Crushing My Cherry: A First Timer’s Review of MDF, pt. 2

Sleep, from the last day at MDF 2013. Coincidence? (more by Fred Pessaro)

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Read part one of Scab’s “Crushing My Cherry”

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By Saturday, I feel an ache. It is dull and bothersome as it throbs from my eardrums to the balls of my feet. I’m on two consecutive days of sonic assault, 18 hours of standing at a time. The dozens of cheap beers and atomic festival food aren’t helping; the Casserole’s body has officially begun to hate him for his behavior. Finding out concretely that Carpathian Forest have bailed on tomorrow does not help. But this is my first Maryland Deathfest, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it beat me only two days in. Breakfast is an Airbourne and a Marlboro 27. Where are my boots?

Security has managed to somehow make the door process even more frustrating by no longer allowing previous wristband holders entry immediately, and I’m on two lines before being sent to the back of the Long One, but thankfully some guys immediately move in behind us, so at least we don’t have to feel like the biggest assholes in Baltimore today. We make it to the front and shuffle in just as Loss finish their set, so there’s nothing to do but post up at the bar and continue my plodding suicide. Somehow, Melody Henry looks unphased by the past 48 hours.

Weedeater are nasty growling dirtbags, and that’s just the way I like it. Soon after they’re done, Vinterland goes on behind me while I wait for the Obsessed, but sadly, Wino and Co.’s sound is spectacularly thin in this parking lot, and the whole thing sucks. Thankfully, after them is Aosoth, who just absolutely fucking destroy Baltimore’s self-esteem; that new album of theirs is pretty spectacular, and they drop some gems from it in fine form. I only catch about a minute of the Melvins to see Ihsahn, and though I’m later told that this was foolish, the Emperor frontman and his crew of theater major-looking motherfuckers give a wonderfully weird-ass performance.

Then, there’s Down; this is not only my first MDF, but my first Down show, and when the band takes the stage, I’m impressed. Immediately, everyone is wasted and having a good time, no one more so than Phil Anselmo, who decides he’s going be Groucho fucking Marx for the night. Some choice (and probably slightly paraphrased) stage banter:

“This was mathematical…geometric…SCIENCE, man, you can’t beat science.”
“I want someone to put marijuana right in the palm of my fucking hand, man.”
“Oh look, my cool shades to go with my hot bracelet.”
“The thing about this Milwaukee Deathfest—or Maryland Deathfest. Or, any deathfest…”
(coming out of a solo) “AND THE BLACK CHICKS SING—”

Don’t get me wrong—when “New Orleans Is A Dying Whore” came on, I dove into the pit and began squawking lyrics like a dumbass. The band was fun. But Phil’s ranting was truly mind-blowing, not in any embarrassing or offensive way, but definitely in a manner that left you startled by somebody’s insanity. Later in the night, I drink Jameson out of a Jim Beam bottle and discuss Jodie Foster’s The Beaver.

Sunday morning, and everything sucks. My eyes feel like they’ve been fucked by a mammal. Every time I smack my lips, I can taste a burning tire. But that’s okay—there’s Venom tonight. Sweet, old-school Venom, closing out the festival with metal that is undeniably true. Get up, Scab. Get way the fuck up.

Concert security look significantly less happy to see me than they did on Thursday, which is understandable, as none of them look like metalheads (imagine running gate security for the Gathering Of The Juggalos or Lilith Fair. It’s like that, probably, for them). Today, sleepiness and security frustration causes us to miss much of Speedwolf, but thankfully a portion of a Speedwolf show is just fine, and “Denver 666” is a sweet balm on my booze-slapped mind. I’m so inspired that I buy a vinyl copy of their latest, Ride With Death, and drop it off in my car. Then I miss Midnight and Glorior Belli looking for a clothes hanger in the area and waiting for the Pop-A-Lock guy. The day just keeps getting better.

Thankfully, Sacred Reich are stupendous, and my spirit lifts. Manilla Road is a drunken haze of weird witchy singing and hilarious pants, but I learn to love their funky vibe. And then, beautifully, thankfully, Sleep play for us. The crowd is thick, and goes deep, but thankfully so does the band’s sound. Everyone’s last stitch of weed is broken out, and the audience becomes a chill amoeba of stoned, contented metalheads bobbing their heads. Standing there, listening to “Dragonaut” and feeling my mind go rubbery, I smile and think that this has been fun, I’ve had a great time overall, and though I am slightly tenderized, I’m happy to be here.

Fuck Pentagram, I am getting a good spot for Venom and staying in it. Slowly, the crowd packs in, with the crusty dirtbag contingent, this guy included, pushing their way hard to the front. When the band shows up, they are everything I’ve ever wanted; Cronos has the armbands and two miles of forehead out. They go right into “Black Metal”. Immediately, we’re moving, raging to one Venom classic after another, and even tolerating some of the new material. The evening is primed for greatness as the band goes into “Warhead”—and then, midway through the song, the power is cut. Venom is forced to leave the stage. It appears that we’ve reached the 11:00 curfew, and the city is serious.

People are chanting for Venom, screaming in confusion. No one can quite believe this is happening. It’s pure musical blue balls. My friends and I stare at each other in utter shock. No “Witching Hour”? How is there no fucking “Witching Hour”? Some dickface stomps by talking about the hefty fine the festival oranizers would get, and I’m furious at him. Security now won’t let us out of the doors we’re being forced towards. One guy crowd-surfs to the front amidst chants of “SURF HIM OUT!” Everyone’s pissed about Venom. Kids are knocking shit over, pulling shit down. Just before I get out of line security goes barreling off as one, shoving dudes back and knocking others down. As I leave, the cops come roaring in, nightsticks out, but seem to be mostly for show. Prickly, volatile rage runs wild through the night. Everyone’s too tired to drink anyway, and we all go home.

The next morning, I say my goodbyes, gather my wet load of laundry, and pile into my car. Zipping around Baltimore, I find a beautiful sunny day with far less animosity than the previous ones; it feels as though everyone has taken the brutal dump of their lives. The Honda is soon packed with battered bodies and minds, and we cruise back to New York, where sanity hopefully awaits us.