Max and Igor came to St. Petersburg, FL, playing the entirety
of Roots, so we made the trip up to the metal show, only to find a slew of
opening bands. Some, we never caught the
name of, but Brian Sanderson was delighted to learn that one of the opening acts
wore his band’s t-shirt, Vilest Breed.
Brian and Josh acted as security, guarding me from the mosh pit, as
there was no barricade to shoot from at his show, but the most was like a
swirling dark vortex that sucked people in and spit them out.
What was unexpected was a band called Oni that has a
xylophone player. The instrument gives
the band an otherworldly effect.
Guitarists strum and finger high on the neck to mimick the sound of the
xylophonist, who plays with two batons in each hand, enabling double beats like
a double bass kick drum where drummers kick two at a time. Almost like smooth jazz on speed, melodic and
sped up like infused with crank, beast are out of this world, from smooth
groove to heavy hitting, like getting stomped by an angry mob of Black Friday
shoppers.
The new album will drop Nov. 25. The singer does melody with the xylophone,
tempo kicks up to an angry explosion, vocals growl down, guitars riff the
control of the song. I kick back in the
balcony, sinking back into the red lounger, chillaxing until the next band.
All Hail the Yeti has a laborious groove like a Yeti
lumbering through the forest, then going into a rage. They opened with an intro from Acid
Bath. The little ditty set the tone for
the eruption of big riffs that run like a chase, one of these caveman fears of
being chased through a dark forest by an unknown attacker that sees you as
prey, so your fight or flight kicks into full sprint. The excitement tears through the body, as the
adrenaline kicks in, making your body move; they play little ditties from bands
between songs, then slow it down for the well deserved break to catch your
breath before the rage ensues again.
Another band with makeup takes the stage; this is Andy
LaPlegua’s latest project Combichrist.
The pit fills with angry souls looking to release frustrations in the
moshpit. This hits hard and furious,
unforgiving like a jackhammer pounding. There’s
a slow melodic background while the two drummers pound away, creating double
the intensity.
One drummer is dressed up like a methed out Ronald McDonald
and plays with the intensity of the insane pissed at being locked up in the
asylum, playing as if it his only chance to escape. The other drummer stands to really crash down
on the drums, wearing a whited out mask.
He bounces from side to front, sprawling across a variety of drums.
The singer growls “fuck that shit!” They have the brooding might movement quality
of Mushroomhead, but with more intensity from the dual drum and dueling guitars. Get tossed like a rag doll in the mosh and go
flying across the dance floor whether you want to or not.
Drum sticks fly in the air and in the crowd, with tricks
constantly. “My life, my rule!” Overly exaggerated drum movement entrance the
crowd.
From Norway with a Viking rage, I gave the lead singer a
copy of my book Carnival of Cannibals. I
asked him if he was easily offended. He
gave me an amused look in response.
Max and Igor Cavalera make the room explode. They play the entire Roots album and go into
other favorites. Max played a one string
instrument with an echo, launching into Celtic Frost.
I have Brian and Josh defending me from the pit. It’s surprising to see grey hairs holding the
rain in front of the stage, rocking out.
Barely able to stand, so frail, but they’re not letting that stop them
from the mosh. Upstairs, a former radio
personality who is now retired and grey said, “when I first heard Sepultura, it
was everything I had been looking for in music; to me, they’re bigger than the
Beatles.”
The fan base is vast, from young to old, but the mosh erupts
like a volcano, leaving a path of destruction you may not escape. So many are so excited, yelling out favorite
songs. They play Motorhead’s Ace of
Spades, then they rock into their own.
The drummer holds the symbol and slams it for “Roots Bloody
Roots.” The crowd doesn’t put their
horns down, knocking to the beast of the intense drum and chant. You can’t help but get into it.
No comments:
Post a Comment