A few weeks ago, I had the fortune to attend the Kreator concert in Vancouver. Because I'm a paranoid fuck and have a need to show up to the general area of a show hours in advance, I had about 3 hours to kill before the doors opened. I decided to head to the rock shop to grab a Testament t-shirt I didn't have since I was wearing an Iron Maiden shirt (side note, wearing an Iron Maiden or Black Sabbath shirt to a show is like walking up to every concert attendee and saying "I LISTEN TO METAL TOO!!!"). When I was there, I met three other people in town for the show. One, a dude who while clearly metal, did enjoy some punk. The chick (who from here on I will be referring to as "The Chick") the most metal of the group with the bullet belt and Overkill backpatch (I'm struggling to remember if it was actually Kreator, but what the fuck ever). And some dude half our size with a spencers' trucker cap and gauged ears. I inaudibly expressed distaste and pity in his direction throughout the entire night.
We talked a bit about random shit until I had to keep up my metal health with a pizza and three bottles of molson to warm me up. I pissed away about an hour listening to some dude playing guitar for his facebook page. Something about breathing new life into Vancouver's metal scene, I forget. While the guy could play, I found it mildly amusing that he wants to "Breathe new life into Vancouver" when the city already has a pretty good metal scene as far as North America goes. After fucking around for another hour, I stumbled on over to the Rickshaw theater. To get to the Rickshaw from Robson street is a bit of a hike. Take a wrong turn, and you'll be forced to wade through half a kilometer of homeless and junkies looking to blow you for 20 bucks. Unfortunately for me, I zigged when I should have zagged and was forced to endure the gauntlet of STD ridden crackheads.
Upon reaching the venue, I was pleased to see on first glance that no poseurs or gauged ears were in sight. Every one was of the proper attire save for a bunch of Kreator shirts before the doors opened (for more info, see here). Whenever I go to a thrash concert, I for some reason wind up talking to guys going in that are 15-20 years older than I am (save for a shorter, less ugly version of me). Probably because they're the only ones metal enough for me to relate with. Thanks to me making a rogue facebook check, I found that moment to the joy of surrounding attendees that Death Angel was going to be touring here in February (Woohoo!). With Tyr (Hell yeah!). Supporting Children of Bodom (FUCK!!!). Once I discovered that bad news, the doors opened and we all got our beers. Far too many chose PBR over Cariboo.
Next came the thirty minutes of acquainting ourselves with the merch, layout of the floor, the general area of the pit and the entire discography of Iron Maiden playing through the speakers. The Rickshaw is a redesigned theater that used to show old kung fu movies but was shut down because the denizens of Vancouver have no taste when it comes to film. About a decade ago it was turned into the concert hall it is now. So first up was Warbringer, probably the most punk Thrash Metal band I've seen. There was not a second where their guitarists weren't flailing about wildly, leaping on top of their amps or just plain headbanging like psychopaths. Save for a few Kreator songs, the pit during their set was at its most vicious. In between songs, I reunited with Beard, The Chick, and Ear Gauges to partake in the usual metal conversations:
"Fuck yeah!"
"This rocks!"
"WARBRINNNGERRR!!!"
During the intermission, I opted to go grab a beer and get some water from the convenience store next door. This is where I found the first poseur of the night (Ear Gauges, I'm still keeping an eye on though. Oh, he wasn't as blatant as your typical scene queen, but he caught my scrutiny fairly quickly. At a first glance, you may just think he's an oldguard in a white collar. You, know, clean shaven, short hair, what have you. He's wearing jeans and a leather jacket sure, but what is that you spy UNDER the jacket? Not a band shirt or even a black t-shirt, but a WORK SHIRT. You read that right. I'm talking "collared, front pocket, kinda shirt you see on a golf course" work shirt. Before I selected my junk food, I waited for what this void of intelligence had to say. This guy however did the unthinkable. His clear lack of knowledge was exposed in mere milliseconds of him exhaling what sounded like words out of his mouth.
The lady behind the counter: "Sounds like a big show is going on over there."
Undercover false man: "Yah. It's Kreator. Best band in the world next to Metallica."
I nearly dropped my god damned bag of cheezies. I'd need a full keg to drown the falseness I had paid witness to. As he left, I saw him subtly put something down on the counter as the lady turned her back. It was a small flyer for a metal radio station "I GOT YOU DEAD TO RIGHTS NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!!!" I screamed in my mind. I paid for my fuel, took the flyer as toilet paper for later, and kept a sharp eye on the jackoff. Returning inside, I met up with the trio and noticed the poseur walking by, very unsubtly checking out The Chick's ass and at the last second making it seem like he was looking at her backpatch. Thankfully, I was not the only one who sniffed him out. The Beard glared at him as he went into the hall.
Beard: "Did you see that?"
Me: "Yes I did."
Chick: "What?"
Me: "That jackoff was checking out your ass."
Beard: "That motherfucker."
The Chick then went upstairs to the restroom after saying something that I forgot in my drunken stupor.
Beard: "Can you believe that asshole?"
Me: "Yes."
Beard: "The fucking poseur."
Me: "I fucking called it when I first saw him."
Our conversation was cut off with the fading lights in the hall, and everyone piled in for Overkill. If Kreator was not going to play after, there may have been a riot, but it would have been worth it just for Overkill. Electric Rattlesnake, Hammerhead, and motherfucking Ironbound. A kickass circle pit and crowd surfing came together to form a truly awesome experience. Nothing of much importance happened after their set save for Justin Hagberg, guitarist of 3 Inches of motherfucking Blood attending the show. This is one of the great things about the Vancouver Metal scene. Often times your favorite band from there will just show up right next to you without you noticing until the last second.
When Kreator took the stage, the entire fucking building might as well have been a pit. Phantom Antichrist is a fucking excellent song, and is the reason why I couldn't talk for two days after. When they played From Flood Into Fire, I grabbed two other guys, a black dude with an afro missing three teeth, and the previously mention non ugly version of me and started headbanging in unision with them at the shoulder throughout a good chunk of the song. The set had two circle pits and a truly brutal wall of death. But that's not the best part of this set. Right in front of where me, Beard, and The Chick had stationed ourselves, a fight broke out. I'm not sure why, but I am sure of who. The poseur radio station asshole was getting his ass rightly pounded.
The bouncer came in and grabbed the pussy and the other guy by the collar and escorted them the fuck out. Me and Beard joyously flipped him off side by side as he was being led out. Sure, Mille wasn't too pleased with that, but hell, the fucker deserved it. The show was fucking awesome. It was all the ruthless carnage of the world tied together with the focused fury that Kreator gives out. This all culminated with the performance of their title track from their masterpiece of an EP, Flag of Hate. At the time of this writing, they still got a few more shows in Latin America and then Brazil. So if you want to pay heed to a thrash show to tear your face off, you better have been born wearing an Iron Maiden shirt and kicking a soccer ball out of the womb.
Having pushed my liver and ears to the breaking limit for the month, I elected to head back to my car for the night. The last I saw of Beard, The Chick and Gauged Ears was outside after the show when I drunkenly swaggered to the skytrain. Apparently, the poseur was allowed back into the club whereupon he was grinding or something on The Chick. Beard was pissed off and rightfully so, as he was her boyfriend. The asswipe seemed totally oblivious as to how much of a dick and poseur he was, as most are. I probably would've made things worse, being drunker than an drunken Irish dockworker's drunken Irish dockworker uncle, so I managed to find my way to a station and miraculously got off at the right stations to my car.
I love it when true metal punishes a foe.
No comments:
Post a Comment