Wherein Christopher Dances To Architecture

So. Devin and Arlen dragged me to the Aggressive Tendencies show tonight, because I am a new father who deserves a night of metal (at least that's what they said...) and therefore must drink and be bombarded by so many power riffs that my underwear hates me and lemme tell ya a little something about metal.

Metal isn't just good music. Metal, when performed correctly, is a sound that wraps itself around your head, bullies its way down your spine, inflates your lungs past their recommended PSI, causes your stomach and bowels to churn and boil, and then pins your legs to the ground using vibrations that reach to the very core of the earth, which we all know houses a hibernating race of Thunder Lizards that await the coming of Ragnarok so that they might rise again and wreak a terrible fury upon the world whilst throwing up many devil-horns to the tune of Black Sabbath's "Supernaut".

(Granted, this is quite similar to the feeling I get when my five-month-old wakes up in the morning and actually starts singing to me, only instead of Thunder Lizards, the hollowed earth is filled with polar bears, and they're making waffles for me. Still, um, metal rulz.)

I shit you not. A good metal show changes you. You wonder why most metalheads and bangers communicate through a series of grunts, shrugs, furrowed brows and flying cross-body-blocks? It is because metal, as a sound, is so innately awesome that it robs them of the very power of speech, sometimes even causing individuals to regress down the evolutionary ladder. I've seen it happen, folks; I'm not saying it's pretty, but it is a spectacle to behold, and last night was one of the better shows I've seen in a long time.

Here is my attempt to describe the damage that was done to my brain:
First up: Bison, a band I've been hearing about all summer, who I'm certain drive around in one of those old-school vans that has fur-bikini-clad valkyries painted on the side and a soiled mattress in the back; their sound is the equivalent of being kidnapped and waterboarded by large swarthy men in Pamplona who then let you loose during the Running Of The Bulls. It's scary, but only in that way that makes you want to experience it again immediately (kinda like getting tattooed, or having really good rough sex, y'know?).

Genghis Tron followed, and while they certainly tried, they just paled in comparison to Bison; I'll give them this, though - they've got potential. Give 'em about two or three years, and they'll sound like a band that Rutger Hauer's character from Blade Runner would've started, had Harrison Ford not run his replicant ass into the ground.

And then there was Baroness.

Let me say right off the bat: these guys look like scumbags in the best possible way. Greasy, disheveled, dressed in ripped jeans and sleeveless black shirts, these were the guys that you always saw huffing gas behind the 7-11 moments before they'd retire to a garage where they'd attempt to play Cliff Burton-era Metallica note for note while penning songs about their latest D&D adventure. This is not a bad thing at all, and it seems to have paid off for Baroness, who played their entire set without taking one breath. Seriously: John Dyer Baizley bellowed for a full hour, and at some point I swear I saw war-elephants stampeding out of his gaping maw.

(What's more: this was billed as an all-ages show, yet there was nary an angst-ridden teenager to be found. The closest that fit that bill was a kid with close-cropped blonde hair who sat at one of the booths during Baroness' set, swaying somewhat dangerously to the feedback; when a bouncer shook his shoulder to see if he was doing okay, the kid stood straight up and spewed something akin to vomit (I hesitate to actually deem it such, as it was strangely clear and non-viscous) a full two feet in the air, all the while maintaining his less-than-graceful footing. Well done, sir; well done, indeed.)

So yeah: Bison, Baroness, Genghis Tron (to a lesser extent), Devin, Arlen, Jordan and Charis - these are all things and/or people who rock. Of course, they pale in comparison to The Ladyfriend, without whose permission I would never have been allowed to go out and play with my friends. Hopefully she lets me do it again.