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!
