Bruised and Battered

So the hard facts of college life necessitate saving money sometimes and that means I unfortunately can't go to every show I'd like to; all of you have to suffer accordingly because you miss my voice and extrapolations on the world of live music. Nonetheless, an addict can't stay away for too long and I found my way last week to a show capable of reinstating a love of music in a deaf person. If you don't know Mastodon, look them up, and if you are aware of their existence, please drop whatever you're doing, give Crack the Skye a listen and imagine what I went through last Monday. No matter that I hadn't been to a true, badass metal show in years, the power exuded from that stage made me a metalhead through and through. Before the show, my friends and I kidded ourselves and decided that we were going to sit back and watch them make the beautiful music they produce. After all, I'm getting old and the mosh pit is no country for old men, but the minute I made it into the show I couldn't help but get evil and throw elbows with the best of them (or at least try and keep up).

Before I sing Mastodon's praises any more, I have to give it up to Between the Buried and Me. I first listened to them about an hour before the show and was intrigued by their smooth transitions from melodic rock to thrash. Tommy Rogers opens up Colors with ease before it becomes apparent he is more than a pretty voice, but I wondered how that would translate into a show packed with bloodthirsty fans wearing black t-shirts. Truth be told, it was great even though I was both a little too tipsy for coherency and moving way too fast to really take it in, but their ability to play down the mania at any point made for much needed breaks from the pit. But no one told Mastodon their fans might appreciate a break, so when they took the stage the whole show got a step darker and more hectic. The pit transformed from a group of kids just pushing off each other into a mass of bodies intent on making their own space where there was none. Pardon my negativity, it sounds like I had a bad time, which is far from the truth.

Don't get me wrong, I thought the show was amazing, but I haven't been that battered from a show in a long time, so I'm capitalizing on my right to complain. We all know the stereotypical metalhead with the studded jacket and a Slayer shirt, the one you're supposed to be scared of, so I was surprised to see compassion in the pit. When I lost my balance in the pit and tripped over own shoes, I thought I was a goner looking at the bottoms of those combat boots but my guardian angel must all like metal. I was caught by an innocent bystander who snagged my hat, picked me and threw back to the sharks with only the advice, "Watch your hat, bro!" Thank goodness we have intelligent folk like him in the world. Anyways, my point is that only under the formative wing of those brilliant lunatics could such a stellar moment occur, so I'm forever grateful to them for keeping the mayhem somewhere in between watching paint dry and a hospital bed.