Hirax @ The BLVD
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Three days later, my arm is still sore from pumping my fist. That’s what happens in old age. Rocking out starts to hurt. But I will still hurt for the rock, for the metal. There’s no way I’ll miss Hirax play a rare local show, especially when it’s at The BLVD. That’s like Slayer playing your local dive bar.
OK, it’s not really like Slayer playing your local dive bar. But at one time Hirax and Slayer appeared in the same sentence. And now, honestly, I have more love for Hirax. Slayer has become a fact of life. It’s hard to love facts of life. They deserve respect, but they don’t need it. In any given year, the Yankees will be better than the Cubs. But you expect the deep-pocketed Yankees to do that. Cheering for the favorite isn’t as fun as cheering for the underdog.
With Hirax, that status gets complicated. In South America and Europe, they are gods. Here on a Friday night, they barely draw 50 people. No one ever accused Americans of having good taste. But the few and the proud here appreciate what they have. From start to finish, they yell out requests. They crowd the front and headbang with a fervor that spills onto the stage. Despite the crap setup – no PA, vocals barely audible – singer Katon De Pena must be amused. Instead of the usual festival setup, with elevated stage and crowd barrier, the band is mere inches above the crowd. Elbows and hair intersect freely. Katon probably hasn’t fended off stage divers in a while. Well, there isn’t really stage diving here, since there isn’t really a stage. But people run around and through the band with glee. Katon doesn’t seem to mind.
The rest of the band digs it, too. The bassist and one guitarist ham it up for me, making rock faces and holding rock faces extra-long, just so that I can get my photograph. They’re playing to a few dozen people, but they’re pulling all their arena moves. It’s crazy to hear a band this tight and powerful in such a lowly place. This is hands down the best band I’ve ever heard play at The BLVD. Maybe the Slayer comparison isn’t so off, at least for tonight. What little of a crowd there is goes ballistic. I am not a natural first pumper or head banger. But the force is electric. It compels me to react. My shoulder tries to separate itself from its socket. My head tries to follow suit with my neck. The riffs are simple and sharp. They cut with measured precision, yielding only for wah-drenched solos that feel like imminent orgasms. Hair, sweat, and beer take flight.
It all ends too soon, and Katon disappears. The punters won’t leave. They chant and whistle for more. A guitarist runs off-stage to look for Katon. He comes back, looking happy but tired and confused. Who plays an encore to a few dozen people? Katon shakes his head, calls the punters “crazy”, then launches into the encore as if it were the first song. Bliss. Pure, heavy, metallic, thrashing bliss. Involuntarily my fist clenches and shoots skyward.
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