Words and Photo by Aaron Richter

I get bored easily. (You can probably relate.) Infatuations are fleeting. Fixations unglue. And obsessions come and go. I blame the Internet. Mostly. Or Twitter. As with so many interests throughout my life (pogs, drumming for Weezer, troll dolls), my new-found love for metal was in danger of wilting before it had truly blossomed. (Or should that be “blossomed before it truly wilted”?) It’s possible that I’ve simply been happier lately, more content. But watching the anger wash away, starved and defeated, was troublesome in a weird, masochistic-mindfuck sort of way that only heavy doses of Kylesa and a little Recession-derived anxiety could bring about. Which is also what brought me to Withered’s performance at Union Pool this past Thursday and the search for what I’ve taken to calling “metal phase, round two.”

I first heard Withered at Atlanta’s Scion Rock Fest. While I wandered through the dilapidated floors of The Masquerade, the hometown band’s mighty volume caught my ear, urging me to creep closer. Unfamiliar but curious, I watched as Withered’s singer/guitarist Mike Thompson fumed like a fire-beast, breaking between songs to pound gulps of beer near my perch beside the stage, and bassist Mike Longoria whipped his hair with a frightening fury that threatened to slap out audience eyeballs. I remember thinking to myself that the combination of sustained weight and demonic brutality was astonishing and that Withered was way more metal than the extreme music I’d been listening to.

Jump two months to this past week at Brooklyn’s Union Pool, and the band left half my head stung. An ear full of car-siren cloudiness, I rode the train home after the show, my legs weak, my joints and muscles still trembling to recover. I’d felt the surging jolt of adrenaline, the rush that first attracted me to metal not too many months ago. For the next day, I wore my demolished ear—also a reminder never to forget my earplugs ever again—as a badge of rekindled love, turning toward friends with a proud “you’ll have to speak into my good ear” beam. But the aftermath of the show also marked what I’ve felt to be a threshold breakthrough to phase-two metal. I’m through listening for crossover appeal and searching for bands with hipster cred. Gimme the dirtiest, grimiest, darkest, blackest, most horrific, doom-laden and dangerous metal you got. No fear from this point forth. Your suggestions are welcome. I’m all ears.

Photos by Aaron Richter

self-titled donned its best paparazzi cap this past Saturday and scoured Atlanta’s Scion Rock Fest for the event’s best fans. Keep your eye out for the finely bearded gent above. He makes another appearance during Mastodon’s set toward the end of this post. Though we’re pretty sure he lost his hat in the ruckus. And if you haven’t already, make sure to check out our event coverage and band shots. Or click through here for more awesomeness.

Words and Color Photos by Aaron Richter / B&W Photos by Austin L. Ray

There was a moment this past Saturday in Atlanta, as I emerged from the crowd at the Scion Rock Fest, when I exhaustingly checked the time and realized there was still seven hours of metal to be had, seven more hours of deepening quick-mud, seven more hours of beard-watching, seven more hours of stage-hopping, seven more hours of my face, ears and brain being destroyed. And I got excited.

I’d entered the festival with reservations. Could they really pull it off? Would everyone really behave? Who would be left standing outside the gates once The Masquerade reached its capacity? Despite threats of rain, a steady flux of 4,000 fans filled the festival grounds (capacity 4,700), spread across four stages, one tent-covered outdoor behemoth and three of varying size inside the dilapidated Masquerade. Highlights included co-headliners Mastodon and Neurosis as well as Baroness, Wolves in the Throne Room, Boris and an unreal set by a fully corpsepainted 1349. Jumping from stage to stage, I caught 13 bands in less than 10 hours—eat that, Coachella!

Music aside, kudos to everyone involved for putting together one of the most chill, contained and well-organized music festivals I’ve ever attended. You proved that a massive rock event can occur (largely free of incident) without resorting to police-state tactics. The general pleasantness and courtesy of the fans was remarkable, not to mention an event staff that proved it could think for itself, assess situations, problem solve and alter protocol on the fly. But enough pussy gushing. Without further ado, here are the Scion Rock Fest Superlatives.

Best Set
Baroness. One minute singer/guitarist John Balzley was chatting cheerfully with fans in the audience, and the next the bearded frontman was a fuming beast, cartoonishly bugging out his eyes and blasting steam from his nostrils like a crazed Disney villain. Much of the Red Album’s post-rock wankery was abandon for adrenalized rocking, and the group’s songs never sounded better, barreling forth with venomous no-nonsense intensity.

Best Cameo
Neurosis’s Scott Kelly performing “Aqua Dementia” with Mastodon. Following Neurosis’s mind-bending set, performed in almost total darkness, Kelly joined his Atlanta buddies for some wicked howling. In a T-shirt and cap, he patiently lumbered across the stage before emptying his lungs into a stream of ungodly terror. He also lent his vocals to versions of Blood Mountain’s “Crystal Skull” and Mastodon’s new single, “Divinations,” off their upcoming fourth record, Crack the Skye.

Best Corpsepaint
1349. See for yourself.

Most Absent Band
Nachtmystium. Accused of Nazism, Blake Judd’s sax-tooting psych metal group was booted from the bill by Scion’s parent company, Toyota, once controversy over the band’s past associations came to light. Judd responded to ensure disappointed fans that Nachtmystium is for the children.

Biggest Hams
Brent Hinds and Troy Sanders of Mastodon. They’re just really good at being in a metal band, and sometimes that means you gotta ham it up for the fans, which includes all of (but is not limited to) the following: facial contortions, ridiculous solos, having tattoos, leaning backward, acting like a demon, singing like a demon, being awesome.

Most Metal, Sans Corpsepaint
Withered. These guys were the real deal.

Biggest Smile
Steve Brooks of Torche. Whenever this guy solos, it’s like he’s a kid on Christmas morning. Even extreme technical difficulties and gear switch-outs couldn’t tarnish Brooks’s beaming pearly whites.

Worst Consciousness
Unnamed cell-phone-tossing fan. Sure, the day’s events seemed to go off without a hitch, but the rock proved too much for one guy, who, as Neurosis performed, couldn’t walk more than five paces before collapsing and inadvertently chucking his cell phone into a patch of mud. Drunk? On Drugs? Or just overwhelmed?

Most Likely to Fall Apart
The Masquerade. I was warned beforehand that the venue was damn rickety, but I didn’t expect such a dilapidated funhouse. In some areas, it seemed like the only thing holding up the venue was a grip of 2×4’s bought the day before and nailed in place in preparation for Saturday’s festivities. Navigating between the indoor stages, though a bit confusing and discouraging to some who were turned away once rooms reached capacity, was sort of like exploring a haunted mansion. Filled with ghouls, of course.

Best Penis

Tightest Squeeze
Converge. Unfortunately I missed this set due to High on Fire and the need for sustenance, but reports were that the Masquerade’s top level, Heaven, got so packed that the venue had to close off entry in order to control whatever chaos Jacob Bannon was likely inciting.

Most Likely to Confuse the Uninitiated
Pig Destroyer. Despite my love for Phantom Limb, I found this set puzzling and erratic, as if none of the four guys onstage were actually playing together but rather just doing their own thing that sometimes united for a thrashing good time. The set sent non-fans scurrying to check out an indoor stage, and even the die-hards never seemed to catch much momentum.

Best Spot to Take a Wizz/Smoke Weed
The hill behind the porta-potties. Because stepping foot inside the johns meant risking that the bass from the main stage would rattle the poo receptacle onto its side, with you in it.

Most Likely to Say Fuck Onstage
Matt Pike of High on Fire, who, between songs, transformed into a constant stream of barking profanity. Fuck yeah!

Best Chair
An empty pizza box. Essential when the ground is soaked and muddy and your legs refuse to work anymore.

Most Likely to Have Grown Their Own Dinner
The members of Wolves in the Throne Room. Known for their eco-spiritualism and agricultural self-sufficiency, the Olympia, Washington, group served up one of the day’s fiercest sets with swarming tracks from their upcoming record, Black Cascade. And likely dined afterward on a bushel of homegrown veggies. (Or the blood of sacrificed virgins…whatever.)

Best Fan

By Aaron Richter

Transforming from a bespectacled indie-rock dweeb into a burgeoning metal head isn’t easy. First, there’s the feeling of discouraging ignorance, that no matter what you’re listening to, now matter how fantastic it is, you simply like it because, well, it’s metal and you either heard or read somewhere that it’s supposed to be good. Maybe let’s call that a lack of discerning taste. This can be acquired easy enough. And with enough dedication you’ll be touting the merits of Dopethrone and impressing friends at parties with your sub-basic knowledge of Øystein Aarseth’s murder.

A much more difficult mountain to climb, so to speak, is the girlfriend. She can’t be ignored. Or disregarded. No, that won’t do. Because she’s hot and awesome. And no Matt Pike bellow or Mick Harris blast beat is worth losing the love of your life over. (Unless, of course, she sucks, in which case this article is probably not for you.) Any true metal obsession means that she’ll be forced to digest extreme music at least once a day, intentionally or not. And for the uninitiated, that’s a lot to bear. Thus, altering her tastes becomes a conquest of sorts, one in which you must triumph. Here are ten necessary steps to victory.

1. Start with something she can tolerate.

Might we suggest Black Sabbath’s self-titled debut or Paranoid. Ozzy is a voice she’ll recognize, if not from TV, at least from “Crazy Train.” And the blues riffs will remind her of Led Zeppelin, which she loves (especially II, which is overrated). Also, believe it or not, but a steady diet of mainstream ’90s rock such as Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins and Jane’s Addiction just might break through her first wall of distaste. Be sure to pepper your conversation while listening with such comments as “Wow, that’s a brutal riff” and “Hell, Billy Corgan might be a candy-ass, but the yelling part of ‘Bullet With Butterfly Wings’ is fuckin’ metal” (emphasizing the word metal) when necessary to solidify the connection.

2. Help her understand that not all metal is Cradle of Filth.

Despite this band’s ultimate suckiness, Cradle of Filth is, without hesitation, the first thing that comes into your girlfriend’s head when she thinks of metal, a travesty that absolutely must be remedied. This is a perfect time to introduce Mastodon, whose crossover appeal is known and proven.

3. Pay attention to volume.

Sure, the tendency is to crank it, but too loud and she’s gonna hate even the most righteous speed-picking. Keep your home stereo at a reasonable volume so she can do things other than be distracted by the music. A good gauge is whether she can read a book simultaneously. And be sure to get your levels right, with a powerful low end and well-balanced highs. In this instance, a crisp mix is much more valuable than obliterating the thin wall you share with your neighbor—no matter how much you hate him.

4. Explain yourself.

And be honest when she asks, “What the fuck is going on?” Tell her that lately you’ve been feeling the need to worship Satan, and not being skilled in the art of virgin sacrifice, you figured that a daily dose of Norwegian black was the next best thing. Unless she’s absolutely insane herself, she’ll be terrified by this, but explicate further. Note the appeal of virtuosity, that ultimate amazement of witnessing a musician perform at the top of his or her game. To play metal requires superb technical proficiency. You’d get the same feeling of awe watching Wynton Marsalis perform at a concert hall. If that’s not enough, discuss your admiration for the metal community’s pride in the end product, from working at prestigious recording studios to taking obsessive satisfaction in their gear to printing limited edition, high-quality vinyl. She’ll start to understand.

5. Invest in some quality ear buds.

Let’s face it. You’ll need to be a good boyfriend some of the time, and that means occasionally keeping your music private. But you can easily turn this hindrance into a positive. In-ear nose-cancelling ear buds are an essential purchase. They’re portable and let you delve deeper into the music, as layers and inconspicuous elements reveal themselves that you never could quite hear on your home stereo. Not to mention that Krallice’s kick drums are phenomenally assaultive with the right buds.

6. Take the next step with something badass.

Great music is undeniable, no matter your tastes. So keep this next selection impeccable without losing sight of elements she’ll recognize from her own playlists. Pay attention to a band’s singer; this is the primary source of her knee-jerk reactions. Try Baroness’s Red Album or everyone’s 2008 favorite, Meanderthal by Torche, both furious records with non-demonic vocals that won’t lead her to fashion a bedpost into a wooden stake for protection against “them.” Even if she doesn’t like it, her spectrum is expanding, and at least you tried.

7. Point out stuff that rules.

This gives her entry points into music she might otherwise resist entirely. By now, her metal appreciation is cursory at best, but she’ll have enough exposure to enjoy specific instances of extreme awesomeness. When you’re usually gobbling multicolored pills together (aka Wednesdays), instead of staring at the ceiling all night, set Nachtmystium’s “Seasick (Part 2: Oceanborne)” on repeat and zonk out to its psychedelic sax solo. Or thrash around your apartment to “Rumors of War” by High on Fire. Break kitchen dishes if need be. Just make sure she knows that Des Kensel’s thundering war drums get you ferociously amped and therefore require her closer inspection (at the very least to figure out why her favorite coffee mug is crumbled beside the toilet).

8. Encourage what she likes.

Notice when she responds positively to Kylesa’s scorched-earth sludge guitars and play their upcoming record, Static Tension, constantly. Send her links to live Mastodon vids on YouTube, any clips spliced with Brent Hinds interviews (because he rules). And never, ever, ever call bullshit when it seems like she’s faking enjoyment just to prove she’s got cojones. She’ll learn quickly enough.

9. Test the waters.

At this point she’ll likely be developing a tolerance. So it’s worth taking a bit of a risk, even if it only lasts a few minutes before she’s threatening to withhold sex for an entire year. Grindcore is a prickly endeavor, but Pig Destroyer is a fitting poison for such a dangerous venture. Bolting without rest at a thrashing velocity, the group proves that even the most terrifyingly abrasive onslaught of noise  and sustained volume can hold musically sophisticated charms, particularly when songs such as ”Loathsome” and “Heathen Temple” race past the two minute mark and churn and slam with unexpected freedom. But do remember, when she yells for you to turn the music off (which she will), it’s best that you abide.

10. Give her hugs and candy.

Because she likes hugs. And candy.

Words and Photos by Aaron Richter

Whenever I catch a show at Union Pool, I can’t help but wish an unhinged musician would bash in a few of the lights that line the stage’s frame, like Paige or Townsend would have done. Glowing a faint, delicate, nearly-dead yellow, the bulbs are just begging to be crushed, and as the Brooklyn metal trio Tombs unleashed a hefty slug of darkness, I’m certain I glimpsed bassist Carson Daniel James smashing in a couple of those suckers. Badass!

Surrounded by a light but full, subdued crowd, I crouched in the front for a jaw-dropping vantage point and humped the lip of the stage as the band powered through songs such as “Gossamer” and “Golden Eyes.” On record, the tracks yield layered intricacies–probably why the group often gets tagged with My Bloody Valentine comparisons. But live, everything became much more direct and guttural. Rather than slipping beneath headphones to indulge whatever studio tinkery these guys have going on, you’re left to witness the raw trio: fast-picking Mike Hill howling with an earthy, worn bellow, Andrew Hernandez driving time with uncanny precision and James donning the role of stage intimidator. The show offered containment that never felt restrained or stifled.

By Aaron Richter

In the interest of truth telling, up until about six weeks ago, I’d always worried about my boss, self-titled Editor-in-Chief Andrew Parks. Not worried that his fiery temper when dealing with the Bolivians might put both his and my life at risk (not an actual trait of Andrew’s). Or worried that his tendency to toss lamps out of apartment windows might one day injure a passing pedestrian (indeed an actual trait of Andrew’s). But simply worried about his taste in music. Sure, we share a similar permutation of indie-rock interests that stem from a general love of the Velvet Underground and My Bloody Valentine. And yeah, the first time we met was to see Comets on Fire rock the holy hell out of a Brooklyn rooftop. But Andrew had set aside a darkened corner of his heart for metal (or as my mom would call it, “You mean heavy metal?”). And I just didn’t get it.

He seemed to carry a certain irony about it. (We’d joke about how many ways he could convey the phrase “as if they’d amplified the fiery depths of hell” in articles for Decibel.) Though I could never be certain. I’d spent enough time with Mastodon, Pelican and Torche to realize my interest in doom, sludge, dark, black, stoner, speed, grind, instru-, melodic metal wasn’t getting any deeper. The boundary was appreciation, never infatuation. 

But as 2008 crumbled to a close, one night I found myself, a beer in hand and a few in my gut, with a curious itch. (Pause.) Maybe it was out of boredom or maybe some unrecognized misanthropy coursing through my veins, but ducking my head into my laptop, I decided to pour through the year’s best in extreme music, or everything obscenely brutal I’d shamefully neglected to care about for the past 12 months. I discovered Nachtmystium, a black metal group notable for the bold audacity to unleash saxophone flurries á la Steve Mackay’s Funhouse psychedelics. I explored Disfear, a crisp Swedish troupe touting vocals by the apparently legendary bellower of At the Gates (a band I’d never heard of). I delved into Krallice, a Mick Barr-led Brooklyn outfit so visceral that I felt like my brain were being pounded to mush. I loved it all, and I sense the seeds of obsession beginning to sprout. 

Not much later, on a flight home to visit my family in St. Louis, I developed an awful case of nerves, the kind that no amount of Dramamine can truly cure. It was a nauseating brand of flight anxiety licked with flashes of claustrophobia triggered by the whomph of the closing cabin door that had me sweaty palmed, squeezing my eyes to shut, begging my mind to simply doze off. Once the stewardess approved the use of handheld electronics, I crushed my earbuds in place, set the volume to “dear god” and let Krallice’s seismic tidal waves engulf my distress, putting my body at calm. The unrelenting cacophony washed across me and despite the music’s swirling chaos, I eased into pure control and clarity in a powerful way that I’ll never forget.

In the weeks that have passed since, I’d guess that 80 percent of my music listening has been some form of metal–a new discovery, a essential benchmark or a Baroness record that gets stuck on repeat. Basically me playing catch-up. I’ve infected others, too (something I’m damn proud of). And I worry less about bossface Andrew (at least about his taste in music). 

All that said, “Feed the Anger” is a new column about metal written by someone who is only recently discovering the genre’s rich fruits. As a music writer, I pride myself in knowing my shit so I can tell you how you’re wrong and how I’m right. But with metal, I’m feeling comfortable not knowing–or at least learning as I go. You’ll see that my reactions are elementary and basic, but clear and honest. Yeah, you might call me a poser. But fuck you, man, at least I’m trying.