I'm a traitor, and this is probably why Winterfylleth and all the other proud patriots don't like me. Just when I should be settling down to my Daily Express-approved street party in honour of the nuptials of our Greco-German Royal Family, I'm in the Netherlands. It's the day before Queen's Day, Koninginnedag, and everyone is in the streets, knocking back Belgian beers in orange feather boas to pumping '90s Eurodance – the Venga Bus is coming once every fifteen minutes from 2pm through to 3am, so don't worry if you miss one.
Just up the street is the 013, where Neurotic Deathfest is well underway, and according to the schedule Exhumed are playing. One of the undisputed selling points, the return of the Carcass-flavoured deathgrinders filled a Carcass shaped hole in my life when Jeff Walker decided to be a dick (bro totally blanked me at Hole In The Sky, the swansong to my fanboy enthusiasm for even 'Swansong'). They're not playing though, some middle-of-the-road slam merchants are. “Please refer to the various TV screens at the 013 venue” advises the programme sagely. According to said screens, Cripple Bastards are on now and that's worth lining up like convicts at the slops queue for – within the heatbox of the Small Hall however, are another middle-of-the-road slam band, this one half the age of the first one. They've got American accents, but all that means is they could be from Belgium – everyone now sounds like the idiot in the Global Village.
Apparently Master totally kill it, with a sort of volcanic rumble that causes island nations to stark sacrificing their first born – but I was totally sulking by then. Winded by my early disappointment at Neurotic Deathfest I'd retreated to the Orange-clad disco heaven of the Koninginnedag celebrations for one of those horrible Mexican-style Mojito beers that Germans imagine Mexicans must drink.
Over in the Midi Theatre (showing the spectacular Bad Girls musical soon!), the screens are showing Washington, DC grindcore whirlwind Magrudergrind started an hour ago – but thankfully that's a lie. It's insane watching them on a stage that dwarfs even the one at Bloodshed, but here they are – occupying a space probably reserved for Hatebreed, and filling it with an impassioned flurry of mosh-heavy, star-jump grind. Apparently they've popped over for two shows in Europe and then back home, which almost excuses him saying “Danke schone” after one of the songs as some sort of disorientated, jet-lagged brainfart.
Watching Hail of Bullets in the Netherlands is probably akin to seeing Hate in Poland – mercilessly mediocre, on record they deliver solid, if stodgy, death metal thrills. Live though, surrounded by the national equivalent of a home crowd, they seem titanic, utterly enthralling and absolutely mighty in their primordial, warlike death metal rumble.
Over on the Main Stage, the tribes gather for At the Gates. People who think melodic death metal is 'gay' lose their shit in a big way for the progenitors of all that they believe is rotten about the genre (people who still bang on about metalcore being 'gay' are going to lose their minds when they finally discover deathcore). The band are tight and the tunes come thick and fast, but compared to the first wave of reunion shows, it's starting to feel ritualised – that spark that made them At the Gates, as opposed to a bunch of old dudes who used to be in At the Gates playing At the Gates songs – which was the domineering theme of Carcass' piss-poor efforts.
Those dreary depths feel a long way off when Tompa and company are right in front of your face, begging you to shamelessly scream along to one of the bands that got you into extreme metal in the first place, with every single guitar flourish. Come on, you know the words...
Ahh yes. Welcome to the apathy I've had to bands far past their prime for many years.
ReplyDelete- Lachlan of AusGrind.