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Show Report: Destruction

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 April 7 2009 at 08:05:50 PM



“Yes, raise your hands! And hail to our quest!” So starts the evening, another beer and Jägermeister soaked pre-show ritual, Judas Priest: Live Vengeance howling in the wings, the wife wondering aloud how she ever tolerated so much Beavis & Butthead bullshit in the first place. All the poisoning is for good reason as Krisiun and some other shit band were slated to stain the stage for a good two hours plus. Hence, more Priest, more tales of Mardi Gras front-lawn blackouts, a white-knuckled ride to the venue in the final hour.

There are actually more fucking metalheads here to see Destruction than there were Celtic Frost. I’m dumbfounded. The crowd is young, like teenage young, and Marc Schirmer wastes little time pointing this out. One song – maybe two – and the Geoffrey Rush stunt-double is hand-motioning the still-frizzy-haired Mike Sifringer to a halt: “Ha HA! This a song written before most of you born! Yes… YES! Where old bangers?! Let see OLD bangers! Yes. There some. I thank YOU for coming; we (making open armed gesture) thank YOU for coming! OK, this song off Eternal Devastation album! Aggggggggh!” Some brawno that resembles Nocturno Culto is hammering away on a big candy apple red kit that may be a Herman Rarebell hand-me-down. Everyone, especially those who weren’t alive when bullet belts and spandex could’ve insured a post-gig titfuck, has their horns in the air. Fists are pumping. Glass is breaking. People are screaming. I’m screaming. Mike’s hands are fucking flaccid; the riffs are just pouring from the Flying V’s headstock. The guy must weigh as much as a bag of onions. It’s Schenker embellishing Kill ‘em All, spreading lines out, smoothing their edges to where they’re weightless, floating motes. “Hell storms rush over the earth / Bestial Invasion!” Three guys circle the crowd’s outskirts, contorted, crabbed, crashing into invisible bodies. A Foster’s oilcan is seven fucking dollars.



Marc continues talking. Man, they must wear the same clothes every night. His studded vest must be kept in a vat of Sunkist as soon as the encore’s over. “You know matters nothing if it five or 50 or 500 here for show! You fucking awesome, YES! Fucking GRET crowd.” He thumps his chest. My head feels like it’s going to fall off. “I have BIER now!” he screams, a hand dropping from the darkness with a Corona. “Yes! Corona.” He glugs and hands it to some guy in the crowd with Testament patches all over him. They’re off into “Death Trap” and Mike’s hair is getting larger and larger. “Why are you here?! You’ve disturbed the Sabbath / You know the punishment / There’s only one solution…. DETH!” Marc’s delivery is whiny, western, he’s been sucking on a puck of Sex Wax since ’85. Sorta like, um, Paul Baloff. But when he’s shooting the shit, he’s Boris Karloff. A Newcastle Brown Ale is seven fucking dollars.

Beavis takes the camera. The batteries are dying. I’m dying. Mike’s arms are no wider than a college regulation baseball bat. Herman Rarebell is killing his kit. The cheesy backdrop skulls are undulating. I remember seeing some photos of Marc on the Destruction site. He’s got the same camo pants on in a lot of them. Motherfucker must smell like a bucket of ripened Limburger. Ah, “Invincible Force.” There’s a goth chick standing on the outside of the crowd. She looks like Tori Amos. The “slam-dancing” guys bump into her and she spits at them. I fall into this kid that must have as much body fat as an infant blue shark. He’s terrified. We shake hands. Everything’s beautiful. “Curse the Gods” can’t sound this fantastic. Guitar, bass, drums, vox: It’s all perfection; these guys have boiled this everything down to nothing. They may as well be taking a shit; it’s just that automatic. “Kurse! Tha! GaHADS! / Toomuny peeple have dide…” When “Nailed to the Cross” kicks through the amps, goth girl is singing along. Slamdancers have stopped. Everyone’s headbanging. “Nailed! Failed! Nailed! NAILED TO THA FUCKIN’ KROSSSSS!” She’s signing it as if it’s M.I.A., her head nodding slowly to a breakbeat that’s a million miles from here. Bang fuckin’ on.

[Stewart Voegtlin]


Comments (2)

  • 32 comments
    Invisible Oranges
    12:41 PM on Apr 13, 2009 // reply »
    I just saw this show in NY. Destruction deliver the goods each time. I enjoy them much more live than on record. You missed out by missing Krisiun, though!
  • 374 comments
    stew_vee
    1:09 PM on Apr 13, 2009 // reply »
    So so so much better than I thought it was going to be.

    I saw Krisiun open for Morbid Angel a few years ago... I just wanted them to be done and for Dave "Tits" Vincent to get on stage and play lots of stuff from Altars. Don't remember that much about them other than blastbeats and their accents.
 

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