HEAVY METAL VOMIT PARTY
HVMP01
Inside is neither true or false but what I remember
HEAVY METAL VOMIT PARTY ISSUE #1 CONTENTS
FEAR AND LOATHING IN TRIER STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND SHITTERS FULL “NEW YORK, SHOW ME YOUR IGNORANCE” - Vincent Bennett of The Acacia Strain| Santos Party House | NYC
FEAR AND
LOATHING IN TRIER JETLAG, BEER, AND TECHNO TAKE ITS TOLL IN GERMANY
Preblown | Dr. Chuzz
The room appeared to be a bomb shelter left over from World War II. A damp brick ceiling arced over our heads. Looking from one end to the other was a hollow tunnel, with a stage occupying the far wall. I climbed the winding staircase with the last of my drum cases and loaded them into the van. We had arrived in Germany two days ago, with one show under our belts after playing a small, hot basement club in Rosswein the night before. It had been a good kick off for the tour, with a writhing mass of wild eyed kids pressed up against each other and the sweating walls. In Rosswein we met up with Darkest Hour, who we would be opening for on the next few nights as we made our way to Ieperfest in Belgium. After a restless night in an insect infested hostel and a lengthy drive, we had arrived here, Trier. The lack of sleep was starting to catch up with me. I was not alone. Calling the venue we had just played a rock club does not really describe it properly. It’s more of a walled in compound that takes up a city block. The only access to the property for the van was through a large iron gate in the back, which would end up being locked at night. Inside the gate was a cement courtyard that consisted of half a football pitch with a goal at one end, with the opposite being a wooden skate park with a mini ramp along with swings and a playground. Dividing these areas was a basketball court and an outdoor stage that appeared to be shut down for the season. The courtyard was surrounded by a massive building with different wings,containing a rock club, techno club, and hostel. The rest of the huge building was mostly abandoned, except for random ratty couches scattered throughout empty rooms. Each band had been assigned a room in the hostel and a lounge for show prep. Our sleeping room was just a few wooden bunks on a cold cement floor, with a window looking out to the courtyard. The lounge consisted of a bare room with a couch and refrigerator, with a black tarp taped over the window. I opened the fridge to find it stocked with beer. It’s all warm. The fridge isn’t even plugged in. I had already gotten over the hurdle of warm beer while wandering around the streets of Berlin. There were street beer vendors on every corner of the city. We sampled a wide variety, my personal favorite a Grapefruit Heffeweisen. It seemed to be the national past time in Germany, getting shitfaced in public, or drinking coffee at streetside cafes. The cafes we had stopped at each morning had amazing coffee and pastries. All the other forms of German cuisine appeared to be some sort of twisted trick. I had been on the basic touring diet of gas station food, just in European flavors - orange Fanta and paprika flavored potato chips. I tried to stock up on a huge breakfast with some street brews at the end of the night. I was starving after passing on the strange tasting sausages and slimy pasta that had been provided by the promoter earlier in the day. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge. After the first one, you forget how warm they are anyway.
The show was not as exciting as the night before. In Rosswein, the kids were losing their shit, literally bouncing off the walls. The vibe at Trier could not have been more different. The crowd looked unimpressed, standing with blank stares, arms crossed. Punishing feedback screamed in our faces the entire set.
Our driver gets ready to sleep in the van with the gear. He has a terrified look in his eyes. Looking around, I can’t say I blame him. We’ve been invited to the after party at the techno club, so we grab a few warm beers and wander across the courtyard. We all sit down on a curb with the warm Bitburgers between our legs, and take in the night.
The view from the curb
A few girls come over and ask if we like Germany, then start asking more questions about America. Before I know it, bottles are pulled from their purses, and passed around. Spanish wine. The bottles of red wine are quickly finished. Unopened bottles of white wine appear from seemingly nowhere.
We drink straight from the bottles with large gulps. There are warm Bitburgers pressed into my hand as soon as I empty one, the gold and white foil torn around their long brown necks. A girl from Luxembourg sitting next to me asks if I speak any German, and insists on teaching me how to properly curse. These drunken girls have filthy mouths.
That’s the Disembodied tour van on the right, our driver Honsa trying to sleep inside
The last notes of Darkest Hour have rung out. Tonight was their night, the crowd there to see them and head bang along. People spill into the courtyard from the dank air of the subterranean rock club, as the bass heavy thump of techno music begins to rumble from behind the stone walls.
Dr. Chuzz notices the constant sound of breaking glass. It seems that when you are finished with your beverage, do not look for a recycle bin or trash can. Just smash that shit on the ground. We have also noticed a gentleman dressed in a suit, his hair pulled into a tight pony tail. He does not blend in with the drunken crowds around him.
The last bottle of white wine is finished and our new friends get up to leave, promising to meet up with us inside the club. We are not leaving this curb yet. We have warm beer to drink and cigarettes to smoke. Fucking Germany Dude, says the Doctor. A glass bottle breaks in the background.
Drunken teenagers, sweaty black t-shirt clad metal heads, and the night club scene collide in front of us. There is laughter at the thought of our driver attempting to sleep in the van across from us. The suit wearing gentleman continued to sit in front of us. We finally figured out why he was here.
He hates these cans | Dr. Chuzz & Aaron
*smash* - Horns - Check out the Die Hard style glass covered floor.
We make our way into the packed club. The sounds of breaking glass can now barely be heard over the thunderous bass of techno music. We walk up the slippery, glass covered stairs and make our way to the dance floor. There is a tiny bar in the corner, surrounded. I get in line for drinks. It is a futile attempt. JJ has has started throwing up the metal horns every time he hears glass breaking. Pretty soon we are all doing the same. While in line, I see one of the girls we were talking to outside next to the bar and convince her to get our drinks. I’m buying, I tell her. I look like an American she says. Fuckin A Right, I think. She comes back with an arm full of tiny cans of beer. ‘The hell are we supposed to do with these, someone says as we slink to the edges of the club. The packed dance floor stretches from wall to wall, with people dancing and bumping into to each other. Due to the heat in the room our beers are seemingly drunk at record pace. We order more, in a bottle this time, please and thank you. We want to join in and smash them when we are done. At this point, Aaron has enough sense to go to bed. The Doctor, JJ and myself are not this wise. We are in a techno club in Germany. We are drunk on piss warm beer and questionable wine. We are surrounded by gyrating, grinding, drunken Germans of all ages. The floor is covered in broken glass. There is no way we are going to bed. The Doctor says he is going to show us fucking metal heads how to dance. Merican style, he says. JJ and I stand back. The Doctor says he needs room.
Filthy Mericans | JJ Thrash & Dr. Chuzz
JJ Thrash and Dr. Chuzz
...And he danced. In celebration of this frightening and hilarious sight, we smash our empty bottles on the dance floor. We stand still, blinking at what we have just done, waiting to get ejected head first from the club by goose stepping security guards. People countinue to dance around us as if nothing happened. We return to the bar and order another round. Beers in hand, Dr. Chuzz says he needs to go outside. It’s hot in here. I need a cigarette, he says. We head for the stairs. Empty bottles litter every decending step, like little graveyards along the walls. The lights flicker in strobe like fashion in the hallway leading outside, strange shadows reflecting off the wet floor and walls. Outside. Groups of people are gathered in the shadowy corners of the courtyard, cigarettes glowing. The air is much cooler than the stuffy air of the techno club. Clouds of smoke are blown towards the night sky. The courtyard is littered with broken bottles. I wonder how we are going to get the van out in the morning, an island in an ocean of shattered beer and wine bottles. All I hear is people scream... break glass, our driver Honsa would tell me in his thick Czech accent the next day. Very afraid, he said, shuddering. We head towards the entrance to the hostel. I know there are warm Bitburgers in the unplugged fridge. Zombies wander the halls of the abandoned wing we lounged in earlier in the day. The large open rooms are now strewn with the bodies of drunken teenagers. Some are passed out on their backs, mouths open towards the ceiling with their limbs hanging off filthy couches. Others are gathered around dim lights smoking and quietly chattering away in languages I don’t recognize. We make our way down the dark hallway that leads to the lounge and find the door open. The group of people who are sitting on folding chairs do not acknowledge us as we make our way to the fridge. I grab the plastic wrapped cardboard flat, a few warm bottles clinking inside. We stand in the corner, looking at each other with hollow eyes. JJ stands holding his unopened bottle of beer. Pretty sure I’m gonna puke, he says, black hood up over his head. The Doctors hair is a matted sweaty mess. He has taken off the his shirt. Fuckin’hot, he mumbles. Lets get the fuck outta here. JJ rushes past us, out of the room. I know where he’s goin, The Doctor says flatly. Leaning against the dark walls, we lurch toward our room. Dr. Chuzz fumbles our door open and flops on to his bare mattress. I climb up to the top bunk, take a look at the bed. I leave my shoes on, and pull my hood up over my head. I am exhausted. SInce our Atlantic crossing flight, I have been able to sleep for approximately 6 hours in 3 days. For some reason, still unable to close my eyes. I look out the window to the courtyard. It is no longer dark outside. I hear the last thumps of techno drums fade away as a worker begins to sweep up broken glass with a large broom in broad strokes. I sigh in relief. The van will escape its glass prison and we will make it to our next destination. Amsterdam.
STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND Going down | London
AOL Headquarters Reception Mural| Manhattan
Physical Graffiti| St Marks Place
Bikes everywhere | Amsterdam
Fishtown Wheat Paste|Philadelphia
HEAVY METAL VOMIT PARTY
The Green Room | Manhattan
This way to Supreme |SoHo
This way to Hunters |De Wallen
The Huddle |Costa Mesa
Jah Guide |New Brunswick
Nobody Is Watching The Children |Philadelphia
Train Station |Brussels
Hardcore Parking Lot|Anaheim
The Mercury Lounge |Manhattan
The Wedge |Balboa
Bridge Hustler| London
STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND Cockring |De Wallen
DevilInside tech Spud & Shane bassist for Cannae | Outside Atlanta
Tubes | The Orpheum | Ybor City
photosZUCCO
SHITTERS FULL “No words are spoken, but we all know what each other is thinking. Fuck it.”
The next show will be better. It has to be. It was the same conversation we had been having for over a week. A week of basements, punker squats, and dingy rock clubs in dangerous neighborhoods. We were on our way out of Washington DC, set to drive through the night to Atlanta. I was used to driving around the worst parts of our nations cities, but the ghetto of DC was by far the worst I had seen. Rats the size of footballs gathered around stagnant pools of water in the alley behind the Blue Nile, an African restaurant that for some reason had booked a hardcore show. In the front was an open air crack market. Hustlers openly sold their product, as police squads casually rolled past. Hordes of junkies wandered the streets in the daze of the undead. A skinny woman stood on the corner and clucked like a chicken, flailing her arms. Check on your van and shit every 15 minutes, it’s bad around here, nah mean? The guy behind the bar tells us. No shit. So far, we had played in a basement. A few VFW’s and Legion Halls. An abandoned building on a dark Detroit street that had a 10 foot high pile of decapitated plastic doll heads. A club in a dicey neighborhood in Baltimore that had hardcore porn playing on all of the televisions scattered through out the bar. What could be next? Crow was in the drivers seat. I am sitting shotgun and check the next stop on the itinerary. Swayze’s was the name of the club we were to be playing in Atlanta. Swayze’s? Like, Road House Patrick Swayze? The dotted line of the highway flashes by as our van and battered trailer hurtle through the night. Sabbath and Skynyrd come out of the speakers as the Southern nights wind rushes by my open window and over my elbow. Fairies Wear Boots. Gimme Back My Bullets. We will drive straight through the Carolinas, stopping only to load up on cheap cigarettes at Flying J truck stops and Waffle House. The sun starts to come up as we enter Georgia. We receive a call from our friends on this tour, Cannae. Rendezvous north of Atlanta at a campground. Tubes | The Orpheum |Ybor City
A few hours later we pull into the campground, and spot the white 15 passenger van and trailer of our tour mates. We lounge around their campsite, cook up some food on their Coleman camp grill and take showers in a cinder block building. Feeling refreshed, we saddle up and caravan into the snarled Atlanta traffic. Slowly we crawl through the city. Exiting off the freeway, everyone begins to scan the addresses passing on the street, counting down to our destination. Spotting a cheap sign above a dark looking space, the two vans pull into a dilapidated strip mall. Swayze’s. We track down the number given as the contact and call. The message is relayed, someone will be here soon. The vans are parked at the edge of the lot. Tall grass sprouts from the cracks spider webbing the pavement. Shane from Cannae picks up a few cases of Lite beer and I grab a few Mickeys 40ozers. The fat green bottles clink the paper bag as I walk back to the van. The air is muggy and thick. Outkast plays in my headphones. Summer in Georgia. I sweat as the hours creep by. Road cases are laid out, and daily maintenance of instruments begins. The strings are changed, stretched and tuned up. Humidity is wreaking havok on the guitars. A rusty yellow car slowly pulls up and parks. A man dressed in faded jeans and a black shirt gets out and walks to the locked door of the club, letting himself in. A few of us walk up to the door, and follow him. Inside. Swayze’s looks like it was some sort of retail space before being converted into a live music venue. A white tile drop ceiling stretches the length of the room, with posters hanging on the left wall, advertising upcoming shows. All sorts of underground metal, hardcore, punk ,and one fucking ska band are listed on every date. There is always one checker board poster for that one fucking ska band. We make our way around the room when we come to a glass case. Photos of Patrick Swayze fill it. I look on the wall behind the case and see more of the same. A shrine. This place really IS named after the Road House Swayze. Crow looks at me and shrugs. As we start to load our cases in, a few more vans pull up. There are a more bands on the bill, apparently two tours booked on the same day. One of the bands, Kiss The Cynic, is shooting a video tonight, and asks if it is OK if they play last. They don’t want to delay the other bands sets by setting up the cameras and lights. That means the club will be packed tonight, right? We flip a coin for slots, and draw the opener. Fine by me. Sound check, and will be done first. After the long drive and this heat, first sounds appealing. We set up our gear on the foot tall stage. Will tonight be good? It has to be. As the sound engineer sets up mics, we gather at the van. The set is worked out and scribbled down on scraps of paper with a big Sharpie. Dudes are shooting a video tonight, there has to be people coming, someone says from the back of the van. We ponder the possibilities of the night. I am suspicious. Not one person has entered the club that is not in a band. We make our way back inside and DevilInside prepares for sound check.
Palm| Panama City
DevilInside tuned down turned up | The Depot | Baltimiore
Beta Bar|Tallahasee
Crow | The Orpheum | Ybor City
The only person that has arrived is the sound engineer. After running through a song, I ask the sound man when the show will be starting. He tells me in about 15 minutes. There is no one here, I reply. Why not wait a little so some people show up. I gotta keep a schedule, he tells me. I start to get nervous. There is literally not one paying customer in the club. Shit, the only person besides band members, is the fucking sound man. This is not good. I start to wonder if we will be paid. I highly doubt it. Show starts in 5 minutes, the sound man tells me. I relay the message to the other guys in the band. We gather backstage, stretching and warming up. We walk out on stage to an empty room. Feedback screams and we launch into the first song. After the first 3 songs of the set, we stop for the guitars to tune up. The sound man leaves his spot behind the sound board and creeps up to the stage, crouching as if he had just waded through a thick crowd. You got 5 more minutes, he whispers. 5 minutes? We just started. I start to laugh. This is our time you sonofabitch. What are you gonna do? He says, as he holds up 5 fingers and shrugs his shoulders. He then turns, walking back to the sound board the same way he came, avoiding the imaginary crowd in the empty room. We stand on stage looking at each other, and then at the empty room. No words are spoken, but we all know what each other is thinking. Fuck it.
Tubes | VFW | Outside Pittsburgh
Tubes rolls back the volume knob on his Gibson Les Paul and holds it in front of his amp. Crushing Mesa Boogie feedback envelops the room. Crow does the same with his guitar as the stage rumbles. We pound out the rest of the set, stopping for nothing. Fuck you and your 5 minutes. Fuck you and your club. Fuck you Swayze’s. We do not care anymore. Steve the guitarist in Canne stands on the side of the stage. Holy shit, what got into you guys, he asks as we walk off the stage. We say nothing and carry our equipment outside into the late summer air. The gear is packed up and loaded into the van as Cannae begins their set. They barrel through their pummelling melodic death metal, while there is still no one in the club, except for a few band members and the sound man. Sitting in the back of the van, I pull the green Mickeys bottle out of the cooler and crack the lid. Tubes lights a cigarette, exhaling heavily. We sit sideways in the open doors of the van, our elbows on knees, sweat dripping from our chins. Two more bands are to supposed to play tonight. The decision is made to wait it out. Maybe, our tiny gurantee will be paid tonight. The third band sets up and plays a only a few songs, finishing early. I walk back into the club. Kiss The Cynic is setting up their equipment on the floor in front of the stage. Several people bustle around them setting up lights and cameras. They are actually going to go through with it, and film a video.
Mikey Von Hell & Tres Flores| Ybor City
Crow Tomahawk Chop | Legion Hall | Peoria
Shane & Steve from Cannae| Between Washington DC & Atlanta
Mikey Von Hell & Crow | Jack Rabbits | Jacksonville
I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, and head back outside, walking across the parking lot to the van. It is too uncomfortable to watch. I take another pull off the Mickeys. Tubes finishes his cigarette, and flicks it to the ground. Fuck this shit, he says, stamping out the glowing butt as he heads back towards the club. Mikey stands up and tips his bottle back. Fuck it, I’ll check em out, he says, turning to head inside. We gather around Cannaes white van, and laugh at how bad the tour has gone. We had both slogged through smokey basements and huge outdoor festivals, different cities on different tours. More beers are pulled from coolers as the muffled roar of Kiss The Cynic echoes through the parking lot. The sweaty brown bottles are popped open with cigarette lighters and passed around. The shows so far may have been bad, but at least we had a great time hanging out in these strange places with these scum bags from Massachusetts. Scars of Tomorrow, on Victory Records was supposed to be headlining this tour, but had dropped off halfway through, playing only on the west coast dates. Cannae had powered on and met up with us in Ames, IA for a basement show at the Mediocre Supercellar. It was to be the kick off for the second leg of the tour that ran through the east coast before heading southbound. They told us they expected DevilInside to be the draw. We told them we were hoping Cannae would be, because it sure as shit wasn’t us. Two nights later both bands would sleep in the one bedroom apartment of a girl the drummer of Cannae met several hours earlier. Where did you meet her exactly? Yeeeah tha pawking lawt at Stahbuks, he exclaimed in a thick New England accent, as he gave us directions. I wonder if she knew there would be twelve stinking metal heads sprawled out on her tiny living room floor. After that night we became fast friends. Cannae was on the same Trip we were. You guys have to come inside right now, Mikey says, panting. He had just run across the parking lot, laughing hysterically. Now. He says. We all look at each other and put our bottles down, turning to head inside. Hurry, Mikey says. What the Hell is going on Mikey? We enter the club, our backs pressed against the right wall. Kiss The Cynic is pounding away to an empty room, surrounded by lights, cameras and camera operators. I have to give it to the them for playing the cards they had been dealt, and getting something, anything out of this doomed night. Patrick Swayze eyes us up as we pass by his shrine, and make our way backstage. His eyes follow you, someone says. Mikey leads us to a dark corner in the back of the venue. There are two doors. One has a metallic sign that says Manager, the other door is slightly open, light creeping out. Mikey pushes the door open. Inside, Tubes is perched on top of the toilet. He is sitting on the tank, jeans at his knees, the porcelain lid propped up on the floor in the corner. I’m gonna dry dock an upper decker, Tubes says a fiendish grin across his face.
I drained the water out of the tank, and I’m gonna take a digger in the upper deck. Fuck this place. We erupt in laughter. Get out of here, I can’t shit with you guys watching me, Tubes instructs. We all sneak back out of the club, stifling our laughter as pass Kiss The Cynic, still hammering through their set. Returning to the vans, fresh beers are lifted from the iced coolers. Tubes walks across the dark parking lot. Shitters full, he says, mimicking Randy Quaid as Cousin Eddie emptying his RVs toilet into the sewer in National Lampoons Christmas Vacation. Shitters full. Beers are hoisted to his heinous act, and we clutch our bellies as they ache from laughter. We feel like we have finally taken control of something on this rapidly spiralling downward trip. The tour is almost half way done. We no longer care what happens, and embrace the unknown road that looms ahead. The air is murky. Fog has started to creep up from the lowers of the ditches in wispy tongues along the edges of the road. Leaning my head back, I finish the beer and pitch the empty bottle into ditch next to the van. Kiss The Cynic finishes up their set. It is now eerily quiet. Deafening silence. Inside the club, lights and cameras are being broken down and put into cases. The sweaty members of Kiss The Cynic are smoking cigarettes, winding cables. We give them a nod as we pass, and they sigh heavily, shaking their heads and do the same in return. Shane comes through the door way leading to the backstage area the of venue. He doesn’t say a word, but is violently waving us over with his hands, the other hand clamped over his mouth and red face. We head for him and see the door open to the bathroom that we had just witnessed the upper decker. The sound man has his arm in the tank, dark brown water coming up past his elbow. Somethins fucked up with this here toilet, he mutters. His arm continues to stir the water. We watch with a mix of horror, repulsion, and glee. What the hell, the sound man snorts. We stand speechless, our mouths hanging open with shock. Moving his arm around in the tank, the water splashes, up onto the sound mans sweaty face. I can no longer contain it, and run outside, bursting with laughter as I go through the door. The others follow closely behind. We gather at the vans, grabbing celebratory drinks. Tubes again walks across the parking lot, this time both of his arms raised triumphantly in the air. Shitters full, he exclaims. The Shitter is FULL. Cigarettes are smoked as the vans are loaded up. Tonights drivers look over a map laid out on the hood of the van. Into the night again, with Crow at the wheel. The choked freeway is now strangely empty leading out of Atlanta. Outside the lights of the city, our caravan pulls off the tree lined highway, stopping at another campground for the night. Our destination for the night reached, a large fire is built and we gather around it, cold beers in our hands. The smells of a barbecue waft in the air. It could be a typical summer night in my backyard in Minneapolis, but we were in the middle of nowhere Georgia. We all agree on a name that we will remember for years to come. The Shitters Full Tour 2003.
HEAVY METAL VOMIT PARTY
HEAVY METAL VOMIT PARTY SHUDDER HOUSE 2013