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.
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.
