The maniacal drum fills. The piercing riffs. The wave of crowd surfers. The thrashing fans. The decapitated facsimile of George W. Bush. Gallons of fake blood. It was my first proper metal show. It was the first time I feared death.
In my head, I was seconds away from collapsing. I would fall in the fray and be swiftly trampled with water-drenched sneakers. If that didn’t kill me, then I’d drown in a menagerie of alien body fluids. Another sacrifice to GWAR (God What an Awful Racket) as they watched their Bohabs annihilate themselves. After the show, the Slave Pit, Inc. would haul my body into a mass grave. A little wooden cross would say:
“Josh Dale, 16, was a Fledgling Bohab. Covered in blood, beer, and sweat, he died happy.”
Viva La Bands at the Electric Factory in Philly. Halloween 2007. I was a teenager of the MTV monoculture. Anything Bam Margera promoted; I wanted it. When I saw the Viva La Bam episode when Oderus Urungus of GWAR ended up in bed with Phil and April, I was hooked on this mystical group of aliens. Once the tickets went on sale for this meticulously curated show, I immediately forwent my lunch for a couple of weeks to save up.
Everything I ‘tried’ to ‘record’ basically looked and sounded like a microwaved baked potato. Plus, they have since been lost in the annals of digital history. I even washed my white t-shirt like a dumbass. Guess I thought all that dye was permanent. That’s two primary sources gone. I can’t write about stuff that’s 16 years forgotten.
I had to see them again.
A lot has changed in the world since. GWAR lost their legendary frontman, Dave Brockie. The band has had some lineup changes, both in their musicians and the characters of their lore. I slowly rekindled my interest in the band, listening to a lot of their metal-centric albums like War Party, Beyond Hell, and Lust in Space. In 2021, I watched their documentary, “This is GWAR”, and it blew my mind how rich and deep their lore went. 2022 witnessed the birth of GWAR’s fifteenth album, The New Dark Ages. I was hooked, yet again.
Fast forward to 2023. I scooped up a ticket for a show at Reverb in Reading. A calm drive ensued. It was raining and was to continue into the night. There was plenty of time for contemplation in the lengthy drive. I pondered on all the concerts that I had seen, have missed, and the desire to be at a show again after many months.
After some pregaming, I partied it up with friends, Marc and Amanda. We got our picture taken as a souvenir. Someone coughed up a loggie nearby. I saw some apropos costumes, too. Like DoodleBob, Jesus Christ, and a masked exterminator. I had my ‘Bohab Bum’ shirt on; hastily written letters on a plain white t-shirt. With a Jack and Coke in my hand, I was ready to rumble.
I was blessed by Cancer Christ in the audience. He left behind shredded Bibles as he made his way to the stage. A band full of monstrous, blood-soaked minions awaited. Heavy-hitting powerviolence and some fake blood were great for an opener. I snagged a bloodied scrap of paper for proof of a miracle. Negative Approach lurched on stage next. They left all the bullshit at the door. Old-school punks with a machine gun discography. They tore apart the audience. First time I ever listened to either of them. Much respect was earned that night.
GWAR was next. The mighty drum set was uncovered. As a drummer, it’s always a fun little moment. The lights went off. Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” played through the PA. A security guard conducted the crowd. The intro theme reel ran. The band plodded onto the stage one by one. Shrouded in darkness, they claim to be Scumdogs, but they are titans of legend. An open bottle of Jim Beam was chugged by Blöthar the Berserker. Holy shit. Guitar feedback and a countdown on the hi-hats. Holy shit. It was time for battle.
The crowd erupted like a volcano. A massive shove to the front. An equal and opposite pushback. Numerous moshpits formed and pummelled. Children were scooped up in their parents’ arms. Pain and heat beseiged me. I stood my ground for the first fifteen minutes, then I could properly enjoy the show on the flanks. What one would consider an acid trip from hell, I consider it a blow-off valve of my repetitive reality.
The theatrics GWAR brought to the table were equally bizarre, uncouth, and insane as the first time. While this was my umpteenth metal show, I appreciate it even more; the music I listen to isn’t mainstream at all. Through an adult lens, I found myself cracking up, screaming at political figures, and truly leaving inhibitions behind. I was the Bohab Bum, and I survived. My shirt will be preserved. Unless I continue the blood-stained tie-dye cycle until the shirt is destroyed. A tattoo, a bruise, a scar, and a memory.
The sensual barrage of a metal show is unlike any other genre of music. It leaves you sweaty, fatigued, and salivating for the next contact. It can be someone falling into you at the mosh pit. A crowd surfer’s limb colliding with your head. Hasty, complex, and core-rattling music surrounds you in a nebulous bubble. You scream as loud as you can. A primal connection, if ever so brief, to the otherworldly and microscopic matters that bring all of these sensations together. I’ll admit, it's hard to write about the deep shit when you’re being sprayed in the face with a powered hose.
GWAR may be sick of me, but I never will <3
LOL sounds like such a wild event (I would fear for my life)