Fists Held High - Day One of Maryland Deathfest and the Jenkabala Aftermath

A life of rampage and total devastation upon heathen lands takes a toll on the old body. A weekend of such debauchery can send a warrior to weariness, then despair, and then  the vomiting of blood on your own coffin. Best to have a day where you simply kick back, lift your leather jack boots upon the back of some troll wench, and commence the rejuvenation rituals by drinking the blood of a fetus. Put on something familiar, something that says 'home'. Put on some fucking metal from the 80's!

First, we heard Canadian heshers Razor, and their first album, Executioner's Song. Razor are arguably the best pure thrash band to come from the frozen north, and this is the best album they ever made. Every song is an unpretentious thrashterpiece, riff after riff having its way with your woman. No nods to prog whatsoever, many to punk, and some furious headbutts to Venom and Accept. 'Fast and Loud' is a crystal meth anthem for the ages, and cops the requisite Motorhead riffs that such odes to adrenaline require. The production may be a bit janky for some, and this album could use a bit more lower end, but trebly mix does endow the sound with cvlt black metal atmosphere. Somewhere in the Norwegian forests around this time, Fenriz erects his first altar, the lyrics to 'Canadian Metal' swimming somewhere in his sub-conscious. Winner!!

Next up, Paul Dianno's Battlezone and their first album, Fighting Back. Dianno, of course, is the former Iron Maiden belter, and I suppose his royalty checks ran out when he decided to form this band. It is serviceable heavy metal with some good songs here and there, but most of the batch barely rises above mediocre. Dianno is in fine form here, his vocals are still a whiskey scarred rasp, but loaded with more heavy metal power yelping. Battlezone is an apt moniker, as they are able to summon a hellish fury, and its sad that they did not go further than they did. Hilariously ironic is the song Welfare Warriors, which is typical dole bashing from a guy who would be sent to prison for welfare fraud a few years later.


Lastly, we listened to Chicago's Thrust and their solidly old school offering Fist Held High. This screaming iron fest from 1984 is like a time capsule of a mind set that will never authentically be captured again, featuring soldiers of Satan, torture chambers of lust, and odes to beating up posers. It is proto spped metal with a street metal vibe that Chicago band seem to capture well. Place this album up against Kill "em All and you'll see that they are idealogical brothers and you'll wonder why it wasn't Thrust that went on to be the biggest band in the world. The lyrics were just as stupid, and the songs just as much of a amalgamation of Venom, Motorhead, Priest, and the blessed NWOBHM. Posers must die is such a perfect anthem. And this album has a much more righteous cover.

Maryland Deathfest. For years I heard of this legendary festival, read the incredible schedules and promised myself I would make it out to the much maligned city of Baltimore for what is fast becoming a must-do weekend pilgrimage for the most dedicated metal fans around the world. Circumstances had always prevented your author from finally experiencing this event firsthand. I was content with reading the festival reports and eagerly seeking out the up and coming bands who yearly offered up the fruits of their art unto a great buffet of all things heavy and extreme for a legion of hungry fans. This, however was to be the year of Metal Night at the Westside Palace, so my birthday and Halloween present to myself was a ticket to the halls of legend, a dirty street corner in the heart of an aging metropolis where a horde of headbangers from the bowels of hell swarm up to delight in the eltrich melodies from dimensions unknown.

Last Friday, I packed Necro Baby and set out from Jenkabala Palace in the misty dawn on this quest of heroes. Through slohio and Pennsylvania we traveled, through the mighty Alleghenies to our

temporary quarters, a squat motel perched atop a sloping hill that overlooked chain stores and fast food shops piled atop one another like some demented commercial bivouac. We set up camp in the run down way station and headed into Baltimore, snaking through the labyrinthine recesses of its crumbling streets until we finally located the festival grounds. Everywhere I could see black clad minions of the devil's music heading into the shadowy freeway underpass, so we parked in a nearby lot and made our way to the security checkpoint.

Upon entering, I was transfixed by the mass of mesmerized metalheads loitering there in the cold, grey afternoon. Walking immediately to the first place I heard music, I was rewarded with the funeral doom band Evoken, whose ultra-heavy reflections on solitude shook the ground as I settled into the waiting arms of Maryland Deathfest. I loved the Tom G. Warrior death grunts and the wrought iron candelabras flanking the band. Their protracted, keyboard heavy compositions reminded me favorably of My Dying Bride or a less tween oriented Opeth.

My first hour at the fest flew by and it was time to witness the first of many bands that drew me in. Repulsion didn't waste any time in grinding out their trademark tunes. Anything you wanted to hear, they played (Singer and bassist Scott Carlson joking at one point "Stick around and you'll hear your favorite song. We only got one fuckin' album!") The guitar solos were out of control, skidding across octaves as bodies of crowd surfers flew over the audience’s heads, converse meeting face over and over. My jaw was hitting the floor as I heard awesome renditions of songs I never once thought I would ever see performed live (a recurring theme over all three days.) Even after the dust has settled, this set remains one of my favorites.

As I walked around the corner to the next stage, Righteous Pigs were firing up the buzzsaw guitars and launching into a raucous set of tunes from their two legendary LP's, Live and Learn and Stress

Related. Having never experienced the Las Vegas based band that gave us Mitch Harris, I was pleasantly surprised as the furious four doled out their short blasts of grimy, juvenile hardcore dipped in Harris' sweet metallic riffing. Singer Joe Caper was working the crowd with his unhinged stage banter ("This is a metal show, ya dickheads, DO somethin'. Mosh or punch the guy in the left of ya in the face, come on people!") I don't know if he was quoting Ozzy, but he kept admonishing the crowd, "let's have a riot!" Musically I felt like they owed a lot to the Chicago style of rough punk tinged street metal exemplified by bands like Znowhite and Zoetrope. This is one band I'm sure will be included in the next grindcore night at Jenkabala.

Anticipation was building in the frigid, starless night as everyone gathered in front of the main stage for Friday's main attraction, the titans of tech death, the sultans of goregrind, Carcass. Soon, the smoke machines were pumping out an evil fog as the video screens on either side of the stage flickered to life with nasty surgical footage and the band began blasting through their career spanning set, drawing heavily on Heartwork and Necrotisim. By the time the H.G. Lewis sample kicked off Symposium of Sickness, I was carried away by the absolute mastery this incarnation of the band displayed in pulling off convincing renditions of their groundbreaking discography. I saw many shoes lost in the crowd surfing melee. Flawless victory.

I wacthed Pelican's post-post everything musings for a few songs then headed into the icy Baltimore night, walking past scores of homeless people bundled in sleeping bags, sheltering beneath the overhang of the police garage. The wind blew through my battle jacket and chilled my bones as I found my way to the lot where Necro Baby waited in the Jenkabala transport and we weaved our way back to the hotel in a torturous bout of trial and error driving. After scarfing down some drive-through junk food I drifted off into a heavy, dreamless slumber. The gates were open and I was ready for the glory that would be the offerings of Saturday's children.