Global Domination | Witnessed | Masters Of Metal, 2008-08-09

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Witnessed

Masters Of Metal, 2008-08-09

28/08/08 || Daemonomania

Where: Holmdel, New Freakin Jersey.
When: August 9, ‘08.
Venue: PNC Banks Art Center.
Why: Nostalgia and mutual masturbation.
Country: America, FUCK YEAH.

Intro: Testament. Motörhead. Heaven and Hell. Judas Priest. Well, two out of four ain’t bad. The so-called Metal Masters tour has been busy causing mullets to grow, disappointing New Zealand, and sodomizing dudes for a while now. At last, it dropped down into a shithole know as Holmdel, New Jersey. That’s close enough for me to make the trek, so trek I did. It was me, my big hairy metalhead homeboy, my fiancée, her cougar friend, and eventually the hairy metal dude’s ex-girlfriend. Now you have the who, what, where, when and why. Are you ready for a clichéd drunken metal experience review? You look ready, ballbag.

Chick'n'ass

After enjoying some brews in beautiful Hoboken, NJ, we piled into the car and prepared to tailgate. You have to understand how high expectations were. For starters, my buddy wanted to bag the cougar. And the cougar was mildly interested in sinking her claws into his fuzzy flesh. But the imminent arrival of the clingy ex-girlfriend was destined to cause ruination. Being practically hitched already, I was just interested in getting second-hand thrills from seeing Halford’s pelvis gyrate on the jumbo screen. As we made our way down the Jersey turnpike, you could cut the air with a knife. Given the amount of pollutants in the dirty Jerz, you’d probably need a samurai sword.

How do you know you’ve arrived at a metal concert in New Jersey, or anywhere else in the world for that matter? When you start driving past hundreds of dopey, white, black t-shirted individuals like ourselves stumbling toward a parking lot. And what a parking lot it was. Beer bellies were exposed to the evening sun. The sweet scent of weed hung in scattered clouds over the proceedings (especially above our car). Baltimore’s finest beer, Natural Bohemian, flowed like sweet spring water. I peed on my shoes a bit in the woods. Top notch all the way ‘round.

Testament: As the setting sun thoroughly cooked my flesh, the distant sounds of Testament reminded me that the concert had begun. Praise the dark lord I’d only paid a small amount for lawn seats, otherwise there’d be a sense of obligation to see those third rate thrashers. I won’t give them a score, since I didn’t bother watching them play. Had I been promised some material off “Demonic,” maybe I would have made the effort.

Motörhead: We pounded our last cans of Naddy Bo and hit the trail. Literally. There was a fucking epic hike to the venue itself. I swear I saw discarded canteens, rifles, and dead WWI soldiers by the side of the road. Having avoided exercise for many months, the walk seemed even more painful than it should have been. At last, we crested the hill only to hear that the mighty Motörhead was already a few songs deep into their set. From a great distance, they sounded like shit. And once we got in the venue, a huge round rim carved into the earth, they continued to sound like shit. Too bad, because we all know Lemmy and Co. are fucking awesome, but they didn’t even get the big-screen treatment for us poor folks in the back. Still, it was good to hear “Overkill” and a few more classics before the living legends said goodnight. Fire the road crew, guys. 4 out of 10.

We kept ourselves amused between sets by laughing at the dregs of humanity that make up a New Jersey concert audience, at least one of whom is hopefully pictured here. By the way, my fiancée wants credit for these pictures – she goes by the handle Skullmeat Angel. Disgusting, I know. Apologies for the lack of band shots, but a shitty camera coupled with cheap seats makes the possibility of Dio crotch shots impossible.

Heaven and Hell: Soon the sun had set, darkness prevailed, and it was time for Heaven and Hell. I’ve never been a Dio fan, and the evening’s performance did little to change that. If I want to see a little guy in tight pants belt our worn and tired metal vocals, I’ll see Mr. Danzig thank you very much. But the band ruled, and Mr. Iommi just laid it down song after song after song. The whole audience was chanting, lice-filled hair was spinning around, and EIGHT FUCKING DOLLAR MGD bottles were downed. Lots of people put weak Bic lighters in the air for “Children of the sea” and something about a Southern cross. 6.5 out of 10, but if you like off-key vocals you could easily have given them the full 10.

During all of this, Mr. Hairshirt was doing his best to anger his clingy ex-girlfriend by chain smoking and wandering close to the cougar’s den to rock out. However, the ex persevered, and it was like watching a ninja movie where the hero has to fight two equally skilled combatants at the same time. Rough, but he handled it well.

Mr. Hairshirt?

Judas Priest: All that aside, it was time for the main event. Judas to the Priest. Kick to the Ass. Rock unto the Roll. Needless to say the Priest destroyed. Unlike Dio’s dying pipes, Rob Halford can sing like a motherfucker. He ran around the stage, did some sort of jazzercise/headbanging with the band, waved a big red flag, and sat on a chromed-out motorcycle. Speaking of stage props they also had a great image of evil Nostradamus in the background ready to predict the evil future. The song “Prophecy” off the new one was quite good, but from all the flak the album has been taking around here I assume that it ain’t indicative of the rest of the disc. Besides the new shit, the Priest trotted out all the hits, including “Breaking the law,” “You’ve got another thing coming,” and a classic I had never heard (SHAME) known as fucking “Painkiller.” Man, this song shreds and was performed to perfection live.

Halford had the whole audience following along for a continuous series of nonsensical “yeahs” and “whoas” that must have lasted for five minutes. Other than that, he filled the haters and doubters with dread and terror. By the way, if something is bad in the metal world it is typically insulted as being “gay,” yet gay Rob Halford is perhaps the best old-school traditional metal vocalist around. It may be time to review our insults, people. And speaking of gay, the only song they played off of my fave “Angel of retribution” was the power ballad “Angel,” which had me singing along like a fruity fruitcake throughout. 9 out of 10.

Pizza: Judas Priest called it a night, and amidst the stumbling Jerseyites and obnoxious police we made it back to the heavy metal parking lot. After finding some late night parking back in Hoboken, we ordered a large fresh pizza and enjoyed the shit out of it. My tastebuds were singed right off. Besides “Painkiller,” I’d say that pizza was the highlight of the evening. 10 out of 10 for you my cheesy friend.

Nostradildo: A late night discussion session produced the excellent idea for a Nostradildo, which would be shaped like the standard issue at the insertion end but have an evil bearded face with glowing red eyes on the top. Nostradildo would predict things like, “you’re going to have an awesome assgasm!” or, “in a great city of steel and glass, a filthy squirting session is imminent!”.

So there you go. The concert was entertaining, the Priest is amazing, Jersey is dirty, and pizza is good. That’s 1 thing out of 4 you didn’t know already.

Witnessed