An Experience Never To Forget

Standing in line for a beer in the legendry open house that is The Hatchet, the oldest pub in the city of Bristol, easily over 300 years old, I’m one of many metal heads realizing that the time is finally here to see in person one of our favorite bands. Anticipation is putting it lightly; this band has become so integral to our everyday lives, so important to our very being, every one of us standing as one, one thousand men beginning to feel the sense of unity that only this genre of music can generate.

Sitting on one of many park benches located just opposite the o2 Academy, where the pursuit of adrenaline kicks and , I look around this enclosed space. I can see in every one of these dudes eyes the excitement building, the animation and eagerness for what lay’s ahead, for we all know this will be no ordinary gig, we – collectively have been waiting for this day for so, so long.

Discussions float around the room as to which much loved songs are going to be played, how big the circle pit is going to be and whether or not a ‘wall of death’ is going to be present. The sight of this may seem strange to an outsider, but to every man in this room what lay’s ahead is something that will inevitably be so mind blowing, so unbelievably profound, that it will leave an imprint in the minds of everyone present. This show is believed by many here to be the finest yet, no imitation could come close. Oh how right we were.

Deep in conversation with a fellow metaler, I see in the corner of my eyes a few start to rise, more following in turn. I glance at my watch, its time.

Standing in line for what seems like eternity, eager to get inside and let the chaos commence. The anticipation for tonight’s gig has hit fever pitch, man to man you can physically feel the momentum building, the energy not unlike a tornado, slowly building, gathering speed at a ferocious rate. One by one each person checking their wallets and back pockets, making sure their golden ticket is still there, not taking any chance on missing tonight’s show.

There are no metal detectors or pat down’s for this one, as is the norm in any city venue. Even though the events tonight will be much, much more violent than any other gig in town, the bouncers know that us, metal heads, are not here for trouble, we are here to have a good time, period.

And we’re in.

Dark, hot and crowded, pushed together like sardines in such a confined space, normally would be unbearable. But not tonight, not now. The anticipation in the room is bordering on extreme, each heartbeat pounding in sequence. The chests of every man rising and falling in unison. Nervous smiles fill the room, every man eying each other, altogether realizing what they are about to experience.

Total darkness, the chants begin. Only seconds away now. The words ‘Parkway Drive! Parkway Drive!’ are shouted, one gigantic voice rising and rising, until almost a scream. Fists pumping in coalition, the crowd bouncing as one, creating wave after wave of mania. The time has come, and every being in the room can sense it.

A double peddle bass drum begins pounding as if born out of the chants and fists of the crowd. Then, oh how long we’ve waited for this moment, you hear the guttural scream of Winston, the front man of Parkway Drive. The beginnings of ‘The Siren’s Song’ are played. Total chaos ensues. The house lights flicker in time with the down tuned guitars, the bone crushing bass felt in everyone’s skulls.

Ecstasy rises out of every pore of the skin, energy as if from nowhere bursts out of every single man, a mass of limbs and sweat – twisting and turning like one gigantic mechanical being, succumbed to the sounds it’s experiencing. A look of pure exhilaration crossed over every face present.

Song after epic song is played, the next even more brain crushing than before.

As the encore is played out, the boy’s from Byron Bay have played their hearts out. Sweat and broken limbs are all that’s left of the men here. Bruised but not broken, absolute exhaustion on the faces of every man, but with one difference – broad smiles on every man. For we have just witnessed what could quite possibly be the best gig we’ve ever attended, a landmark in live music in the hardcore scene in Bristol.

As we slowly exit the venue, sweat and heat pouring out of all, the odd lost shoe and ripped t-shirt, we all understand why it is we love metal so much, it is nights like this.

Why I Love Heavy Rock Music Part ll

In my previous blog entry I began explaining why it is that I love rock music so much, the reasons for doing so and where it all started. We are now going to delve a little further.

Imagine…

The big sister is out, a curious eight year old boy tip toes into her dark room, everything alien to him, the posters on the wall, the candles, the tapes and CD’s stacked high. Climbing as if through an Amazon, through thick barricades of sixteen year old clothes and boxes full of only God knows what. Finally, reaching his forbidden destination, he crouches down next to the CD player laid in front of him. But for this is not what intrigues him, oh no. It is the pieces of plastic containing such adventures that for some magical reason scare yet tantalize this young boys mind, sends it racing, racing on a journey. Apprehensive where this journey will take him, but all the more excited for it.

He places his little fingers over a stack of CD’s that is clearly too big for him to pick up all at once, thus sending a fountain of cases through the air and on to the floor. He looks straight to the door, terrified that someone has heard him. He listens closely… nothing. Good. Breathing slowly he continues.

A CD captures his attention midway through the pile. It is of a baby chasing a dollar bill. He picks it up, looking closely, and giggles. The feeling of anticipation and fascination rise within him. He takes the CD out of its case, very carefully. Making sure not to damage it in any way, not wanting to leave any proof of his presence within this room.

The CD is placed into the tray and it is swiftly swiped back, vanished as if by magic. Next, he places on a pair of HUGE headphones that seem far too big for his small head, his wispy hair protruding out from the brackets. Contradicting his apprehensive nature just a moment or so ago, he now feels safe. But my dear friend, that feeling won’t last long, for this little boy has no idea what is about to happen.

One last look around the room and at the door, making sure no one is near. All clear.

He presses PLAY

As the intro riff to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ kicks in his is both scared and excited. The drums begin to follow the guitar, this strange guitar, all muddy sounding and pleasant. This little boy has never heard such a sound, he is both scared and anxious but for some strange reason he continues to listen.

Then

He hears this mental riff, from out of know where. Repeating and repeating itself, deafening his tiny little ears.

Then a screaming…(the little boy can’t quite tell if it’s a man or women, or neither) this voice shrieks at him from both sides, along with that same addictive riff, blasting into his ears so loud he thinks his eardrums are going to burst.

Sat there as the song engulfs him, taking him on an immense journey, albeit a loud one, he closes his eyes and tries to understand what he is hearing. It’s like nothing he has heard before, something scary but for some reason something so compelling and powerful.

As the song begins to close he opens his eyes, suddenly aware of his surroundings.

For this little boy doesn’t yet know what has just happened, not yet aware of the importance this moment holds.

For he has just been converted…

English Misery

Three Lions. The badge that evokes much elated emotion yet so much hurt, anguish and grief. Why? Do you ask, do we continue to believe we can win the penultimate of competitions, The World Cup? Every four years the beautiful tournament graces our televisions, the same expectations and the same hopes. St.Georges flags waving from every passing vehicle, everyday people temporarily turning into manic have-ago coaches. The old man on the bus, the lady working the tables at Rita’s Café, the balding Geography teacher, all believing that they themselves can do a better job than that of the current manger. All believing, that just this once, this one time England can perform the way each and every England individual does week in week out for the team they get paid millions of pounds a year to play for.

Well.

Not this time. And not the time before, after or quite probably after that. What we England fans don’t seem to grasp at times like these is that it has all happened before. Week in week out these players play wonderful football, passing and shooting without a care in the world, as soon as they don the Three Lions, they seem to forget they’re world class footballers and start acting like an U10’s conference league.

It won’t be the last time this happens, I can promise you.

But.

We as true English men will continue to look on with bleary eyes, fire in our hearts and quite possibly, the misplaced sense of belief that maybe one day, just one… we can once again lift that beautiful trophy. ..