I am battered, hungover, and tired, feeling almost as if Hurricane Irene had brandished me between tree branches or bashed me through a windshield like a brick. What I’m talking about, three days later (yes, it gets harder in your 30s to bounce back, kids), is the prideful pain of being ravaged by a great show. I have just seen Warchildwith Sistered and Nunchucks at the Rock and Roll Hotel.
As Warchild were about to take to the stage, there was already a cloud of sweat and beer floating above the pit, which had pre-formed in anticipation of their arrival. That cloud could strike a lightening bolt of rage on any one of the aggro dudes ready to shove their bodies together like enraged wrestlers. Instead, Jason, Devin, and Allan appear like charging bulls, but one thing has gone terribly wrong. Bassist Jason Dangle still has his shirt on. The ladies are pissed and chant “shirt off, shirt off” as the first song begins.
Rory, with hands in the air conducting the crowd as if he’s Satan’s televangelist, enters the stage and the show begins. He headbangs, screams around the stage, and the first song is finished. Jason, in response to the continuous chant of “shirt off,” has obliged, and the pit is, like the depth of a volcano, on fire and pulsating. Allan Chappelear is a selt-taught thrash savant, and his solos are electrifying. “Now you Die” is streaked with the influence of Rory Sheridan’s love of DC Hardcore.
Rory couldn’t be any better at leading a crowd into a frenzy. It’s death defying to be at the front of the stage. I proudly hold it down with Liz Gorman, as she snaps away killer shot after shot, my arms around Lindsay Hart’s shoulders, whom we eventually revisit post-show at the Warchild merch table distributing free CDs and stickers. “After the Mines” erupts with a roaring crowd, and I am shoved into the crease of the stage. That shit hurt so bad, but I am drunk and elated and don’t give a shit.
Eventually, the churn overpowers me, and I knock into this baseball hat-wearing douchefuck. To quote Michael K’s recent post on Dlisted,
There are some douchefucks who should really get nipple-burning drunk in the comfort of their own bedroom closets so they can punch at the walls, rage scream at the air, spray saliva at their coats and act like a total asshole trash dick without making everyone else have a shit time.
This I say to you, douchefuck that spilled beer on my head in response to my accidentally knocking into your beer as I accidentally thrust into the pit. Why is there always some dumb motherfucker who thinks a pit is an invitation to release their anger issues towards women? Asshole.
Anyway, someone should get Devin Cassidy a Spartan warrior helmet as he annihilates the drums. He savagely plays the hell outta those drums. Jason Dangle’s brutal bass holds each song down with an underlying call to action. At one point, Rory calls a couple dudes on stage to shotgun beers, including Peter of Rattler, to whom I drunkenly insist the shirt must come off, and he politely desists.
How did it get to this point? The night began drunkenly. Of course, in typical form, I was late for the first band. I had been drinking Dirt Cake Martinis prior to arriving (cocktail priorities), and I grab a beer as I walked in, hoping to catch more than a couple songs of Nunchucks’ set, but I am not so lucky. This is my first time seeing them, the crowd is thin (it fills out later), and for some reason there is a semi-circle of people reluctant to grace the stage without more than two body lengths of space in front of them. I power through them to the front.
Anthony Soltes is channeling the catchy pop energy of The Kinks as John Bevans on lead guitar helps curate the sound into more recent and polished Black Lips–style garage . Two songs after I’ve arrived, they are done playing, I have slammed a PBR tall boy, and I’m ready for another.
After sneaking upstairs to catch a few guilty pleasure pop songs at Becky, I’m eager for Pittsburgh’s Sistered to begin, whom members of Warchild had been singing praise about for weeks. Holy shit, these guys are great. Mixing a bit of sludge, thrash, grunge and punk, Sistered’s sound is both immediate and compelling. Rooted in grunge, “Shut Your Eyes” has plunging guitar hooks similar to Helmet’s “Milktoast” but sneaks in traces of menacing black metal.
John Dzziuban is cocky as fuck, owning the stage with a the refined dominance of his guitar. His blond hair swirls in a similar headbanging fashion to that for which we’ve come to love Rory Sheridan. Jesse Meredith, with baseball hat and sleeveless shirt with fearless neon lettering, bellows out a scream during “Midnight Renegade” that would warrant the envy of German death metal band Sodom or stop Mille Petrozza of Kreator in his three-toed tracks. Rife with Motorhead’s deep and brutal energy but swathed in murky grunge and all the best bits of ’80s era Metallica, Sistered offer a soul-crushing live performance.
For participants of future Warchild shows, some things must be anticipated. You must be prepared to get fucking drunk, sweaty, and bruised. You will spend more than you planned to on beer. You will probably have unprotected sex with a stranger, or your virginity will be plundered by the sheer volume and speed of the thrash metal. Make no mistake, you have been warned.
Photo Credit: Liz Gorman
(I also took a bunch of pictures of the show.)
Oh shit, that’s me!
