Opeth Reporteth

After having seen Tragedy the night before and being crushed by their utterly filthy heaviness, last night I was looking forward to something for a nice contrast – something interspersed with more gentleness, utilising negative space in the song arrangements. Arriveth early to check out Karatonia as I’d not heard them before but walked out halfway through. I wasn’t too impressed; they’re not a bad band but not terribly exciting either.

So I sat at a cafe to work on my psychedelic love story. I was filling up with the bodily memories of my magickal time exploring London’s hidden reverse and synthesising these feelings, distilling them into words. This put me into quite an enchanted space for which to experience Opeth.

They opened with The Devil’s Orchard and it was epic, setting the tone perfectly. Mikael was fucking hilarious throughout, as usual. They played a selection of earlier songs and an acoustic interpretation of Demon of the Fall. I really appreciated that; having seen some bands a fair few times and feeling cheated for hearing the same set list over and over, I see it as a mark of respect to the audience to make an effort, to be creative and to give us something interesting for our money. Häxprocess was a personal favourite. The Heritage album has snuck into my essential listening list slowly but firmly, and I had a strong desire to hear as many of those songs as possible.

We were treated to an encore of Harlequin Forest – totally heavy and beautiful as always. I felt happy with the whole experience, and in this spirit of gratitude lay down in the midnight park in Newtown and stared peacefully at the doom-grey sky for an hour before walking home.

Häxprocesserna

– Defender Of The Faith, 16.03.2013

Limp Wrist

photo by Bad Bitch#1

photo by Bad Bitch#1

Last Friday night Bad Bitch#1, Tater Tot and I had plans to go to M.I.A. at The Enmore; it is the reason why I cut short my holiday on the Coast to drive back early to Sydney. However, we doubted the outcome of this plan as we supped upon cider in Newtown that afternoon. I looked up tickets and realised that when including booking fee, credit card fee and other such bullshit Capitalist profiteering, M.I.A was going to cost us around $95 a pop. I do understand the expenses involved for bands touring to our fair island. In Europe and the USA, a band can theoretically perform >ten shows along a ten hour stretch of road and be able to sell a decent amount of tickets. In Straya, you drive ten hours, petrol is some XP€N$IV $H1T and you may only come across one or two townships on this journey  that could support you. That said, $95 is bullshit no matter how you look at it. And personally, whilst I like M.I.A and I have confidence that the show would have been rad, the pricing deeply offended my punk rock sensibilities.

But lo! After digging around within the internet, I was stopped in my tracks by the news that Limp Wrist were playing that night. In my summer-addled mental state of weeks past, I had misguidedly thought that I had already missed their Australian tour over NYE. Armed with the knowledge that they were indeed going to smear their scat all over the Annandale that very evening, my despondency went into retirement and party animal excitement reared its ugly head again. The best part? $25 a ticket, with Hard-Ons supporting. There was no contest in my mind, and with steely determination I quickly convinced Bad Bitch#1 and Tater Tot to come to the dark side.

And so, I went to this gig with my gal pals , something I’ve only done once before. In the fourteenish years that I have been going to gigs, it’s sometimes been me riding solo, or oftentimes with all dude men, but usually with a majority men and a smattering of womenfolk. There has been one exeption last year, when Bad Bitch#1, Lucy Graves, SJA and I all went up to see The Drones at the Hi-Fi in Brisbane. It was a killer gig and an even better drive home. Bad Bitch#1 was driving and she had a stroke of genius when she put on Sing Sing Death House. We cranked it and shouted, growled and screamed every word, full bore, until the last chord. Never have I partaken in a more righteous singalong; the only one that comes close is when Grogan, Coen, other youthful metal kids and I formed the All-Australian Backseat Metal Choir on our way to some mini-metal fest years ago in Brisbane. I dig the cliché that went down post-Drones – ‘twas truly a vagfest made even more devotionally feminine with our vocal worship of Dory Belle Brody Dalle.

Before Limp Wrist, we boozeth at mine and walked to the venue. I had had a cunt of a week with no reprieve, but as soon as I walked into that pub and was surrounded by ugly-beautiful, real-smelling humans of all shapes, sizes and colours, my mood lifted heaven-ward. The relief was palpable and it reminded me that no matter what goes down, punk rock will always have my back. Although we missed Glory Hole, by all accounts they were a worthy first support. We only caught the last two songs of Shit Weather and I was pleasantly surprised by my maiden experience of them. I was worried that my gals would be resentful of me instigating this game change so late in the plan – having had their hearts so set on M.I.A. – but they convinceth me that they were pumped also and so my heart began to rest easy.

Hard-Ons were fucking grouse. It’s been a long time since I saw them at Cooly Hotel back in 2004 or 2005. That night, I was drunk as shit and thrashing intensely and the bass player commented on my DRI shirt, which led me to reason that somebody with such good taste in music was worth following. I also meant to go to their last tour but Blackie went and got himself bashed, silly bugger, and I didn’t go see his replacements. But last Friday night, it only took me two songs in to realise how fucking good Hard-Ons really truly are. Once they kicked into their raucous thrashy shit I was sold. I looked over at the gals and could see that they were pumped also. No guilt, no regrets!

Ray Ahn (bass) was piss-funny as usual and went in to some righteous ranting between songs. My personal favourite was when he spoke of the new plans for corporations to offer civilians outer space holidays. He surmised that with Tiger and Jetstar lowering their prices to an affordability that the average Aussie could accept, we were well on our way to having a bogan exodus to the moon. In light of this, he predicted a surge in Schapelle Corby-esque bud-smuggling in boogie-board bags. Let my judgement be known: Raymond Ahn is a genius of the highest comedic calibre.

Limp Wrist took the stage, resplendent in short shorts, leather, demin, biker hats and chains. They are the death of the newest and shittest incarnation of Turbonegro; Limp Wrist are true queer and true punk and they put their money where their fleshy, salivating mouths are; outgaying all imposters for life! Music-wise, these cunts are fast and filthy and would be a proud addition to any hardcore fan’s collection. I stood up the back with my gals, getting drunker and sweatier and more infected by the energy raised. I reached the point of maximum annihilation a few songs in when I realised I was at the hardcore show of the year (big call, I know, but I defy you to prove me wrong any time soon) and I was standing at the fucking back of the pit. What had become of me? I felt sad, old, pathetic and a traitor to everything I stood for. “Fuck this,” I said to myself, “I’m from Tweed!” and with my resolve set, I pushed my way to the front and centre as easy as you please. I was swept up in the energy immediately and got lost in the filth and the fury of it all. It was rad to be at a gig where there are no fuckwits showing off their ninja moves with serious faces, just a sea of stinking bodies sweating torrentially all over one another, purely smiles and loose-limbs and non-self-conscious oblivion. The pit was tight enough for crowd surfers to roll over every couple of minutes, and when someone fell down they were not down for long. Such is the beauteousness of violent but loving punk rock pit-politics.

A few times we had the privilege of supporting Martin’s hefty weight on our downtrodden arms, but he wasn’t heavy cos he’s our brother. I was pumped when he pulled me up out of the crowd to sing in his face and my unholy voice reigned supreme momentarily, but never to be forgotten. The first time I crowd-surfed, I pulled myself up onto the stage, did a sick ninja kick and then sprawled out into the worshipping arms of my Sisters and Brethren in the pit. I was floating on a sea of love and went back for more a few songs later. The second time, I again approached from the stage and did a sweet forward somersault into the writhing mass of flesh beneath me. I felt like I was fifteen again and that is the most elite feeling in the world. Punk rock is the elixir of youth, and relearning my unshakeable faith in the strength and camaraderie of my fellow thrash lords makes it an honour to be human. “I Love Hardcore Boys / I Love Boys Hardcore” was played last, and my heart swelled with euphoria to hear my favourite song live at the end of such a phenomenal set.

Afterwards, I saw Blackie and told him how much fun I had, then thanked him. He thanked me, to which I countered, “No! Thank YOU!” and he tried to thank me more so I told him I’d fight him if he kept trying to lay the blame for such awesomeness on my unworthy conscience. Lucky he thought it was funny; a lesser human could have been offended in light of recent events. I bought a Limp Wrist shirt and the merch dude suggested I get it signed by Martin who standeth nearby. I had no pen, but he gave me a very sweaty Hairy Bear hug and let me wipe the cloth over his perspiring arse, which is a far-superior stamp of approval in my opinion.

Outside, Bad Bitch#1, Tater Tot and I were yarning with some dudes about the gig and such forth. I was engaged in conversation with a tall and smiling messy-haired skate rat, and we speaketh of unknown rad bands that we thought the other should know of. We swapped phone numbers and have since sent suggestions and files to and fro. I would like to thank him for the heads-up on The Mentally Unstable who have been getting a solid work-out the last week, and I hope that Gravelrash was a worthy exchange for him. Tater Tot had her mojo rising and pashed one of the dudes with a full assault and left him gasping. She later jumped into a cab full of these boys for round two. Bad Bitch#1 and I pissed our jeans laughing at her antics, then we all went across the road, sunk more piss and regaled each other with tales of fighting from our teenage years.

In summary, short and sweet: that was a faultless night, filled with good company old and new, and a fucking epic start to this new year. Limp Wrist and Hard-Ons, I thank you from the bottom of my cold, black heart for creating such fond thrash-filled memories. Much love!

– Defender Of The Faith,  12.01.2013