Truly a son of Thor walks among us

Last Friday, after a grueling week of hard-hitting journalism, I was invited by my long-haired friend Preston to a local rock show. Preston being a companion of my youth (back when our primary activities consisted of dodge ball, laser tag, and micro machines) and since I trust his musical taste (he introduced me to Nirvana), I gladly went along…to a death metal show. In Preston’s defense, it was pretty much the only thing going on in a three county area, but still. This was very different than the local punk shows and attracted a much different crowd. Once again, I sadly failed to meet the local legend known only as “Punk Rock Tom.” The attendees were almost completely in black, many in shirts with the logo of the band, inexplicably named Makeshift Faith. Some had the full white make up, black trench coat school bomber look; others were content with the Hot Topic’s tamer selections. One guy was wearing an Insane Clown Posse shirt and confirmed yet again the theory that every single ICP fan is overweight.One girl challenged every preconception of how much of one’s outfit could be made of fishnet. She performed, on numerous occasions throughout the show, a maneuver in which she ran halfway across the floor, cart wheeled, and landed doing the splits, challenging ever preconception of how much flexibility one should attempt in a 10-inch denim miniskirt. Preston said she was “one of the Manson girls.”
The band, in a stunning display of musical professionalism such as one would expect from a Middle Georgia local death metal band, they started 1:15 late. Hey, unlike the opening band, they at least showed up. During the wait, I noticed a woman sitting up against the wall, dressed in clear opposition of the all black rule. She also held the kind of extra-long notebook preferred by reporters. My spider sense went off. I walked up to her and asked “who do you write for?” Turns out she’s an entertainment reporter with the Macon Telegraph, my paper’s primary competitor. In fact, she was Maggie Large, author of the newly introduced AMPED entertainment blog. The concert was in a small building labeled “Porter-Ellis Community Center.” It looked like a detached church hall with cheap white tiles, acoustic tiled ceiling, and white-painted cinder block walls. It had lovely flowered drapes over the yellowed Venetian blinds and it was obvious that this was an unusual use for the facility. I kept expecting a bar mitzvah to break out. You can see in my picture the lovely white lattice back drop that served to contrast with the band aura of sheer metal badness.
The band consisted of four grimy, hairy men who seemed to believe that bathing would conflict with the afore mentioned sheer metal badness. The singer was a large individual, though not in ICP fan territory. His stage presence and banter seemed to suggest “hey, I can be big and still be a rock and roll sex god.” Preston calls this “the Meatloaf factor.” His wide stance, grasping hand gestures, and straining demeanor seemed to shout “I am a ----- son of Odin. I am a ------- ------- Teutonic war god. I will ripe off your head and ---------- you if I feel like it. I AM the ubermench, ------.” Actually, given his vocal clarity he might really have been shouting that. Who could tell?
Much to my chagrin, I learned that Makeshift Faith is a only a few original songs removed from being a Pantera tribute band. All through out the show the singer kept saying “Y’all wouldn’t happen to mind if we played another PANTERA SONG!” Most of their originals were odes to recently slain Pantera member Darryl Abbot. I could barely keep a straight face the third time they began a number with “This next song is very special to us. It’s a tribute to the memory of passion, humanity, and musical genius that was Dimebag Darryl.”
Overall, they weren’t bad for a local metal band. They had a full, matching set of speakers with a sound board and sound man. They had stage lights and a light show that actually functioned in time with the music. Their instruments were in tune and each member of the band was playing the same song at the same time. They all were in the same key, or at least demonstrated knowledge of what a key is. They accomplished what they set out to do well. But I just don’t go for death metal. The screaming growling, overdriven, thumping expressions of Germanic rage just kinda give me a headache.If you call me and I don’t pick up, it’s because I still haven’t regained my hearing.
Here is Maggie Large’s blog review about the show, I disagree with some aspects of her review I don't think the singer resembled Axl Rose, visually or vocally.P.S. Scantily-clad cart wheel girl is Jessica from the second picture down.