Danzig! Prong! Superjoint Ritual! - 10/11/2015

Date: 10/11/2015 (A SUNDAY! Yep, I’m that hardcore)

Bands: Witch Mountain, Prong, Veil of Maya, Superjoint Ritual, Danzig (in that order for some reason)

Venue: Iron City Birmingham  (Quickly becoming a hardcore hotbed)

Crew:  Me, Chris, Brad (All names changed because their kids, moms or coworkers might read this)

First off: We made it just in time for a couple of beers in the restaurant while Witch Mountain played. That’s your pit review for Witch Mountain... excellent beer from TrimTab Brewery.  We talked to the tour manager too.  He seemed unimpressed.  Hmmph to him.  But I wasn't about to cheer him up for fear that he might sacrifice me to his god. Yes, it was that kind of crowd.

Crowd: This was by far the darkest crowd I've seen.  Everybody, especially a group of folks with Devil's Disciples jacket patches, had on the appropriate Dark Lord attire.  Everybody but me.  I went with my favorite Mental Floss “Trees, all bark no bite” t-shirt. I could've worn my fresh

GWAR shirt to fit in, but where's the fun in fitting in? There were a few golf shirts and cargo shorts, but not nearly as many as other shows.  One Golf Shirt in particular wishes he didn't even come to the show.  I'd estimate the place was at 800 of the possible 1300 full capacity.

Chris!  You need to know about him. 160 lbs, maybe.  5 foot 9, maybe.  44 years old, definitely.  We don’t swap statistics but I used to work for the Benzini Brothers guessing stuff like that.  And it’s all on his Facebook page.  He’s got a head of hair that would make Chewbacca jealous.  Drowsy eyes covered half way by his overstuffed, cerebral brow.  Unassuming, except when you’re not cool enough to be in the pit.  And he won’t let a baby injury like a cracked rib keep him from a slam. 

Chris’s night:  

1.  “Dude!  It’s Prong!”

2.  “What?  Where?  Where is he?  Which one is he?!” 

3.  “A guy said, ‘Hey I know you……’  Ha!” 

4.  “I like going head on.”  

5.  “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time.”

6.  “How the hell do you screw up Nativity in Black that bad?”

7.  “She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.”

8.  “We ruled this pit.”

PRONG! They hopped on Danzig's billing for this show.  Originally they were supposed to play in November, but this is Birmingham and there's no way they could've pulled a good crowd alone.  Smart move, Prong.  When they stepped to the stage, we were expecting Veil of Maya because usually bands go in order of fame, right? And who is Veil of Maya?  So, when Tommy Victor growled "Beg to Differ!" Chris opened his eyes wide “Dude! It’s Prong!” He bolted for the pit!  The crowd was hungry for a slam.  Call me what you want, but I’m shy about that first thirty seconds.  There was no stopping Chris, though, he was making friends with his elbows and clenched jaw.  

The hunger pulled me in and I swirled, elbows flying, stepping high, quick hops, adjusting and finally hitting the floor.  The beers covered the laminate floor fast tonight.  I wish these people would figure this out - keep your beer out of the pit!  That was the only fall for me all night.  Brad joined us once or twice, but what he’d learned from the Slayer pit stuck  — Don’t wear your glasses in the pit! —  Lesson for today — don’t leave your glasses in the car.  He couldn’t see a damn thing.  He should’ve brought a red-tipped cane for the pit. 

—

“What?  Where?  Where is he?  Which one is he?!” Chris had his fists clenched and was ready for a take down.  Pay back.  Don’t bring that into the pit!  “He was right here,” I said, pointing at the acre of land the guy’s fat ass had staked out during the first few songs. 

  

As with most pits there was one huge guy who is feeling invincible.  Too bad invincibility often comes with a Bad Attitude.  I had helped a few guys up, they were spilling as fast as the beers.  Another went down in the corner.  Golf Shirt accidentally got into the mix and he was on all fours - a good deed waiting to be helped up.  Closing in on him, I noticed Bad Attitude standing in the crowd behind him, obviously the reason Golf Shirt was down.  I put my hand up on the shithead’s chest.  “Whoa!” I yelled.  But as I bent down to help Golf Shirt off his knees,  Bad Attitude’s combat boot pitched into his head!  I yelled louder! “HEY!”  By then people had pulled Bad Attitude away.  Like a prematurely pinched off turd he disappeared back into his rectum of a world.  I brought Golf Shirt to his feet, his eye already swollen shut.  Leaning in, I yelled “You better go clean that up!”  “Huh?!” he says, shaking his head side to side, fearfully moving his fingers around his eye.  I thought, Oh man... He can’t hear me in that ear!  “Go look at that!” I yelled in his other ear.  The red confusion dripped from his eye and down his cheek.  

Bad Attitude didn't show up again.  It’s good for him he got kicked out of the show, because Chris was ready to kick the show out of him.  I would’ve helped.  Seriously, why do people have to be such jackwagons?

— 

Veil of Maya (AKA break time)  Okay, they tried hard, but it was like a mashup between The Mars Volta and Someone Heavy n Not So Good.  I made up that last band name, no need to search it up.  At least they had cool backdrops for their show.  There was no pit.  Someone tried for about 30 seconds, but a melody broke out, with an operatic vocal and the whole thing screeched to an abrupt “nah”.  “Ha,”  Chris said, “I just got recognized. A guy said, ‘Hey I know you… school, you teach Human Phys 643’  Ha!”  I’m telling you Chris is damn cerebral, and brutal too. “This pit kinda sucks, man.  To make it more fun, I like going head-on.”  At the GWAR show he came out with swollen elbows from going head-on, and couldn’t lift his arms more than half-mast the next day.

Superjoint Ritual!! Oh man, I got nervous for this one. 

Phil Anselmo from Pantera stepped to the front and Wow!  This dude is one badass mother! The crowd surged. Fists, clenching, shot to the ceiling.  No one in the pit would leave with fully operational vocal cords after this show.  The first chord struck and the place went nuts!  And where do you think Chris was?  Smack in the middle of the fray! Going the wrong direction.  Taking punches, delivering elbows and ducking the Tasmanian Devils.  There were three of them.  One kept his fists flying, out, away from his body as he spun in circles.  He was a little guy, but solid, obnoxious and dangerous as hell.  Another came in like a pinball, racing through the mob at full speed to bounce off the other side, turn and repeat.  I took him out a couple times with the power of judo or gravity or beer-slicked floor.   A third one, a hillbilly, had one hand on his overalls, keeping them hoisted above his johnson.  He wasn’t too bad.  At least he gave out one armed hugs after every song.  Superjoint brought out the best pit of the night.  Brutal but fun. 

Danzig!!  (AKA “No pictures, please” Just kidding, he’s not that polite about it, “No pictures, MFs!!)  

This is how I thought it would go: Raise hell for Prong, raise hell for Superjoint, and then breakout the lawn chairs to watch Danzig try to raise his own Hell.  We tried, I swear.  We rounded the floor 5 or 10 times and bounced off a few folks. More than anything we took some heat from the standers-by. We took some more heat.  The edge lurkers were getting a little pushy or bored.  One time around I noticed Chris, arms crossed, brow hiding his eyes, standing next to one of the ambushing observers, a greasy, tiny, flounderish, scared, 15 year-old.  Chris was wearing his “You’re grounded for a month” expression.  He said “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time…” and continued into a wise, punk rocking parent lecture.  Turns out, the kid met Danzig at 2nd And Charles that day and had a picture to prove it!  What?!  But no pictures at the show?  Why? 

Danzig has a new album coming out, Skeletons.  All covers.  Apparently, he’s been wanting to do a covers album since his uncles Cain and Abel taught him to fight.  I had to Google all this after the show because I couldn’t understand a damn thing he was saying on the stage.  Besides his vocal chords being ripped to shreds from a lifetime of screaming, the sound sucked for his voice.  He introduced his Elvis song.  It was one I’d never heard.  He played a biker movie theme song, Devils Angels.  Never heard of that either.  As a final advert for his album he said “and here’s a Black Sabbath song.”  I didn’t recognize it either…well… until Chris said “How the hell do you screw up Nativity in Black that bad?”  

Swells and lulls.  The Pinball Tasmanian Devil annoyed us.  Now the chicks felt safe and came in — one in a white halter top and jeans, and an “interesting” one in a black bikini top and tight shorts.  I hadn’t accidentally grabbed so much boob since playing high school two-hand-touch football.  “She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing,” Chris pointed out.  I didn’t really notice that fact.  “Mother, tell your children not to walk my way…” finally came from the speakers.  And even for this, Danzig’s best known song, swells and lulls.  Ten seconds of swell led into a loooong lull.  Bikini Top took this as a chance to prove two things:  1. She indeed didn’t know what the hell she was doing,  and 2. The pit was dead.  She built up a run, went down to her knees, and slid fifteen feet across the PBR drenched floor, right into her friend who laughed and giggled with her.  I’ve seen it before but with jello.  Then a 16 year-old dude Supermanned in his brand new Danzig tee. The pit was dead.

“Woah-oh Mother YEAH!” ended.   I turned to Chris, “You ready to bolt?”  Cool and with no hesitation he said, “Yeah.  We ruled this pit.”

Indeed.

As a last note:  I want some punk bands, please.  You hear me Rancid?  

GWAR! 30 Years of "Tour"ment - at Iron City Birmingham

9/4/2015

Band:  GWAR (30 Years of Tourment) @GWAROfficial

History with band:  I remember seeing an article on MTV News about them 30 years ago

Venue: Iron City Birmingham

Pit Crew:  Me, Chris, Chris, Chris, Frank, Julie  (all names changed to protect their innocence. — yeah, right, innocence. )

First, props to the venue again. Iron City Birmingham is a top restaurant and venue.  Great food and a beer selection from all the local brewers (GP, Straight To Ale, Yellowhammer, Avondale… all of them).  I had a GP Snakehandler (11.4%), a beer that can easily knock a strong man down.  And my burger came almost cooked right.  It must be really hard to check the temp of a burger in a big fancy kitchen. Last time, for the Slayer show, it came RAAAAAAW!  It was tasty, though.

Stoned Cobra! Battlecross!  Butcher Babies! 

And, Gwar, all for $20, now that’s a bargain!  Stoned Cobra  is a Birmingham group and they brought it! Battlecross is an up and coming band that is so heavy I couldn’t understand even one word.  Butcher Babies has a gimmick - two outrageously hot, chick singers dressed in leather dominatrix outfits and screaming at you like you're their little bad boy! “Bad bad bad boy!! Now, get up here and crowd surf!”  They knew how to stoke up the mostly sex-depraved 25-year-old crowd like gasoline on a fire.  This photog, Gary Flinn, took some awesome pics of them.

Crowd!

I’d estimate 500 black concert tees and sneakers, 100 white concert tees, 50 golf shirts and cargo shorts, 25 chicks. That’s a pretty good crowd that spanned in age from a 15 year old punk rock singer (who respected this old dude's slamming) to a 75 year old woman, who bobbed her head perfectly to the Butcher Babies.  It included all sorts:  a 6’ 5” high school basketball player in his favorite MJ Chicago jersey, a 7’ 1” Serbian guy, a dwarf woman, and all shapes in between.

And then there was this guy:

  He slammed the whole night in a teddybear getup.  I’m noticing a pattern here, too: At Primus there was a shark, at Dead Milkmen a guy dressed like Richard Simmons.  The weirdos come out and feel at home in a dark pit.  Me too.

GWAR!

How do you explain it?  Just look at the picture.  Those are my pics.  Here's a professional one. The music was perfectly performed from under the heavy costumes.  Then there was the theater side:  You can’t really explain it, except by saying there was a lot of blood spraying from garden hoses mounted in grotesque effigies of Britney Spears.  They weren’t stingy with the fake blood either.  The 100 white concert tees were wiped out, from here on referred to as "omygod, my t-shirt's ruined!" instead of "white".  And, in between songs Gwar attacked and destroyed Facebook and Instagram and millions of kitten pictures.  A public service.  These guys have been doing this for 30 years!  They have it nailed down, even enough to continue on after the lead singer died in June.  I would understand if Iron City didn't ever invite them back, though.  It was a friggin mess! 

The Pit!

It roared! A thundering herd of cannibal lions! For about 3 minutes.  I stand and watch for that long, to see the stamina of the average slam dancer kick in.  Then it started kicking in, literally… Karate Ballet came to life in the middle of the swirling pit.  Some UFC wannabe brought a mixture of round houses and “Breaking 2” moves to the center.  Most moshers dodged his flying sneakers and gave him room, but I couldn’t take it! Gwar is no place for ballet silliness.  I ventured near, swearing to duck and block, catch his foot, flip him like a rag doll, he wouldn’t want to do that anymore.  It didn’t work out that way, and I took a foot to the head, right in the ear.  I wandered off, shamed.  But like I advise my kids, I rubbed some fake blood on it, quit crying and got back in the game.
  

The pit was mean.  Chris One went down, punk rock kid went down, I went down, high school basketball player went down, everybody went down, except this one 6’4”, 250 lb angry Hawaiian-looking dude in a Heavy Metal tee.  He kept charging and pushing and using his bad math grades to fuel his rage-filled stomps.  I found my nemesis and next time he was to come around I’d drop him… but he ran out of breath and took a break.  Right then the karate ballet kicked up again.  Chris and I looked at each other and said “Dude.”  That’s all we needed to say to know we were taking him out  together.  Chris came from the left, I came from the right, and, after one final attempt at a windmilling round house, down he toppled.  He scampered from the floor like a scolded Rottweiler puppy.  

“I’m so sick of you! So sick of you!” came from Blothar, the lead singer of the Scumdogs of the Universe. The crowd frenzied again and into the pit came Prince Aluahahhahlua, angry Hawaiian youth.  When you’re not paying attention, and you’re really huge, and you’re moshing on a fake blood-covered floor, it doesn’t take much to remind you of gravity.  He tore through the pit, bodies bouncing off him, headed right for me.  I stood on the edge of the swirl, keeping track of him in my peripheral vision.  His huge paw raised to land on my shoulder.  I twisted my upper body making him miss, but kept my knee in his path.  It caught the inside of his leg, he spun around and went down hard.  And, no, I didn’t reach down to help him up as I had with at least 15 others. 

Up til now, I hadn’t really felt targeted at all.  For the most part the pit was respectful, and if I went down, there weren’t any hard feelings… except my ass on the floor.  But this wasn’t the same mentality of Prince Aleahuaohaho. 

**AND NOW A LITTLE THIRD-PERSON.  Because I was out of my head.**

The 44 year-old pit junkie rounded the circle for what had to be his hundredth time.  A nice cool misting of fake blood could have been refreshing, but Gwar had it warmed to a perfect 98.6.  It mixed with the sweat, leaving Bret more soaked than a day at Alabama Swim Adventure.

He took a high step and another following the counter-clockwise flow of the pit.  The crew he had started with wasn’t around.  “Surely they didn’t all get kicked out,” he thought.  Most of the nearby crowd was content standing and tracking Blothar on the stage.  The tension dropped from his face, he relaxed a bit and fell into a jog. But that was stupid.  

From the crowd a long, tree limb of an arm lunged and the whole tree trunk followed it.  Startled, Bret grabbed for purchase on the slick skin of the angry teenager, but the weight and force were too much for his 165 lb frame.  His Skechers left the floor. His fingers tried harder for a grip and found one on the Heavy Metal t-shirt.  That didn’t slow down his attacker, though, and Bret bounced butt-first on the floor.

The shock of the attack quickly mutated to a rage Bret couldn’t control.  He decided the best thing to do was teach that teenager a lesson about respect!  It wasn’t that deeply thought out - he really didn’t want to teach him respect, he just wanted to give him a good whack across his head.  Bret bolted toward the monster kid and a yell erupted from his gullet, “Hey you stupid prick!”  He grabbed the Hawaiian prince by the shoulder and spun him around.  But it actually wasn’t Bret that caused the boy to spin, it was the momentum of the kid's huge fist. Instinctively, Bret moved in and down. The first punch whiffed, but two others landed on the broad side of his graying head.

Before his middle-age brain could decide what to do, Bret felt hands from everywhere, hauling him off like a common criminal.  Commands of “Chill out! Stop it!” rang over Gwar’s pounding beat.  One set of arms found its way on top of his sweaty shoulders and around his neck in a calming, restrictive grip.  But that calming grip tightened.  Bret fought it by lurching back and forth.  It tightened more.  More.  Bret reached up to find the huge sweaty, slick, smooth arms refusing to release.   In a life saving effort, he focused on two things:  conceding and getting air through his windpipe.  “Let him go! You’re killing him!” a girl cried out.  Bret hadn’t really thought of that.  Maybe I’ll pass out before I die, he thought.

One more necessary breath eased through his barely opened mouth and he was released.  He crashed to the floor, fingering his throat, gasping for oxygen.  Hands reached under his armpits and generously lifted him up.  “You okay?!  Dude?!”

Bret nodded an answer then tested with a word, “Yeah.”  Turning as quickly as he could, he tried to track the owner of the thick arms.  Only startled faces looked on in shock.  His subduer was gone.

**At this point I came back into my head.** The tall Hawaiian hulk stood right where I had attacked him.  Calmly, bravely, authoritatively (or so I thought) I walked toward him.  And, like any good but ignored parent, I insisted on his attention “Hey! Kid!”  He regarded me cooly so I made my point.  “If you want to do this,” I pointed at the swirling pit, “You gotta be cool!”  

And like any normal, blameless teenager, he lifted his palms up and said, “It wasn’t me.”

“What! It wasn’t you?!  Right!  Look,” I insisted, yelling above Gwar, “Just be cool! You want to do this, then be cool!” I pushed a finger into his shoulder and walked off.

So, at the risk of getting choked out, I had made my point - Be cool.

Not to be defeated, I went back into the pit.  After a couple laps around, I left to find my crew and drink in some air.  As I made my way off, I caught a glance from Karate Ballet Dude.  He looked a little wary of me and then went into a kick routine.

I have no idea who put that choke hold on me.  It was a surprise grab at the beginning and a foggy release at the end, like a fish getting yanked from a pond.  I’ve never been that close to choking out.  Thinking back on it, though, it very well could’ve been the Karate Ballet, UFC wannabe who happened to be... *gulp*...  the target of me being uncool.

Hmmm… lesson to self.  Be cool, Bret, be cool.

It's Monday night, three days later... I'm still sore.  If you think Spartan Racing is tough, try slam dancing for 3 hours.

PEACE!

Popped My Jerry (Primus)

Date: 7/19/2015
Band: Primus
Venue: Sloss Fest at Sloss Furnaces
Temp: Hotter than balls
Crowd: Sweaty and smelly as butt
Crew: None

SLOSS!
I popped my Jerry! My Primus Jerry, at the awesome inaugural #SlossFest, @slossfest, in Birmingham, Alabama. My friends said they were jealous, but I didn’t see them jealous enough to stand in 97 degrees to watch a band they saw for the first time in 1991.  First, though, have you ever been to Sloss Furnaces? It’s my all time favorite place in this city. Putting a music fest in it was a stroke of genius.

Milo Greene, not Primus 

I think it was my idea five years ago. GENIUS! Really, I had nothing to do with it. And 25,000 other people and I sprung for the weekend pass.  I'll do it again next year too — but I'll have to get around the $8 for 16 oz of Miller Highlife.

CROWD!
I lied about my crew being “None”.   My lovely wife was with me and it’s a good thing too, because I needed someone to hold my backpack, sit in the air conditioned VIP tent, and hate my music. It’s really hard to slam with a backpack. It’s like jogging with D-cups, I guess.
Walking up to the crowd, I could see the waves of heat oozing off shiny shoulders of almost-naked dudes with their shirts tied on their heads. I kept mine on because, well because, gross, slippery, wet dudes. Blech. And my Dad bod had some major tan lines. And sweaty dudes.

The audience was about 30 standing rows deep before you hit the Blanket People sprawled out on the dirt and gravel. I went to the middle of the crowd and hung with two guys that travelled “all the way from Anniston, man!” That’s only an hour away, but they made like it was forever.  They must've never travelled past Uncle Bo's porch for a music fest.  Or maybe they took the long way through Georgia. Or they were stoned for the drive. That’s more likely, because they fired a spliff up right there. Then the group next to me fired one up. They offered it to me and, of course, I did NOT partake (because drugs are bad, kiddies).  It really wasn’t an actual offer. The girl turned to me, held it out, and got this look like “Oh my God! I just offered a joint to somebody’s dad!” Dad bod,  graying hair, hipster plaid button up shirt, at a Primus show... I get it.  But, after seeing the psychedelic show, I get why dope is good appetizer.

GET CLOSER!
“I’m going in, guys. Let me by.”
“Go get’em dude!” the Anniston boys cheered me on.
Next stop, behind Big-Six-Foot-Wide-Shirtless-Longhair. He seemed nice enough, but boy did he stink. And then he fired one up. Ahhh… a medley of festival smells…Now I just need a beer spilled on me and it will be complete.

PRIMUS!
Finally, the lights went down and the cheers started

“PRIMUS SUCKS! PRIMUS SUCKS! PRIMUS SUCKS!” 

 I didn’t join in because I’ve never seen them live, so how would I know. Right? But from what I could see, from behind Big-n-Wide-n-Shirtless, Primus doesn't care that they suck. At least we weren't spitting on them like true punks.

Larry (Ler), the guitarist took his place, his hippie hair draped over his shoulders.  He struck the first “chord” (Quotes are for the lack of "music") Yeah, I know what Primus sounds like, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but I also know they play SONGS. Those things with melodies and stuff. This started out like the screeching roll of the iron carts on the Sloss steel tracks. No worries, though, it would soon morph into something good — Wynona's Big Brown Beaver or was it My Name is Mud?  It was tough to tell the difference up that close.  And I think everyone was having trouble because nobody danced right off.  There was plenty of head bobbing and fist waving, just no bouncy, sweat swapping.
“JERRY!!” An avid radio listener screamed.
“Man, chill” I thought. As if Primus would somehow forget to play Jerry. The band didn’t listen to him and Les Claypool launched into a profession of love for the jalepeno corndogs being battered fifty feet away. He delivered it in his trademarked Head-Full-Of-Ice-Cold-Helium-Filled-Cartoon-Characters voice, which at least entertained us. Then a long, drawn out, jazzy, jam band, festival type medley of noise brought us all to a standstill. By now, my feet are dying for something to skank to and this wasn’t it.  The crowd took out their mid-show smokes, lit them up, said hello to new friends, called their grandparents, and caught up on all their Facebook posts.  Claypool left the stage with Ler and his guitar for some more noise. Les needed a break. I couldn’t blame him -- it was blazing hot and rockstars can’t dress appropriately for heat, except hot chicks who like to flaunt the goods. Three minutes of drum noise later from Herb, and Les is back.

I think it’s Les.
No.
It's!! Mr. Krinkle.

Mr. Krinkle!!!

The iconic pig gets us whipped up with cheers of how much PRIMUS SUCKS!
and
“JERRY!”

 Things started bouncing.  Gross-Big-n-Wide bumped his sweaty, hairy back on me. I stepped back and a $8 cup of beer went down my back.  Festival smell medley was completed. What dumb ass brings $8 beers into a pit? And, YES, a small pit did swirl up, enough to clear a path for me to the front four rows.  But it didn’t last more than ten seconds.

Finally, I got away from Big-Wide-n-Shirtless-Pool-of-Sweat, to the center with Small-n-Shirtlesses — a couple of guys who wouldn’t be able to push me down.

SELF-INSPECTION TIME! 
It was still a question: “If a pit formed, was I going in?” Just in case, I did the safety checks.
Wallet buttoned in? ✓
Phone bottom pocket? ✓
Keys? ✓
Hat on tight? ✓
Keens tight enough... Yeah, Keens… in a dusty, dark pit. I rationalized the hard plastic should keep my toes safe enough. ✓

“JERRY!!” one more time by Mr. Obvious.
“Shut up, dude. They’ll play it, I promise!” 

The Avett Brothers were about to start on the other stage and the girls here were growing anxious, pulling their half-dressed boys’ arms and whining, “Come on, Murder in the City, Brooklyn Brooklyn! Come on!” But it’s hard for a weakling Avett fan to hold tight to a sweaty Primus fan.
 “JERRY!!”
Then, after another 5 minutes of jazzy-jam-jam, the Jerry bass intro hit our ears.
And the crowd erupted! ! ! Of course. The swirl started. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I think it was my own. It could've been flung from a long-hair inflaming a vertebral disc with every head bang. Later in life he’ll lie to his surgeon, “No, I haven’t been through any traumas.”
"JERRY!!"
Decision made! I went head long, arms extended, knees rising, into the fray. The moshing sweat balls all looked at me like I was lost, like I must have missed a turn to the nearest Barry Manilow concert. One went down, spilled his craft beer. I grabbed him by his pits and yanked him up. Just fifteen, or so, moshers can be a good time. But there's always a soft mosher, usually a chick. It bounced off me so softly and I looked up.  It was a shark!  (this is not fiction.  It was slammer dressed as a shark)  That was our pit - 15 plus a shark.
♩♩Wrapped his self 'round a telephone pole!♩♩
CHAOS!!
A problem popped up - I almost lost a Keen. I imagined myself one-foot hopping to scoop up my festival sandal.  And just like that, as if Primus didn’t know how to stretch a song out til next week, they stopped at the end.
SCREECH-ERRRR--STOP!
It never before hit me how short Jerry is. In an almost-elevated breath, with my hands on my hips, I turned to the young slammer next to me and lamented, “Damn. They should’ve played that first.”

 Now I get it. Next time I’ll be yelling “JERRY!!!”

 The END

Dead Milkmen! May 9, 2015

Band:  Dead Milkmen
Venue: Saturn Birmingham
Date: 5/9/2015
Crew:  Me, Chris
Band Experience: Never seen them live, but in high school I cruised around with Beach Party Vietnam cranking out of my piece of junk speaker system.

Venue: WOW!
Great beer selection.  I met a new friend, "Founders All Day IPA"  A few went down smooth, then I switched to the High Life.  They serve coffee in the coffeehouse half of the place.  Here's a shot of the dressing rooms posted by Rodney Anonymous, the Milkmen's lead vocals.  This place is not only hot for Birmingham, but for the whole music industry. It might seem like they built this place with futuristic magic, but they indeed used science and space rockets.

Opener: The Bastards of Fate
Imagine Lyle Lovett or Napolean Dynamite singing like Dave Peacock of Pantera then, in the next line, hitting a note straight from Barbara Streisand's Woman In Love. This guy has been practicing in his basement for the last 25 years and he's probably only 26.  I can imagine his dad banging on the basement door, "Hey! What the hell are you doing down there?! Get out and play some football!" "Just leave me alone, Dad! I'm combing my hair!" (Amazing afro, by the way).The bass player had some real funk going on, too, especially in his hair.  The band gets a low A for their music.  I'd give them a high A, but it seemed to hit too many styles.

Crowd:
Had some good tees on, Misfits, Descendents, River City Extension. There were a lot of old punk rockers and combat boots, even on the chics. (I think it's high time I get some Doc Martens)  There were some younger folks too.  One in particular was "protecting" his mom as she cashed in on her Mother's Day gift.  No kidding.  She wanted to go slam dancing at the Milkmen for Mother's Day.  And she did.

Dead Milkmen!
They did their own sound checks! (Sidebar: Maybe that's what the Pixies get, more roadies, for charging $60.  I'm still kind of thinking about that price.) If you've never heard the DMM, here's their most famous song Punk Rock Girl It's not their best punk song, but it was the one that made it to MTV.

 These guys are loaded with energy.  It was hard to get a good still shot from my stupid phone camera, but here's a gallery of the show on DSmithScenes.  He has a better camera.  Rodney Anonymous spent half of the show like this picture, pogoing. After 22 years of being away from our town, they still brought an awesome show.  

The Pit! 

Well, again, it seemed like we, Chris and I, were going to leave barely sweating.  The band came out raging, playing Punk Rock Girl within the first five songs, pogoing all over the stage, racing through some crazy-ass bass lines!  BUT... I watched Dan Stevens (bass) give Joe Genaro (guitar) a look like "Who put the barbiturates in the Birmingham water?" It was the same look I gave Chris and all the folks around me.  "They know we're here," Chris said.

It must be the presence of the ladies in the crowd that keep us from having a good knock down, get up, fall down, grunt, punch, sweat and almost die from lack of oxygen pit.  I don't mind girls.  I think they're nice and soft in the right places.  And the ones that slam dance are even better.  The problem is that the guys with them. They want to protect the softer sex, so they stand by their sides and block any incoming bump, you know, chivalry.  Screw that.  

There was a massive break through.  Couples slam session! Yes! This golf shirted, loafer wearing guy decided to take a waltz with his date.  It was precious AND brilliant.  Chris seized the opportunity by grabbing my hand and we waltzed (or whatever) in circles with them.  We bumped them and everyone around us. Then we switched partners.  I got the slam dancing mom and she twirled me around in circles.  That is what we have to do to get the co-ed pit going.  It was major fun.

Back to the band!
 Besides his sincere comments about Judge Roy Moore's extracurricular with Sus Scrofa Domesticus, Rodney Anonymous, had another sincere moment on stage to tell us about the Sophie Lancaster Foundation. You can read the story and mission.  It seems like the right way to handle these injustices.  Give them some money to help educate their part of the world (it has to start somewhere).

They finished the first set and we yelled, just like you're supposed to.  They came back out, just like they're supposed to.  Rodney said he didn't want to go back to the hotel so early on a Saturday night. I hoped they came back to respect the fact that I almost severed my vocal chords.
Finally the crowd really woke up! For the next few songs the pit was a pit.  And, by the end, we had a 10 to 15 person swirl going.  Not the biggest, but better - a good time.  And I left sweating, with no bleeding.

What a great lady and slam dancer! 

Here's the happy Mother's Day lady giving some Alabama love to Dan Stevens.











Peace!

PIXIES! May 6, 2015

Date:  May 6, 2015

Band: The Pixies (Indie Cindy Tour)

Venue:  Iron City Birmingham

Experience with band: Been to a show.  Didn’t slam. Loved them from when I heard them first in ’90.

Crew:  Wife, Me, Chris, C-Wife, and some other girlies. (All names changed to protect the innocent, but none of these are still innocent. I know for a fact that my wife isn’t.)

A special note about why Wife likes them:

One time, Valentine’s Day 1991, I called WEGL, the Auburn University radio station, for a dedication.  “Will you play me Pixies, La La Love You and dedicate it to my Favorite Girlfriend?”  They did. I got some.  Sometime in 1995, I asked The Frigidaires, “Hey, can you learn La La Love You for our wedding?”  They did. I got some.  Last month I tweeted Birmingham Mountain Radio “Quick! Play me…” They failed.  But I still got some.  So there ya go… anytime I’m with Wife and there’s Pixies involved I get some.

Crowd:

Old and thin <— Not the people, just the quantity.  Nobody looked like they had done any warm-up stretches for the pit, like me.  They did look like they had a healthy meal in the cafe, though.  

Opener:  John Grant

Okay, so, I expected somebody that I’d heard of for a Pixies opener.  Why?  Not because they’re one of the most influential indie bands ever and they have a following of folks that would love to open for them, but because the tickets were $60.  That’s still a lot for me, for one ticket.  So I decided I wasn’t going to go.  It was a Wednesday night and I’m older, and working, and have kids and all that stuff.  But bring on the ground-breaking radio station, Birmingham Mountain Radio (@bhammtnradio on Twitter), and a chance to win 2 free tickets.  That’s right, I scored with a quick and dirty cut&paste Facebook post.  Enough about the cost… well, one more. $35 t-shirts?! 

I hadn’t heard of John Grant but I kind of enjoyed his weird alt-country, shoot-yourself-in-the-face (well, maybe, arm) cynicism.  He was like a devil child of Seth Rogan and Frank Sinatra.  Great voice.  I looked around and there was only one guy who knew all the words,  and he was John Grant.

PIXIES!

They know their music and that is what they did! Right from the get go.  No words of hello, screw you, more monitor, I need a beer. Nothing.  Black Francis went right into the tunes.  The first three songs seemed like a warm up jog for a sprinter. They were hit songs but were played so weird and slow I didn’t know what the next note was going to be.  

The stage was a little bare. There was lighting and some fog, but the speaker stacks were small (compared to the crazy noise at the Slayer show), no back drop, no props — all about the music.  More speakers may have been better for the crowd in the back, because I could still hear the conversations around me without even trying. I imagine the folks in the back were having more of a problem.

DATE NIGHT!  

The crowd did pile in, finally.  They didn’t sell the place out, but it looked like it.  Which makes me think that $60 was a fair price. Nah.  It was date night. For every girl there was a boy (or the something like that.  Insert rainbow image into your head here) I brought my date and I thought it might cramp my style. So Chris and I ditched our wives and hit the front rows.  Pre-pit optimism runs high.  I always figure that there will be at least ten other people who don’t mind getting sweaty and bumping into each other, and they will all move to the front of the room and have a blast!  But, no.  

CINDERBLOCKS!  

Besides, every dude hanging on to his dates hips and swaying with her, there were a few statues in the way.  This chic stood on the third row like this the whole time! 

We tried our damnedest to get something going, but it felt like I was apologizing faster than the beat was moving.  Finally I gave in to date night and texted Wife to come join us.  She did. We hip bumped.  Stood behind this boor and made fun of her.  Smiled at each other and kissed when they played La La Love You.

About 40 minutes into the show, the few guys around us started to move a little.  A 4-1/2 foot girl behind me raised her elbow to protect herself from a bump that never happened. It was a move that said she’d been here before, knew what was going on, saw the potential for a bruised toe.  A dude next to me started to pogo and I joined him with a glancing shoulder. Bump, bounce, bound, bump. Found Chris. Bounce, bump, mosh. Ignore ugly look from some lady, a glare from another chic who was born after Come On Pilgrim was recorded, and a scream from the Hobbit girl. Geez.  Stopped dancing after that song ended.  I bet Wife would have yelled at me if we were strangers, too.  

WAITING! 

We were there — waiting. As Chris says, "Man, if they want to slam, they know we're here."  The first set ended.  I was wondering if some of these folks even had lungs and beating hearts, but they yelled enough for the encore and it happened.  A great rendition of Cactus flew from Frank’s mouth. Then the guy who had been howling “Debaser!!” all night finally got his wish. The crowd energy spiked!  A huge, 6’4” dude came flying into our area.  He knew we were there and ready.  A couple of steps this way and that and we had cleared a 20-foot area.  We grabbed a few other guys away from their dates.  A baby pit had been born!  I took a push from the front, stumbled to the back, followed by another push and stumble.  Oops!  Bumped into the Hobbit.  Now she was a Grumpy Dwarf Banshee mix. “Hey! You MotherF***! A**hole! Son of…!” and she shoved me as hard as she could.  Okay… whatever… shake my head and continue on.  I guess I finally ruined her entire night.  

“Debaser” ended and a single drip of sweat formed on my brow as the lights came up.  Everyone was smiling except the Hobbit girl and that Sad Sap girl.  It would have been better if everyone started smiling earlier in the show.  

And, I know you’re wondering… Wednesday, school night, 11:30, a little older, a little wiser, but it was the Pixies after all, right?  Did I get some? Hmmm… I’m not telling.

Peace!

  

Injury update

Update from Slayer show:

It was just a knot, a tiny ding,
Blue, the size of a dime.
A week goes by,
 it's grown in size.
From shin to heel,
a full on bruise.
It thrums and throbs,
the bass drum of my youth


Such pretty colors, purple and yellow.  I might wear shin guards to the next slam.

And another note: It might be time to find a good chiropractor.  

Slayer - 4/24/2015 - Review

Black Tee Affair: Slam 1

Date:  April 24, 2015

Band: Slayer

Venue:  Iron City Birmingham

Slam experience with band: Zero

Crew:  Brad, Chris, Chris, Chris, Frank, James, John, Julie, Todd, Me (All names changed to protect the innocent, but none of these are innocent.)

“When are you getting here? You got a good shirt to wear?" Two questions for my friends.  I didn't have a good concert tee, but Mr. Budget wasn't about to go to Hot Topic and buy a crisp Nirvana shirt for 30 bucks. Yes, the outfit is important, but not for posing.  It’s important for movement.  You have to be able to step high, to swing strong, to crouch into a tight ball, to spin on your heel, accept a blow in the back, and roll on the ground.

The night was finally here and the black tees were out in force. Me I chose an army brown tee, (who cares, right?) free of emblem, free of labels, old and worn. It already had sweat stains from the 11 years of use.  Blue jeans are necessary with a belt to hold them up. A pair flexible Skechers helps, too.  They don’t look as good as Doc Marten’s, but… movement.  I felt prepared.

Bring your willing friends if you’ve got’em.  We were 10 strong and feeding off each other’s pit stories.  

DINNER! (Yes - excellent)

“How would you like your burger, sir?" Sir. She called me sir.  That should be a sign of respect, right?  Tonight it may have been a sign of age.  Sir? That bounced around a minute and I thought of Slayer…  "I want it…"  holding my invisible mic to my lips I growled out the temp… "RAAAAAWWW! No, just kidding.  Medium, please."  She didn’t even smile and my burger was bleeding when it came, real close to RAAAW!  Not her fault.    

Iron City Grill has a great menu and beer selection. The service was friendly and attentive. The dinner tables weren’t too crowded. I guess that most Slayer fans weren’t into dinner. The bar was standing room only, though

The beers flowed. Chris introduced me to the Good People Hitchhiker.  So good, but on an empty stomach, it hits the head fast.  I had one, two, and switched to a lighter variety.  Confidence is important, and 12 ounces of courage isn't enough.  I find that 36 is key.  Going further than that will give you enough false courage to send you spilling under boot in the first 30 seconds.  You have to find the balance to stay agile, to bounce like a ball, to twist and curl like a tough licorice stick - a black one.

SLAYER!

They made us wait.  “Slayer takes the stage at 8:00. No opening band. Be there or you'll miss it."  That's what the venue email warned.  Even when 8:30 rolls around you can’t justify being impatient, because even then, by midnight, you’ll be in your own bathroom squeezing Neosporin into new cuts and scratches.  I wasn't impatient, but the crowd began simmering in anticipation as howls of “SLAYER! SLAYER! SLAYER!” urged the band on stage.   

The pre-show music… AC/DC? It fit the crowd.  Many lips synched the words, "knocked me out with those American thighs”.  These fans all bought their shirts at Hot Topic earlier in the day.  Other fans stood with both hands tucked in their jeans pockets, their shoulders rolled forward and chests tightened into a cave.  Heads swiveled, measuring the dancing threats… um talent.   A shy, tentative laugh from the smallish 20-something next to me said “oh boy, I can't believe I’m standing here, next to the pit.”

8:37 and the guitarist stepped to position.  The tightly packed front seven or eight rows of standing fans saw him and let us back-row folks know with raised voices and pointing pinkies and index fingers.  They learned that pose at their first Bon Jovi concert.  I joined in with a fist and a scream 

I expected 'Hello Alabama, how you feeling?’,  but the band knew what to give us, they knew what we came for.  I leaned forward with the rest of the crowd and put most of my anxious weight on my right foot. I had thought through this a bit — Am I going in?  How's it look out there? What kind of pit will it be?  It’s only the heaviest band to come out of the eighties, the band that knew how to push every parent’s buttons.  Coming in we weren’t subjected to a pat down or a metal detector.  Am I going in?  Chris made the decision early, even after he cracked a rib at Agent Orange on our last man-date.  He had stepped away from me and took a position in the middle of what was about to be a tornado.

A chord struck. I think it was an E. The whole venue shouted.  My shyer left foot matched my stronger right and I squared up ready for the next note.  Slayer held us off for a full 30 seconds more, enough time for the question to pop back in.  Am I going in?  Chris was and that was important to me. None of my other cronies were that close.  I would have to be there to help Chris up, he would help me up.  Decision made: I’m going in.

The next note fell harder than the first and it was go time. I jumped into my slam dance form - a man stuck in a high stepping jog with fists clenched - and hit the ground like Road Runner!

CHAOS!  THE PIT!

Songs 1, 2, and 3 are always nuts! No one's too hurt yet and they're willing to dish it out hard and fast.  This is when you figure out what kind of pit you're in (Friendly to Rage-filled).  The pit seemed to be an average of 30 years old, older and wiser, a sympathetic circle.  Many were over thirty.  There were a couple of raging young-uns, but the first time they’re down and you help them up, you've hit a note of respect.  

Chris stomped by, we clashed arms, chorused some grunts, and shared a "Dude!"  For a seasoned pit rider, he hit the ground quicker than I expected. Then again. But, almost as soon as he fell he was jerked to his feet by two others.  We were in a mostly friendly pit.  The tide spun around with arms flailing, pushing in every direction. I hit the ground within the first song, too, but like Chris I was encouraged to “Get the hell up!” - friendly.  I wondered if maybe the sidelines needed my help catching and pushing slammers back to the center.  

I turned the corner and found some freedom, some space to hit the floor with the rhythm.  It centered me.  Some more displays of respect happened and I figured I’d be okay.  So into the fray I went and chaos reigned.  At some points you can completely lose your bearings.  The pit can become a dark bench brawl, or the fight scene from The Outsiders… a strobed gladiator battle is more like it — each man for himself.  You can spin away from an incoming elbow and end up feeling another and another.  You push. Pull. Bang. Elbow. Kneecap. Forehead. Back. Grunt. Moan. Gasp. Find a way out.  Limp to the edge and plead with some big dude who wants to help you stay in the pit.  But there are points of clarity, when everything comes into focus.  You anticipate the motions, the flying bodies. The beat of the music is aligned with your steps, like you’re the only one given the privilege of dancing in the light. Everything is crystal.  You push. Pull. Dodge. Spin. Duck. Step. Double jump. Initiate the contact.  Grab someone, get them out of your way. Keep your pace through the melee to a safer clearing. That happened three times, but overall the chaos outweighed it.

PROBLEMS!

If you place any amount of Good on a balance, there's always a smelly, twice as dense Turd on the other end of the arm canceling it.  In this case, it happened to be a late twenties, 6'4", 350 pound redneck in black high tops and tight black jeans.  His gut led his way by about 2 feet.  If I were a betting man, I'd bet 50 bucks that his nickname is Earl and the one printed on his birth certificate is "Son of a Bitch”.  There's always one of these guys in the pit.  This show had four.  The smaller of us, me - 5'10", 160, Chris, about the same, have to watch out for these bullies.  They slowly tromp through, raising and dropping their feet in time, with their tree trunk arms held out wide, scooping up fun-loving welterweights and slinging them into each other. Or they’ll dig deep into their reserves and bolt through like a bowling ball.  But for some reason, these Sumos don't pick on each other.  What do you do?  They had to be stopped.  That was a problem to solve.  

Chris twirled, made eye contact with me, fell back-first into the tightly packed front-rowers and then to the ground.  He fell quick and often.  I'm pretty sure he went over my recommened 36 ounces.  Come to think of it, his dinner was just three tiny sliders, too. You have to have your wits about you.  It's a free-for-all and you can catch a clothesline if you're not ready to duck.  In my years of slamming, the one thing I've relied on more than anything else is Newtons Laws of Motion. "A body in motion, blah, blah, blah"… that just means grab on to the assaulter, pull him toward you, and either side step him or bring him down with you.  This kind of works with the giants, but only for one or two dodges.  After that, some of the smarter ones catch on, grab onto you or rag doll with a backhand.  Be ready to fall and quick to bounce back up.  Too much beer makes that hard to do.

I’m pretty agile for a 43 year-old. My low center of gravity helps, but almost nothing can help when spectating, beer-haters throw the remains of their cups at the swirling slammers.  Knobbed rubber-soled shoes help, but not enough. Be ready to fall.  I really wanted to go step on those spectating, gutless, beer-tossing, panty-wastes.  These  pansies hang out on the edge and never take one step in the pit.  They’re one flavor of the by-stander terror. When you’re slamming you’re focused on other’s coming at you, or bracing for a punch from the back.  You can't fight back when blindsided by ball-less wonders on the edges of the pit.  On one cycle, a pretty, crew-cutted jock wearing a perfectly clean white t-shirt grabbed my arm and spun me headlong into some other bystanders.  My face met a solid back.  Then another dancer, probably flung by the same prig, pushed me harder from behind.

WHIPLASH! 

I found the guy who looked like plain clothes bouncer, (all shows will have them) and stood behind him.  I needed a break to rub my neck out and try to figure out what happened.  I found my target.  He did it to a couple of other off-guard slammers.  He smiled and joked with his gutless friend each time.  The song finished and my adrenaline cured me faster than anything could have.  

JUSTICE!

Slayer introduced the next song as a "love song".  Yeah, right, wink wink. At least it did start slow - my neck needed that.  Slow songs give the pit a chance to breathe. It moves in one direction, a whirlpool of slow, trotting potential waiting for the rhythm to grow and transform it to kinetic energy.  I passed by the crew-cutted, ball-less wonder once, then again.  The beat picked up, then flew into a rage.  This time by, I reached two people deep and with one hand grabbed his left arm.  The girl between us moved and let me in.  My other hand grabbed the back of his slimy neck.  I yelled, "Come in here! Pansy! Come on!"  His giant startled eyeballs showed his guilt, but his ability squirm like a fish and his slick head saved him.  The motion of the pit pulled me and he got away.  Next time by he was gone.  Mission accomplished, I guess.

Now, what to do about the giant turds weighing down the scales of fun.  By this time, Chris was no where to be seen but he'd been replaced by Brad, another Chris, still another Chris, and Frank.  I wasn't alone out there.  There's no camaraderie like slamming together.  We all got your back is what you feel.  A couple of good cycles with them got me feeling it.  My head was sore from an earlier bang against the back of some kid's skull.  I didn't think much about it, until Brad says, "Dude, you're bleeding!" I was.  If there were referees, I would have had to sit out till it stopped.  Luckily, it's not a regulated sport because this is a time I relish - circling with my brothers.  

But, leave it to the Sumos to try to destroy a good time.  Giant Redneck took to stomping through the pit again.  His arms were outstretched trying to scoop us up.  I dodged once and decided he needed some punishment. Turning at the other end of the pit, I came in slow behind him. I’m principled - I won’t take someone down from the back, not even a jackass.  I went by the lumbering jockstrap and lined up in front of him.  If he stopped his path I wouldn't be able to do my thing, but good fortune brought the big oaf back through. Hiding my intentions with some generic high stepping, fist clenching, and head banging, I headed right for his fat barrel of a chest.  He didn't even care about little me.  My arms swung slow with each step.  Then I sped up a notch. With momentum pulling me, left arm bent, fist at the top, I sunk my pointy elbow into Goliath's sternum.   "Oops, dude, I was dancing and my elbow sank into your chest.  My bad."   It was just good ol' dancing fun, right? He left the pit.  

Three more songs finished out the amazing 21 song set.  Throughout the show the band hardly stopped to banter with the crowd.  When they said “Goodnight, Birmingham!”  they meant it and didn’t come back out for an encore.  Usually you take that as an insult, but they gave us what we asked for, a straight hour and a half of thrash metal, and we didn’t need an encore.   

RECOVERY! 

The lights came up and this is how every pit should end: like a sporting event - pass by and share some skin with the dudes you knocked around - knucks, a pat on the back, a no-harm-done-I’m-still-walking-we-just-made-it-out-alive smile. With sweat dripping off our foreheads and our hearts fitting back into our chest cavities, it was time for us brothers to do some damage comparison.  We drained some water and traded our personal victories and defeats.  Brad lost his glasses three times (don’t take your glasses in the pit), Julie got slammed to the ground and had a knot to show for it, my wrists were fire engine red and I had a couple of cuts on my forehead and blood on my precious shirt.  But as I said, we were all smiling, except Chris One because I got a text - “I got Chris” - from his wife. 

Oh, and one last thing - Dude, whoever you are, sorry about your Hot Topic shirt.  It ripped like a piece of paper.  Next time I’m going for irony - Maybe a Jeff Gordon 24 or My Little Pony t-shirt. See you there.

Peace!