“You realize we’re not in England. This is offensive to a proper Welshman,” a muscular, bearded loader said to me somewhat light-heartedly, somewhat seriously.

April 5 – Birmingham, England

It was a good day, simply because we headed toward heavy metal’s Mecca: Birmingham, the home of Black Sabbath, Judas Priest and Napalm Death. Appropriately, Ryan was jamming out to some old Napalm Death in the van ride. He was kind enough to hand me his blackberry while we were on the outskirts of town–a very bland, boring and gray looking city filled with simple, block-shaped architecture–sending some grind magic into my earbuds and through to my eardrums.

After the local openers wrapped up, a crappy Mr. Bungle rip-off (In all fairness, though, is it easy to be a good Bungle rip-off?), both Retox and TITD performed with an abundance of energy and passion.

View video of Today is the Day in Birmingham, England

Following the show, it took us about half an hour to find a bar that was open, one that had a DJ that was cool enough to play some Sabbath and Priest. We were sitting around, drinking and having a gay old time. At some point I thought I’d take the party up a notch by treating myself to an Irish Car Bomb, one of my favorite shots!

Thinking absolutely nothing of it, I walked across the brown, rustic bar toward the wooden bar-top and asked for one. Immediately taking issue with my request was a man I believed to be the bartender’s boyfriend.

“You’re a big guy, but that could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“What,” I asked, completely surprised by his reaction.

“You do realize that’s very offensive, right?”

It turns out the gentleman was of Irish decent, and, of course, Northern Ireland has had years of turmoil due to a convoluted struggle involving a press for independence, religious tension, et cetera. And it completely slipped my mind that a 25-year-old rookie cop was killed as his car exploded outside his home in Northern Ireland only three days earlier. And it completely slipped my mind that I was requesting an IRISH CAR BOMB.

Foot in mouth moment. My bad.

After successfully conveying that I meant no harm, the dude was cool with me. When I explained that the drink was a mix of half a pint of Guinness with half a shot of Baileys and and half a shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, he smiled, looked down at the bar top and started nodding his head. I probably should have bought him one since he seemed so intrigued, and to extend an olive branch for my faux pas.

Note to self: Don’t ask for Irish Car Bombs in the UK.

April 6 – Newcastle, England

In Newcastle, I picked up a shirt from the decent noise rock band that opened the show: Tide of Iron. The shirt prominently featured a sketch of the female anatomy within which the band’s logo was embedded. Nice.

Since we were in Newcastle, Curran, Ryan and I thought it would be appropriate to drink some Newcastle beer. Attempting to enter a posh, upscale bar, the meathead door man rudely looked me up and down and waved me off because I was wearing shorts. If you’re not going to let me in, cool. I can handle that. But save the attitude, buddy. He deserved every expletive word I expressed.

Anyway, we soon found ourselves a casual pub. But we were out of luck. No Newcastle in Newcastle? I didn’t think that Curran’s inquiry for the bartender was as potentially loaded as my request for a car bomb the previous evening, but perhaps we seemed like ignorant tourists or something. The bar tender rolled his eyes and discussed the ins-and-outs of good local brew in the condescending manner typical of an elitist. Misanthropic griping aside, we had a good time.

April 7 – Glasgow, Scotland

We actually drove passed Lockerbie, the site where 270 people were killed in 1988 due to the terrorist bombing of Pan Am Flight 103, but the greater sight-seeing objective seemed to be stopping by a castle that was reduced to rubbles. And quickly reduced to rubbles was any interest I had in the odd opening band that evening, a metalcore/thrash/Every Time I Die band fronted by a charismatic fat guy wearing a Hugh Hefner robe.

April 8 – Belfast, Northern Ireland

By way of ferry, we arrived in Northern Ireland. What they say really is true. It’s beautifully green and lush, magnificent sights of simple, natural beauty. Like a tour guide from hell, our viking-like tour manager Nathan Perrier said, “Everything is green, people are riding bicycles everywhere, and there isn’t a black person in sight.”

With long hair and King Diamond-like facial hair, Nathan’s commentary was always witty, comedic and off color. “I wonder how many sex crimes there have been there,” he would regularly say as we’d pass by some sort of dreary looking shed or barn during our travels.

Considering that he’s a longtime drummer, who has played with bands like Labrat, Capricorns and Conflict, Nathan brings to life the stereotype of a “been there, done that” tour manager that you might picture in Spinal Tap.

But I digress…

Before the show, we had some time to swallow down some beer and to interact with the locals. A couple of girls started buying me drinks (always good for the ego), and I was able to convince one of them, a tall, beautiful redhead, to fold some piles of merch for me. She even made a sale!

But by the end of the evening, it was clear that she was more enamored with a guy on stage.

Part two of Jay H. Gorania’s 2011 European tour diary will be posted on Friday.

By Jay H. Gorania

(If you missed part 1 of this blog, check it out here!)

Friday, March 18

With the lingering bitter taste of the previous evening’s crazy cabbie experience, I had the misfortune of facing yet another douche bag cabbie Friday morning. See, I had made arrangements for a taxi, so it caught me off guard when he arrived and rudely told me to go find another one because he already had a customer. For the fact that said customer was a wheelchair-using elderly man, I had no problem with letting it slide. Fortunately some people in the immediate vicinity allowed me into their downtown-bound cab. For some reason, the elderly man no longer needed the cab I called for, but I don’t understand why the rude cabbie that brushed me off started screaming at me.

“You called for me, and now you’re going with someone else?”

I did my best to stay calm as I entered the other taxi. While we drove off, the rude cabbie continued screaming, and he punched the back of our cab.

Someone may as well have pissed in my corn flakes, but SXSW rolled forward, as I found my way downtown, specifically to Lovejoy’s, a nondescript bar perfectly sized for small to mid-sized shows. One of several Brooklyn Vegan showcases at SXSW, the heavy dial was turned up to 11 considering the bands on tap.

Owen Hart‘s songs were bare-knuckled and intentionally brutish, a potent cup of coffee to start the day. Vocalist Timm Trust had a menacing presence while shredding his vocal cords, strongly contrasting his intelligent, thoughtful commentary between songs. Few could refute the sheer intensity of their set; however it was monotonous and lacking in terms of creativity.

Things improved exponentially when Texas grindcore maniacs Kill the Client charged the stage like a starving pack of wolves. Unlike their entirely out-of-character, lifeless SXSW performance at last year’s SXSW, Kill the Client was locked into their typically relentless, filthy, viscous groove this year at Lovejoy’s. Each member’s performance was formidable, though the virtuosity of drummer Brian Fajardo (Noisear, Gridlink, Enemies of Inertia, Phobia) was clearly salient. The most noticeable member of the bunch, however, was singer Champ Morgan, an angry man who was moving deep into the crowd, jumping on tables and onto the crowd, revealing his passion for Jiu-Jitsu as he slid to the ground and used his legs to sweep down people in the front row like a bowling ball knocking over pins. His politically charged lyrics were channeled through his gut-wrenching growls and screams (augmented by the backing vocals of guitarist Chris Richardson) that he spewed into the mic that he wasn’t so much holding as he was shaking, almost like he was strangling someone. It was easily the most violent, abrasive set of SXSW that I came across.

They were a tough act to follow, but Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada’s KEN Mode made an impression with an entirely different style of heavy music that merges noise rock with hardcore and a nondescript kind of metal, along with dashes of psychedelia and prog thrown in for good measure. That said, it’s difficult to pigeonhole their truly unique style. Wearing a black cowboy hat, guitarist/singer Jesse Matthewson was essentially Steve Austin, Jr., similar was his psychotic screaming and mic swallowing (early Today is the Day was referenced in several ways, in fact).

At one point during the track “Never Was,” taken from their new album Venerable, every warm-blooded male in attendance surely shook at the knees when the lovely bassist/backing vocalist Thérèse Lanz was running her fingers through her hair with eyes closed as she mouthed the words “Religion is a cancer,” prior to Matthewson screaming that mantra that he had been whispering. Thérèse’s own hoarse scream, working hand-in-hand with Matthewson’s, added to the caustic, carefully detailed sonic layers which lacked density in favor of allowing the silence between the notes to speak.

Like a skilled painter or graphics designer, KEN Mode is keenly aware of the value of negative space, knowing when and how to use its metallic tools, knowing when to hold back and allow the music to breathe. When there were moments of simplicity, they oftentimes manipulated the negative space and slowed the tempo down, ultimately creating significant tension. Don’t blame Canada. Thank Canada for KEN Mode.

Taking a break from Lovejoy’s, I raced over to Emo’s Annex for the New England Metal and Hardcore Festival’s showcase to catch the Red Chord. A decent drummer in his own right, Job For a Cowboy’s Jon Rice filled in and held things together pretty well, though he certainly wasn’t as tight as some of the impressive drummers they’ve worked with in the past, and he wasn’t mind-blowing like Kill the Client’s Brian Fajardo. This is but a minuscule issue, however, as the band put on a true performance, in every sense of the word, offering appeal to those as varied as emo kids, hardcore kids and metal fans. The intensity with which they perform their complex and heavy songs, whilst interacting with the crowd and apparently having a jolly time, is something that sets them apart from other heavy bands.

Regarding his banter, Guy Kozowyk entertained with his idiosyncratic delivery of simultaneously high brow and low brow humor, dishing out words of praise that also entailed a mocking subtext. Urging people to get rowdy, the meatheads were worked up, and people who weren’t completely idiotic were able to perceive the irony within his tone and language that were delivered with a professional wrestler’s gravel-gargling voice and OTT mannerisms and showmanship.

For their final song, “Dreaming in Dog Years,” Guy asked if anyone in the crowd wanted to sing for him, the stipulation being that they had to know the entire song, “not just the last part.” Numerous fans figuratively salivated over the opportunity they’ve dreamed of all those times they watched themselves in bathroom mirrors singing into their sisters’ blow dryers (Some were moaning and leaning up on their toes. It was kind of creepy). But no one knew the entire song, so Guy did what he was paid to do, until he walked away from the stage when it was time for the song’s finale. You know, the last part (“It’s not gonna be alright! It’s not gonna be okay!”). Numerous goons were climbing over each other to reach for the mic and/or climb up on stage.

Back at the Brooklyn Vegan show, Singapore’s grindcore crew Wormrot devastated the sweating, packed crowd with a chaotic, ruthless set. It was quick and dirty. While they weren’t necessarily the tightest band you’ll ever see—their drummer seemed like he was a train steamrolling off the tracks—they were deliciously out of control, for those who enjoy noisy music, and thoroughly entertaining.

The set was capped off by 20-year veterans Ringworm, an early player in the modern metallic hardcore movement. Much more metal than hardcore, and built upon a backbone of Slayer-inspired thrash, there were plenty of tried-and-true breakdowns. None of it was new or fresh, but to their credit, they helped carve the sculpture in the first place, and there was some kind of head-nodding, foot-tapping appeal. It was meat and potatoes metallic hardcore, nothing more, nothing less.

On deck was the show every metalhead was talking about: The Metalliance Tour, featuring Saint Vitus, Crowbar, Helmet and more. They were supposedly at full capacity by the time we arrived, and the door people at the Dirty Dog wouldn’t budge. We didn’t get in. Awesome.

It was SXSW in Austin, so hell, we just decided to party. While hanging out on 6th Street, we were encountered by a rapper pushing his product. It’s normal for independent artists to either talk up, give away or sell their music at SXSW, but this chap obviously lacked common sense by trying to interest us in his rap project. Granted, people like all kinds of music nowadays, but did it really make sense for a rapper to approach a group full of dirty long-haired or head-shaven guys wearing metal shirts? I suppose my friend unintentionally baited him by somewhat loudly talking about Watain, the satanic Swedish black metal band. But that’s not what rap dude overheard.
“Wu-Tang? Did somebody say Wu-Tang?”

Watain. Not Wu-Tang. We tried to correct him, but he interrupted us. “If y’all like Wu-Tang, you’re gonna love this!” I have his promo copy somewhere, and I’m sure it’ll make for a great coffee coaster once I find it.

Saturday, March 19

Fortunately there were no more issues with crazy cabbies. Arriving downtown without incident, I strolled into the black metal-lovin’ Profound Lore showcase that couldn’t have taken place at a more aptly named venue: Valhalla. This is where Minnesota’s Wolvhammer (including former Nachtmystium guitarist Jeff Wilson) got down and dirty with their punk ‘n sludged-out take on early black metal. There was an appealing balance between trance-inducing atmospherics as well as their ability to rock out the entire time.

Next up, New York’s Castevet hit the ground running with a mid-paced, melodic black metal display that was meticulously nuanced and structured with effective, evocative transitions. During their extended instrumental runs, a transcendental quality pulled the music into an abstract area that’s difficult to measure with the analytical part of the mind. Then, when Andrew Hock‘s intense, barked vocals kick in, the music is clenched into a fist that’s jabbed into the throat. The progressive inclination this band has coupled with a discernible sound quality makes for an interesting listen that has the potential to appeal to those who may not even know what black metal is.

There were more great acts at the Profound Lore showcase, but Eyehategod was set to play shortly thereafter at Scoot Inn, and it was fairly distant from the centralized hub of activity. Only catching the very end of Naam‘s set, it was clear that there was some Sabbath and early Saint Vitus/Obsessed worship at hand, but a proper, full review wouldn’t be valid based upon my limited experience with a couple of songs.

Hundreds and hundreds of people were there eagerly awaiting Eyehategod, and as soon as it was go time, the not-entirely-sober audience went apeshit. Compared to many sludge or doom bands, Eyehategod has an aggressive edge that’s equally as pronounced as its depressive tendencies whenever it does emerge, not only when they’re spicing things up with their ’80s hardcore punk-charged moments, but even when they’re attempting to slow the rotation of the Earth with their knuckle-dragging, crushing riffs. Mike Williams appeared to be as miserable as Eyehategod fans would hope for him to be, and his vocals were utterly hateful and intense.

Pentagram, then, offered the perfect finale for the legion of metalheads gathered at SXSW. Frontman Bobby Liebling truly looks as creepy and eerie as he sounds. His singing was essentially some kind of twisted rambling or story telling-like session layered atop the well-played, ’70s hard rock-based, prototypical doom metal. They’ve been at it for years, and they still have it. Metal ’til death.

It was a great year for metal and heavy music at SXSW, even though I missed a band or two. Did I mention that I didn’t see Saint Vitus, Crowbar, Slough Feg, Bruce Lamont, Dax Riggs, Trash Talk, Kylesa, Weedeater, Zoroaster, Trap Them, Off!, Hull, Kvelertak, Goes Cube, Novembers Doom, Eagle Twin, Helmet, and Tombs?

Awesome.

By Jay H. Gorania

The Earth is shaking at its core, unleashing an unforgiving quake, tsunami and flooding upon Japan, threatening a potential nuclear fallout in its wake. Meanwhile, the rising tide of Middle Eastern rebellions have slammed against Libya’s authoritative dam, its leadership violently slaughtering its people. In light of such chaos, a recap of a music conference and fest is trivial at best. But you didn’t go to a humanitarian relief effort website. You went to Hellbound.

At any rate, while the world wept and dreaded over the aforementioned events (feeling guilty yet?), thousands gathered in Austin for South by Southwest. Also a massive interactive and film conference and festival, Hellbound is of course concerned with the annual event’s musical component.

During the day, back room business deals unfold, and industry concerns are mulled over at panel discussions. But no one gave yours truly a flashy pass. Woe is me. I would have felt as important as Borat sitting in a nice chair in a hotel room (“Go do this! Go do this! King of the castle!”).

Access to shows really depends on the popularity of a given band or showcase, and the degree to which door people are anal about what kind of badge, wristband, stamp or pass you have. Indeed, sometimes paying cash isn’t enough, nor is angrily cussing at the bouncers who won’t let you into the St. Vitus/Crowbar show that a colleague described to me as “religious.” At another showcase, a publicist couldn’t even get in to see one of the bands she works with.

On many levels—whether we’re talking about the parades, the swarm of people, the never-ending lines, the girls on stilts—SXSW is one big clusterfuck.

Wednesday, March 16

There are plenty of reasons why shows are missed. Transportation can be a nightmare. There were cops on motorbikes everywhere, practicing the utmost level of discretion as they handed out tickets like Santa handing out candy canes (It must have been that time of the month). If driving was avoided in favor of cabs, the waiting time was seemingly endless. Walking to the various club takes enough time on its own. And with so many shows overlapping, it is inevitable that you will miss countless bands you had intended on watching.

In any event, I found myself at the Sumerian Records showcase at the Habana Bar Backyard, a roomy outdoor venue, perfect for the week’s warm air. The band Structures was utterly unspectacular. There was more focus on unintentionally laughable, choreographed moves than on the music, and the unconvincing melodic vocals were seemingly the only difference they have from the rising crop of Veil of Maya rip-off bands. Veil of Maya themselves are either derivative of or inspired by Meshuggah, but however one spins it, and whether they’re palatable to one’s liking or not, they are brutal and catchy at once, driven by Marc Okubo’s groove-centric riffs. Structures, however, are not even worthy of being called a poor man’s version of Veil of Maya.

Originality and innovation can be a rare thing indeed when it comes to music. But enter Animals as Leaders, who produce addictive instrumental music enjoyable to people who don’t listen to instrumental music. Rather than show-boating as many instrumental or prog bands do nowadays, their prowess is channeled into coherent songwriting that’s accessible but not necessarily commercial. Tosin Abasi clearly leads the charge with mesmerizing, completely atypical virtuosity, yet guitarist Javier Reyes and drummer Navene Koperweis are no slouches by any means. Tosin’s banter between songs is limited, to say the least, underscoring the fact that the songs stand on their own with no need of gimmicks or choreography.

Yet another band that combines sky-high talent with songwriting, The Faceless followed suit with their take on progressive death metal that instantly brings to mind Opeth and Cynic. Probably due to their contemporary delivery and relative youthfulness, they are an “it” band with “the kids” who ate them up in spite of the poor sound mix. The showcase was rounded out by the run-of-the-mill deathcore bounciness of Ultrageist.

Thursday, March 17

The deathcore trend has stuck around longer than many have expected, and it was clearly ubiquitous at SXSW. At Emo’s Annex, the outdoor tent across the street from the longstanding Emo’s venue, Emmure was welcomed warmly and loudly, frontman Frankie Palmeri taking to the stage like a boxer jumping in the ring, similar was his intentionally cocky attitude. Emmure’s take on the deathcore approach is replete with plenty of the requisite breakdowns and low death grunts, but their overt Korn and nu-metal influence shapes the riffs and songs unmistakably. Palmeri “works the crowd” sufficiently enough, and they collectively eschew excessive brutality in favor of a constant pop-like groove.

They clearly were not a pop band, unlike I See Stars, a generic post-metalcore/pop band for little girls. They have a keyboard-playing growler who backs up a tall, handsome young singer with a soulless melodic voice. Pejorative assessment or not, if the crowd was at all a representative face of their broader audience, this truly is music for little girls. Like Structures, there were more of those all-important choreographed moves (You’ve gotta look good, right?).

Over at Barbarella Patio’s, on the other hand, there were two bands focusing on music. Riding on the buzz of their critically hailed release Marrow of the Spirit, Agalloch seemed, if anything, nervous on stage. While certain parts lulled and lacked the magic of an Agalloch listening experience on record, more often than not they channeled the inherent depth and sublime nature of their folk-fused, post-metallic dark metal songs that require patience to appreciate.

In stark contrast to the image obsessed stylings of, again, Structures or I See Stars, the band focused their collective energy on their music, and behaved naturally as individuals. At set’s end, guitarist Don Anderson seemed to be in a state of prayer, raising his guitar to the sky, worshipping the feedback; meanwhile, an exhausted Aesop Dekker was massaging his hands and gathering his drum sticks as if he was finishing up at a rehearsal in a garage. They were just some metal dudes doing their own thing.

Fuck choreography.

Doom demons Yob followed up with more music played and created for music’s sake. If the cataclysmic, earthquaking rumble beneath Japan was felt stateside, it was surely through Yob’s bottom-heavy, Sabbath-via-Cathedral-and-Sleep riffs. Their music and vocals and presence were passionate and ritualistic. Because of the repetitive nature of the riff-driven madness, the songs stay with you long after they’ve finished playing, bouncing around from synapse-to-synapse in your tenderized gray matter.

On my way to find a cab with my cohorts, I encountered The Faceless’ singer Derek Rydquist, inebriated, hunched over with mouth agape, and holding something as if it was the Holy Grail. An aspiring guitarist, Derek was asking Yob’s singer/guitarist Mike Scheidt what kind of pedal to use since he’s a big Yob fan. Because Scheidt and his son both like The Faceless, Derek said Mike Scheidt gave him his own pedal that he used that night. Again, at that moment, it was the Holy Grail for The Faceless’ singer.

Not really one that we asked for, but our pursuit to have a simple cab ride home took a turn for the worse. A big dude was nice enough to let us hop into the van cab he tracked down since we were going the same direction, yet upon reaching our arrival point prior to his, the cabbie wouldn’t let us split the cost of the ride with him. The cabbie was insisting that since we hopped in afterward, he needed to pay the full fare from the starting point to his destination, and we needed to pay the full fare from the starting point to our hotel.

In the midst of our ensuing argument, the cabbie wouldn’t let us get out by our hotel. He started driving off, abducting us, basically, even though we were telling him repeatedly to stop. I suppose my manners helped save the day since he booted all of us when I started screaming at him and calling him a word that starts with “C” and ends with “T” (No, not the word can’t). Luckily our stranger/cab companion wasn’t stranded. A cop took him where he needed to go.

The final installment of this blog will be published tomorrow.

Convening on the other side of the border, the metallic circus reconvened in Seattle where the merch area was outside, sunshine squeezing out beads of sweat early on, the moon later providing dim light to the cooler evening during which time a young, blonde stripper stopped by the merch stand and took her shirt off in hopes that I’d give her some Cephalic merch for free.

Earlier in the tour, in Detroit, I had been screaming at a gutter punk wearing a Leftover Crack shirt who was begging for “free shit,” so comparatively this was obviously a pleasant experience, and a pleasant sight. But…she had no money.

No shirt for you!

Jay: 1. Stripper: 0.

Next up: Portland, Oregon. The Northeastern city, boasting some modest, but charming housing near its industrial district that’s similar to that found in Italy and Greece, is left-leaning and one of America’s most cannabis-friendly locales. With this in mind, it was surprising that the venue’s merch Nazi, a tall black dude with a mound of dreads and chin-strap beard that made him look like a Klingon from Star Trek, said what he said.

Uttered in the tone not unlike the douche-bag, stereotypical middle-management goon in Office Space, Klingon boy spouted, “Yea, if you could no longer sell those pipes and put them away, that would be great. Thanks.”

I just sold them under the table from that point on.

The Summer Slaughter tour was eventful, hectic and full of surprises, but all good things come to an end, and this bad-ass tour made its grand finale in San Francisco at the remarkable venue the Fillmore, high reaching is its height, the distance between floor to its elegant ceiling met with grandiose chandeliers.

Somewhat pre-planned, it was an enjoyable time running on stage with dudes from the other bands and crews during the tour’s final song: Decapitated’s “Spheres of Madness.”

Rather than violently moshing as I had hoped, everyone was hugging, headbanging and high-fiving each other in proper hippie fashion (shhhhh, don’t tell the metal tough guys!).

In their backstage room immediately after the capstone performance, Decapitated’s new singer, Rafal Piotrowski, was wiping the sweat from his dread-lock draped forehead, sighing with a breath of sentimentalism. “This is the greatest night of my life.”

After we arrived in Denver, driving there non-stop, we were dead-tired. And granted, the prospect of hearing more screaming dudes and loud guitars was probably the last thing any of us would have wished for, but hell, Slayer was playing the next evening.

Cephalic bassist Nick opted out, and told me he wasn’t much of a Slayer fan, adding that he thinks their solos are quick but without purpose, a string of random notes plucked down the guitar, and that other bands can solo just as quickly but with complexity and direction.

He is dead to me.

Um, whether or not he is spot-on correct, I was banging my head and pumping my fist with the devotion of a religious zealot. Lenzig hooked us up with backstage passes so Brian and I, upon entering the winding corridor wrapping around the venue’s interior, almost walked into Dave Mustaine, who is a damn, tall son of a bitch.

Making our way toward what was literally the backstage area, Slayer was ten feet from us, and Lenzig had to pull me out of the way from someone walking up behind with clamoring chains by their side. It was Kerry King’s path that I was blocking.

After years of interviewing metal superheroes, it’s rare for me to get star-struck by anyone, but I was definitely not nonchalant. I’m sure I exclaimed something to the effect of, “Dude, it’s Kerry King!”

Anyway, Brian and I shot the shit with Len outside Slayer’s bus, and Len boastingly showed us his brand new state of Colorado issued license to toke up.

Near the front of the venue, longtime and now-former Cephalic guitarist Zac Joe jumped on Brian’s back to catch him by surprise (interestingly, he said he got off the phone with Kevin Stewart-Panko a few hours earlier in the evening).

His work was obviously impressive with Cephalic, but his split with the band was a good thing from my perspective since Brian is a formidable replacement, and Misled by Certainty is an amazing album, and since Zack’s new band, Collapse, has put together a handful of some impressive, brutal songs that he was actually outside the show to distribute.

A little earlier at the show, while I was exiting the pisser, I was shocked to see the tour’s stage manager Dane and All Shall Perish’s singer Eddie standing by a beer stand. As it turns out, they were in Denver for the evening to catch the show, hang with Cephalic dudes and crash at Steve Goldman’s house. It was a pit-stop on their way dropping off and picking up vehicles since All Shall Perish crashed their van toward the end of tour (though it was wrecked, everyone was okay).

Hanging out later that night in Denver at a joint called 3 Kings Tavern, Eddie was talking about a conversation he had, around the time of the crash, with a few people including members of Decapitated. Apparently he was describing the obvious, that it’s unsettling and terrible, and he turned to Decapitated guitarist Vogg.

“But I can’t imagine what you went through.”

To refresh those who may not be too familiar with one of the most tragic anecdotes in metal history, shortly after their run on the first Summer Slaughter tour, that had also been alongside Cephalic Carnage, among others, Decapitated’s tour bus crashed in Europe in the fall of 2007, seriously injuring then vocalist Adrian “Covan” Kowanek and claiming the life of Witold “Vitek” Kieltyka, Decapitated’s drummer. But Vitek was more than Vogg’s band mate, he was his brother.

So obviously without the intention of hurting Vogg with his comments, Eddie’s words nonetheless struck a nerve, Vogg instantly dropping his head, walking away and toward his bunk in the bus.

He and Decapitated have been through more than anyone should ever go through, so the fact that they’re back and as tight as they sound is a testament to their tenacity. And, of course, it’s great news for death metal fans across the globe.

RIP Vitek. Acknowleding the past as well as their unyielding obsession for death metal, the logo on some of Decapitated’s new merch aptly reads, “From Pain to Strength.”

(If you missed part 2, check it out here!)

After our significant delay at the US/Canada border, during which time Len’s leg was chomped on by a Canadian border drug dog, we scrambled into Calgary’s downtown venue only a matter of minutes before doors. It could have been worse. The show could have been missed altogether.

Due to a variety of circumstances from their past, some members of several bands on the Summer Slaughter tour were unable to enter Canada at all. Carnifex didn’t make it to any of the Western Canadian dates.

Another band facing similar problems was Vital Remains. Despite their long history in death metal, the veteran band actually started off each show. Kick-starting the Calgary show, the five-piece was rendered a trio due to said border troubles. Main-man Tony Lazaro was even short a singer, but they apparently hold dear the credence “The show must go on.”

They didn’t pack the punch to the gonads that they do as a full ensemble; however they were surprisingly lethal and entertaining in their trimmed down form. And the simple fact that they played at all spoke volumes to the unyielding passion for death metal that Tony Lazaro has always had.

I enjoyed watching them from a desirable vantage point, but while slinging merch, my shorts were getting heavy in a matter of no time (and no, I’m not talking about the presumably heavenly act of making use of adult diapers).

I was born, bred and beaten Canadian, so I’m well aware of Loonies and Toonies (one and two dollar coins, respectively, that have replaced the paper format entirely), but this situation taught me how ridiculously heavy they are. I couldn’t help but empathize with the plight of Canadian strippers. Dollar tips would be the equivalent of an age-old stoning. But I digress…

The next show, a few hours north in Edmonton, proved to be  one of the tour’s best in terms of crowd response. One attendee certainly wasn’t a Cephalic fanatic, however.

You see, Len can be (and always is) a smart ass, but his humor is extended in a playful manner that more often than not elicits laughter. But at evening’s end in Edmonton, someone didn’t want to let him get away with anything. I didn’t think that Len telling someone he looked like the guy in Nickelback (Chad Kroeger) would irk him enough to want to fight, but the guy was frontin’ all tough-guy like. Fortunately nothing happened, and in fairness to Len, that guy looked just like the stringy-haired Nickelback buffoon.

But enough about that. Next stop: Vancouver.

One of the world’s most recognized, major cosmopolitan centers, that hosted the world’s Expo in 1986 and the winter Olympics last year, Vancouver is a hub of both culture and commerce.

And on a more base level, apparently the downtown area is filled with hot, fit chics (this may seem chauvinistic, perhaps, to some; however logic underpins this point. Since extensive walking is a common mode of transportation, one can’t help but become fit. Right?).

At any rate, as we made our way around, we drove by impressive sights and features one would expect of a major city’s downtown. However, as it is common with metal shows, the venue wasn’t exactly in the best area of downtown.

It was nestled in a heavily Asian influenced area, which was charming, to be sure, but the venue was in immediate proximity to a location that legally distributes clean needles to drug users. None of this demographic was Asian. They were…they were their own breed of something.

Not long after we pulled up, in fact, we saw a guy shoot something into his arm about a foot from Cephalic’s van, and within 20 feet there were about a dozen people smoking crack in broad daylight, only making quick glances around to spot out Johnny Law.

One of the raggedy crackheads, a guy who looked like he was missing a full set of teeth and blessed with the crooked posture of a chicken, pissed on Cephalic’s van, sending guitarist Steve Goldberg out to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

Surely there would be an apologetic reaction, right? Instead, chicken man’s beak opened wide to let out the most logical response: “Got any change?”

Of course that makes perfect sense.

Whether we’re talking about chicken man or the rest of his cohorts (we gave most of them nicknames), they had little shame. We witnessed all of this in 15 minutes. It was 10:30 a.m. (You can only imagine how colorful the neighborhood became when night fell).

The Rickshaw venue was an old theatre that offered a special kind of appeal. Entering and exiting the back of the venue was a bit of a chore since you had to skip over a stream of…piss, puke, and I don’t wanna know what else.

At one point near this load-in area and a cluster of dumpsters, I saw The Red Chord’s Guy Kozowyk scream, “Beer is for horses! Whiskey is for men!”

And crack is for chicken man.

At any rate, the Vancouver crowd, like the one in Edmonton, was vibrant and enthusiastic, but I could have done without the guy who repeatedly approached me with his “C’mon! Cephalic doesn’t wanna trade me a shirt for weed? It’s Cephalic!” routine.

No. No. And no. Cephalic didn’t think it would be a good idea to cross the border with weed (Again, Len’s leg was bitten when they didn’t even have weed, for Pete’s sake). None of the bands wanted to do something so ridiculously stupid. So, with the weed that bands either purchased or received from fans, it was time to smoke it all after the show!

By one of the buses, there were members of Cephalic, Veil of Maya and…some other bands (my recollection is a wee bit hazy) who indulged in a weed circle to end all weed circles. One after the other, joints were pulled out and lit up. Initially they were passed along in clock-wise fashion, but it wasn’t long before the little love sticks were moving in both directions faster than one could catch his breath and keep up with their movement.

Meanwhile, this was around the time that Decrepit Birth realized their bassist Joel Horner was missing. He had been having his own party when he found himself lost, wandering the crack-riddled streets. Fortunately he was found safe and sound, soon enough.

Part 4, the final installment of the Cephalic Carnage Summer Slaughter tour diary, will be published Wednesday.