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High on Fire Show in Houston

6/25/2011

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  I had bought the tickets to the show three weeks in advance.  I would spend my lunch breaks listening to “Death is this Communion” in my car while sucking down cappuccinos with three extra shots in them just to make it through the second half of my work day.  Work was a low level administrative job for the State of Texas located in a converted warehouse with no windows and an abundance of florescent lights.  I had been listening to HOF’s new record non-stop and I was not going to let my weary condition at the end of the work week keep me from this show.  HOF served as a vital interruption from my daily world of staplers, paperclips, and missing files.           
   The trip into Houston was uneventful with the predictable Friday afternoon traffic; millions of motorists driving in opposing directions all at the same time.  I dutifully listen to my then-girlfriend’s banter about her job and mother’s latest boyfriend.  After meeting each of the rotating lineup of men in her mother’s life, I had become somewhat jaded on the subject. “Sounds like a real winner,” I grunted sarcastically.  I had often speculated that the only way her mother would ever find happiness would be to fully embrace the whore living in her heart and become a full fledged bar-fly.  Dispense any notions of love and simply go home with a different hero each night.  Random, unprotected sex with as many derelicts our town could provide.  I kept this theory to myself and drove.
        When we arrived, Panthers were finishing their set and I headed straight to the bar.  As I was waiting to be served, I noticed the guy standing in front of me was Matt Pike. I was in disbelief!  The singer/guitarist from the band I had been obsessing over the last few months was right there!  After he got his drink and turned to leave I tried to say “Hey, man! Great new record! Thanks for coming to Houston!” but instead all I did was this bizarre hand thing where I kept my hand at my side and pointed at him like a kid imitating a cowboy with guns for hands.  To his credit, Matt Pike simply mirrored my bizarre hand gesturing and went on about his business.  I felt like such a tool. 
        Mono played a great set and we sat on oversized couches watching all the people at the show.  Metal shows bring out such a strange group of people.  Guys size each other up by what band shirt they are wearing.  The more brutal shirt, the cooler you are.  Girls walk around with black lipstick, tight leather pants, smoke cigarettes, and look bored most of the time.  I was slamming Budweisers trying to become drunk enough to lose the fatigue of the work week; that point were the alcohol replaces the exhaustion and gives you a second wind.  During all this, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd.  His name was Jacob.  We had gone to high school together and I had not seen him in ten years.  As we talked, it became clear that he was still mentally in the 11th grade.  After about thirty minutes of him recapping all the shows he had been to, all the friends he had now, all the musicians he knew, and how brutal every band he listened to was, I began to wonder “Has this guy ever been laid?”  Luckily he spotted someone cooler than me and left me alone.        
        When HOF finally took the stage I was exceedingly drunk.  “We are fucking High on Fire!!” Matt Pike yelled into the microphone moments before they ripped into “Fury Whip”. Luckily, the venue was too small for any moshing, saving us from any random arms and legs crashing into us as teenage boys try to prove their manhood at a concert.  I used to dig moshing when I was that age too.  However, being ten years out of high school, serving in the Army, and a certain degree of maturity lead you to conclude that physical injury should be avoided at all cost.  As HOF ripped into their third song of the set, I could not tell if I was going to pass out from the beer or the exhaustion of working for living.  My eyelids felt like steel sheets and my legs were numb.  I decided we needed to go.  Nothing makes you feel older than an inability to party properly.  On the way out, I saw Jacob sitting on a bench alone and head banging.  I guess he decided that the crowd was not brutal enough for him and the only way to avoid contamination by all us poseurs was to hang out alone.  I pretended not to see him and left with out speaking.       I am certain that HOF finished a staggering set followed by a more astonishing encore. Regrettably, I was not there to see all of it.  My girlfriend drove home while I drifted in and out of consciousness with my ears still ringing from the show.  My body throbbed and twitched from exhaustion. 

High on Fire - Death is Communion
http://www.mediafire.com/?nmgv0zzotdm
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EYEHATEGOD - Take as Needed For Pain.

5/23/2011

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Any music column worth its weight in salt should begin with an album that means something to the writer. I am not going to bore you with an unnecessary description of the band's roots or influence on any scene or movement it may be associated with. Additionally, I am going to spare you any "This record saved my life!" moments as well because, if anything, this record was the soundtrack to a very dark period of my life characterized by alcohol, drugs, stupidity, pawn shops, and an unwavering pursuit of oblivion. The record in question is EYEHATEGOD's "Take as Needed For Pain."
   It is something that is buried in the layers of sludge, down-tuned guitars, feedback and screaming that seemed to fit my descent into a very Bukowski-like life. Most days I would show up to work still half drunk and stoned to go through the motions required of me to earn a paycheck. Immediately after payday, I would spend the weekend drinking Budweiser, eating pills, smoking like a freight train while EHG blared from my stereo. It was like always having good company around you; the kind of company that  always approves of your self-destruction and never seems to pass judgment. Many days and nights were spent with the boys from NOLA; They would be jamming and trying their best to explode the cheap speakers of my stereo while I, beer in hand, cheered them on.
   I am not trying to glorify or recommend that kind of lifestyle to anyone. However, EHG will always serve as a good soundtrack if you find yourself in that kind of situation. Below I will list a few key points to serve as a guide to help the reader determine if they are in such a condition:
        - Missing work due to massive hangovers/still too intoxicated to work.
        - Using change to buy booze.
        - More of your possessions are in the pawn shop than in your house.
        - Planning ways to screw people over for your own amusement.
        - Secretly hating everyone around you.
        - Random acts of vandalism past the age of 30.
   This music is not for the faint of heart. It is not necessarily even intended for "happy" people. Those suburban wasters who are happy to spend their weekends agonizing over which type of shrub or bush will complete their "backyard oasis" at the local mega-home improvement outlet store. It is not for those who worry about how high-interest rates will affect their 30 year mortgage, while still allowing sufficient funds for their wife's long overdue breast augmentation.
   You don't listen to EHG on the golf course. You don't listen to EHG on your way to Old Navy. You don't listen to EHG while you are crying to a psychiatrist about how your mom never showed you any affection and how your step-dad was a little too "friendly" when you were alone with him. You listen to this band when you given up and you don't give a fuck anymore. You suck up your problems and accept your broken, hopeless lot in life. You gather up all of your loose change, decide what items will go to the pawn shop today, call the guy who gets the dope and you chase oblivion.

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    Chris Spann

    Chris' blogspot - http://roughdale.blogspot.com/

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