Housecore Horror Fest: Blood, guts, & Gentleman Jack. Day 16.

I am not a morning person, nor are most of my counterparts. Whether they are literary journalist, photographers, promoters or musicians, our time is the night where we mingle, drink, shmooze, see shows or stay awake surrounded by cigarette butts and too much work with too short of a deadline. We see people with the normal, 9 to 5 jobs, or 6 am wakers as wild beasts; strange creatures we don’t understand and always keep a suspicious eye on.

But it seems that, somehow, when you’re on tour all rules go out the window.

Maybe it’s the bumpy road or the natural sunlight beaming through the windows–or the fact that I’m sharing a space the size of my room with 6 other dudes so sleep isn’t really an option anyway—but lately I have been waking up earlier than everyone else. Granted the times vary, maybe it’s 8am, maybe it’s 11, but it’s still a new experience.

On this particular Saturday morning we were in Austin, down the street from Emo’s a legendary venue in the city of music. It was early, around 8am, but there were already bands arriving for the Housecore Horror Fest.

Thrown by Housecore Records—which is owned by Philmo of Pantera, Superjoint Ritual and more—the Housecore Horror Fest is a four-day long music & horror film festival complete with upcoming and old movie screenings, cult movie merchandise booths and everything else you would expect. It promised the best Austin experience in horror culture & metal music, and we were ready to drink the Kool-Aid.

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The Housecore Horror Fest schedule for our day. 

We pulled into the parking lot of a complex boasting Emo’s and the venue A Band of Orcs were playing at called Antone’s, and were met by a loveable Bear of a parking attendant.

“Which band are y’all in?”

“A Band of Orcs,” replied Gronk! in a half-sleep daze.

Immediately his face lit up.

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome! I’ve been wanting to see you guys for a couple years now. Pull right on in and park anywhere.”

We pulled up right behind the venue, grabbed our passes and began unpacking the trailer to set up camp. We had several hours before the band played, so a few of us walked inside Antone’s where they were screening a new Asian horror flick called Trunk. Unfortunately, the film only had fifteen more minutes left, so I stumbled back to the trailer where another band had pulled up next to us.

“Dude,” whispered Gogog, pointing to a long, curly haired guy rocking a leather vest with no shirt. “Do you know who that is? Ari, the guy who played the child Jason in ‘Friday the 13th.’”

Sure enough, his band—named First Jason, of course—was opening at Antone’s right before A Band of Orcs. We all gave our introductions and met his roadie, Raven, and bassist, Nepharious, from the band, Macabre. They arrived just in-time for Ari to introduce the screening of Friday the 13th, playing next at Antone’s, which he did quickly before returning to our camp.

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Rad Band Van Outside of the Fest

“Who wants to get high and watch Friday the 13th?” he asked. Before anyone could respond, I passed him a freshly packed bowl of Cali bud and the session began. Three bowls, two vape pens and a conversation about their newest smoking gadgets later, they gave us cds and signed Friday the 13th posters before we floated back into the bar to watch some classic slasher movie moments.

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First Jason slashing it up

As the credits rolled past the screen, Raven and I set up our booths next to a band called The Bloody Hammers, and I checked out First Jason’s goods. Every piece of merchandise was Friday The 13th themed, from Jason-style hockey mask earrings to movie stills, posters, t-shirts and even mini, plastic machetes. Ari even played a keytar shaped like a machete, singing numbers like “Jason is Watching” and “Crystal Lake.” It was a whole new level of campy fun, excuse the pun.

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First Jason

Up until the Housecore Horror Fest, the Orcs were building larger crowds at each successive venue, but still relatively unknown. Maybe 10 people would be there to see them one day, and then 12 the next, but in general, most people had never heard of them. HHF would prove to be the tipping point.

A large crowd filled the bar in preparation for the Orcs and before they even hit the stage we had sold over $100 worth of merchandise, including a new shirt to the Bear parking attendant. Finally, we were with OUR people. The folks with a thirst for fake blood and excessive, over-the-top gore; the folks who spent their teenage years as outcasts, discussing the finer points of Dario Argento’s earliest works instead of watching the high school football game; the individuals who cast aside the latest episode of Friends for a handheld video camera so they could make their own horror film with their real-life buddies.

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Blurry Orcs from the back of my Merch Booth

They. Loved. The. Orcs.

Within the first song lead singer, Gogog, had them eating out of his warty, green hands. When he screamed, “Louder!” the audience would erupt with blood-curling shouts. A massive circle pit opened up in the middle of the bar with lost shoes flying above the crowds’ head. Because it was a festival, they only had 20 minutes to play, just enough to tease the crowd and leave them wanting more.

And want more they did.

It was the first time on tour the audience chanted for an encore and it was the entire bar screaming for more. The shouting grew so loud the sound guy cranked up the background music several times before the crowd received the hint. Over a period of a few hours, we sold more merch than the previous two nights combined. A few days later, Gronk! would receive an email from the promoter of HHF saying what an amazing band they were, how they always have a place to place in Austin, and see you next year.

Two more bands played after the Orcs and then it was time for the final music performance at Antone’s before the next movie. We had to pack up the merch tables to make way for the screening, so I did it quickly and caught 80% of death metal power trio, Hate/Eternal’s, set.

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Hate Eternal

Holy Metal Up the ASS!

Blistering solos, grinding distortion and chest pounding double-bass kicks with snare blast beats filled the air with such immense power I had to double-take and make sure it was only three people. I’ll shamefully admit I never listened to them before then, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t make a new fan out of me. Hate/Eternal, check ‘em out if you haven’t, just make sure you have a bucket to collect your brains after they melt out your ears from so much awesomeness.

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Hate Eternal

With the rest of the day off, we explored the expo and unwound from the previous couple of days. Of course, when you’re living this life, time to unwind means drinkin’, and drink we did. The artists’ lounge was fully stocked with various kinds of beer, Gentleman Jack Daniels and bottles of Grey Goose vodka along with BBQ and tacos. We waited for everyone else to get their food and clear out, before Hulg swiped a bottle of vodka and Jess & I split the whiskey.

Next door, Emo’s was open for business and we spent the rest of the day partying it up with the bands on the Madness At the Core of Time Tour and taking shots with Carlee & Wyatt (Iron Reagan’s & Whitechapel’s merch managers, respectively); watching the music from the front row & photo pit, along with another epic performance by Goatwhore. Their band had parked next to the Orc RV after First Jason left, so we were all able to hang out and talk throughout the day. Sammy, the guitar player, and I bonded over my “Follow Your Leader” backpatch with the picture of Hitler committing suicide while I subdued my fanboy status.

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Iron Reagan

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But the real treat for the night was a special appearance by the one and only stoner/psych/sludge band, the Melvins. Heroes to the underground, the Melvins influenced everyone from Nirvana to Tool, Boris and Mastodon. With 2013 marking their 30th year as a band, guitarist King Buzzo and drummer Dale Crover have reuinited with original drummer Mike Dillard, with Crover switching over to bass.

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Goatwore

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Louis Benjamin Falgoust II of Goatwhore

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Zack Simmons of Goatwhore

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Guitarist Sammy Duet of Goatwhore

Since Jesse and I were on one tearing it up, we used our all-access powers to sneak on stage for the full Melvins set, standing only feet away from Buzzo’s giant, white fro. We smoked a bowl beforehand, and let the stoner-sludge fest commence. Everything became a beautiful blur of reds, blues, pinks and greens from the lights above as the sweet stoner riffs swirled in the air like a fresh rip from a clean bong. The venue was packed and we had the keys to the kingdom.

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The Melvins from behind bathing in blue

Throughout the night’s performances Emo’s was our homebase  and we all took the liberty of using it as such. The real parties were happening outside the club, with the various bands smoking, drinking, getting high and hitting on all the females in the parking lot. At one point I passed by Gogog and Hulg doing a radio interview and threw in my two cents when they waved for me to join them. I don’t remember what I said (you can find the radio interview on A Band of Orcs’ facebook page), but I do remember seeing a devil on stilts and fire breathers.

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What’s a Metal Fest without Satan?

Sometime in the past couple of weeks, Jesse had the ingenious idea to have his picture taken by the various famous musicians we’ve played with. Yes, you read that right. He doesn’t take a picture with the person, but instead has them take his photo. You can see all the pics of Jesse on Instagram and Twitter under the #Iaskfamouspeopletotakemypicture hashtag, including the one he got from the man himself, Phil Anselmo. Phil was so wasted he needed two handlers to help him navigate through the hordes of fans asking for his autograph and initially denied Jesse a picture until he realized he wouldn’t actually be in it.

Finally, Gwar walked onto the stage to finish the night. By then, I my whiskey limit had reached its peak so Jesse & I tried hanging out backstage where we could sit and chill, but the production manager said it was closed and kicked us out, right back onto the stage. How the hell we were allowed to hang out ON the stage with Gwar instead of BACKSTAGE where were out of the way, I’ll never know.

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Gwar’s Beefcake beefing out. 

After standing next to Beefcake for part of Gwar’s set, my exhaustion took the best of me, so I swaggered back to the empty RV and passed out. It was an epic hangover the next morning, and I regret nothing.

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After a night of metal, I finally found Jesus. 

Festivals for Days: Part 1- South By So What? Day 15

Gronk! woke me around 7am, saying he already checked in with the venue and we would need to dump the merch soon. I opened my eyes in a daze and looked outside the window. We were parked in the middle of a muddy field with nothing but open sky and one or two buildings peppered throughout the grassy knolls.

“I know we’re in Ft. Worth, but where are we?” I asked, trying to remember just what-in-the-hell we were doing that day.

“Some baseball field,” he replied. “It’s ‘South By So What?’ today, so it’s going to be a long day.”

Indeed.

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South By So What? is the metal answer to the infamous South By Southwest festival. But instead of being a week-long festival that takes place in downtown Austin like its namesake, SBS? Is a weekend at a minor league baseball stadium seating several thousand people. It was by far the largest venue A Band of Orcs have played along with several of the other bands.

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a shot of stage 1

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Between the stages

Since no one was awake yet, Gronk! and I decided to walk around and check out the digs. On the playing field there were two large stages and a third, smaller stage, on the side. Band members from Story of the Year, Hawthorne Heights, Revocation, Battlecross and more were all walking around with the same idea, drinking coffee, smoking the morning cigarette and trying to avoid the mud.

I started this tour listening to the latest Goatwhore album, Blood for the Master but every time they play Santa Cruz, I seem to be out of town and always kick myself for it. I didn’t know they were playing SBS?, so my metaphorical music nerd boner was probably showing when I heard, “Hey man, I’m Ben” and turned around to see the lead singer.

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Louis Benjamin Falgoust II

The morning progressed as more and more bands began piling in. Gronk!, Oog and I grabbed the merch and found our table nestled next to Battlecross’. The festival’s merch manager was a short, bubbly, early 20-something named Shelby, who could talk a mile a minute and reminded me of any character Parker Posey has played. Within the first ten minutes I already knew about her three jobs, where she’s lived and why she’s a horrible Texan (she hates barbeque and has never rode a horse, in case you’re wondering).

Here’s the deal for those of you who have never worked in a venue. Just like in Vegas, the house always takes a little something. Bands usually receive a guarantee from the venue (or a portion of the ticket sales) and always have to give a cut of their merchandise to the club. Normally, it’s 15-20% and only on “soft” merch (t-shirts), but every once in a while, the house might go all in and ask for a cut of everything. Luckily, we had Shelby.

“So, do you have a lot of non-shirt merch? ‘Cause if you do, tell me and I won’t count it or take a cut.”

Of course my answer was, “We have tons, almost too much,” and that was that.

All-day festivals are too goddamn long to work, but fun as hell. Along with all of the various bands’ merch, there were you usual festival booths selling jewelry, glass pipes, and a wide variety of different t-shirts.

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By far my favorite shirt and the newest in my wardrobe

As the hours progressed, we all began wondering where the audience was. Half way through the day, there was only about a thousand people watching the various stages, leaving the stadium with a very empty look. Turns out Korn and Five Finger Death Punch were playing a sold-out stadium show RIGHT NEXT DOOR to us, draining much of the SBS? crowd. The bass player for Five Finger Death Punch, Chris Kael, was at SBS? earlier in the day, telling people he “felt sorry” for us because of the diminished crowd.

Screw that.

I feel bad for whoever went to the other show because those bands suck and we had metal legends.

With our all-access passes I was able to get pics and video of A Band of Orcs, Iron Reagan, Whitechapel, Goatwhore AND San Francisco Bay Area thrash metal legends, Death Angel, all from the photo pit.

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the sensual Iron Reagan

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A Band of Orcs with Yard Bone

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Ben & Sammy of Goatwhore

Dave Brockie (lead singer for GWAR) and I even rocked out together for Goatwhore by sitting behind the baracade, right in front of the speakers so we could literally feel the intensity.

“Fuckin’ amazing sound!” he screamed giving me a fist bump.

By nightfall it was time for dinner, and hospitality had barbeque catering with some cornbread, salad and mashed potatoes for us wimpy vegetarians, all lined-up in the stadium’s penthouse skybox. Gogog and I made our way up to the box where Hulg, Cretos and Jesse already were. After some food and a few glasses of real, Southern sweet tea, we walked onto the balcony and smoked some Cali green as 3 Inches of Blood belted out their high-pitched power metal.

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Death Angel

Even though the first day of SBS? was a bust for the promoter, it turned out to be basically a giant metal music picnic for the bands; providing us with a chance to see some awesome music, rub elbows with other musicians and have a semi-relaxing day. Which was needed, because the next day would be the Housecore Horror Festival and we had no idea how crazy of a shit-show that was going to be.

Another Day Off & Houston: Party in the Parking Lots. Days 13-14

I don’t remember much of the night drive out of Albuquerque, probably because I was asleep for most of it. I’m actually getting a surprising amount of sleep this time around, followed by spurts of 2-3 days of 3 hours or less. Not bad, but a writer shouldn’t have “sleep” in his vocabulary.

At some point in the early morning we hit a gas station, which brought me wide awake and ready to take on the navigator role. We drove throughout the day, taking our time and enjoying the Texan scenery and local life at each gas and food stop.

One of the things I loved about Texas the last time around is everything is exactly how you’d expect it to be. A gas station isn’t just a convenience store but a full on Cowboy blow-out complete with Texan flags, cowboy hats, belts, steer horns and even stuffed armadillos. It’s a smorgasbord for any collector of useless oddities that would rather have people turn a questioning eye of strange fear than impress them.

And then, out of nowhere, the Golden Check and crossed palm trees of In-N-Out. Yes, that’s right, Texas now has In-N-Out and it was ass-spankin’ new. Of course, being true-blood Cali-for-ny-ayans, we had to stop. It was almost like being back home, and for a moment we were standing inside any other In-N-Out, until the stares and several of the other patrons began talking loudly about their particular Christian denominations.

After several more stops along the way, we finally pulled over in a Home Depot parking lot and set up camp. Peanut butter & jelly sandwiches were made, lawn chairs were opened, beer was consumed and we all blew off some steam. Thankfully, the digital age had our backs and we were able to play some tunes and pull up our favorite YouTube videos to share with the rest of the guys.

Day turned into night and band members began crashing out one at a time until it was just Jesse, Hulg and myself, eating Nutella with Wheat Thins (surprisingly good).  We only moved once when the lawn sprinklers started and nailed us somewhere around 2am.

Hulg and I got on a rant about old times in high school with old friends and continued on it until we realized Jesse had disappeared. We found him fully clothed, face-down on the sofa– probably passed out for quite some time–and decided it was time to pack it up and retire for the night.

We hit the road early in order to make it to Houston with enough time for stops along the way. The most important was Guitar Center, as a couple of the guys needed to restock on supplies. So we found one, and as they were shopping, the rest of us were in the parking lot, tailgating it up once more. Texas is vast & sunny, the perfect place to work on that tailgate tan and bask I did.

The Warehouse Live in Houston is a happenin’ spot. Located outside of downtown in the industrial area, it’s surrounded by freeways, bars and possibly project housing. Normally a pretty sketchy area, but perfect for a venue, giving everyone a little more freedom to loosen up.

We parked near the rest of the bands and got out to stretch, explore and scavenge for the day’s coffee and donuts. The Warehouse Live had the coffee, but not the food. C’est la vie.

However, they weren’t lying about the venue. It’s a giant warehouse with a separate, side stage, and two bars along the perimeter. And that’s it. No lobby. No ticket booth. No real anything. Where else in America are you going to find THAT kind of honest advertising?

Once I was set up and had some time to kill, I walked next door to Lucky’s pub where a. . .uh, buxom. .. .blonde with a beautiful peacock sleeve tattoo served me a Jameson & Coke and we talked about local artists. Everyone needs 5 minutes of “me” time, and I took 10.

Holy Hell. Houston, you are something else.  There was already a good sized crowd to see A Band of Orcs, and people kept piling in even up until Gwar played. Just a bunch of drunk Texans, hanging out in a Warehouse on a warm Autumn night with nothing to do but fuck shit up. God Bless America.

And drunk they were. Texans know how to party and the place was filled with every type of personality you could imagine, there was even a late 30, early 40 something year old in a business suit, hanging out in the back near my booth.

Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the rowdy, take-no-shit attitude of Texas, or maybe it was just the booze combined with all of it, but HOT DAMN Texans are some cheeky people. I witnessed all sorts of sexual passes, making out, people getting hit on, and I was even groped several times while just trying to do my job.

Iron Reagan had several friends at the show (Brian, the Mammoth Grinder drummer was one of them) and they decided to film some scripted footage to use later on in a music video. They asked me to stop people from walking past the merch table, so they could get a shot of them flipping it over.

Easy, right?

Not in Texas.

As soon as I stopped the first person, she thought I was trying to flirt with her and began rubbing up on me. Her friend then began pinching my ass and I felt like a goddamned diner waitress named Martha, working some late-night shift in 1950.

“Goddamn it! Stop, just stand still for two minutes, we’re trying to do a shoot here!” I screamed.

“Look boy,” said the first girl, shoving her cleavage in my face. “Either you want it or you don’t.”

“I’ll pass, just don’t walk in front of the camera. This isn’t Girls Gone Wild.” I responded with piss & vinegar in my voice.

Now, some of you—who know me all too well—probably read that and thought, “Bullshit. Mat telling drunk girls to stop sexualizing him.” I know, it sounds crazy. After all, 2013, right? But I’m not in the business of selling Wolf tickets, just the honest truth, no matter how wretched or weird. Besides, I have a too-damn-cute woman (hopefully) waiting for me back home, near my beloved Pacific Ocean.

Even though it was only 4 days ago, so much has happened since that nothing else about Houston stands out in my mind, except for Wookie.

“So,” Jesse said, turning to me at the end of the night. “ The guy who taught Lexi [his girlfriend, a total sweetheart and amazing artist]I how to tattoo is here tonight. Want to meet him? His name is Wookie.”

Instantly my ears were on fire. Anyone who is involved in the tattoo world knows the name Wookie. He has some of the most detailed work in the business and was a helluva nice guy. His girlfriend, Sabrina, was also incredibly pleasant and seemed just as creative with her wild attire, piercings, and colored dreadlocks to match his long, dark ones.

The four of us sat for a few minutes, talking about tattoos, the show, the road, and everything in-between. After I was able to get a picture with them, I said my good-byes and finished packing the merch so we could hit the curving black snake of a highway once more.

I left the venue that night with a sense of elation mixed with horrible physical exhaustion. Ready to take on the rest of the tour, but wondering if my body would be able to.

Rules of the Road

1. Shit happens. Do whatever it takes to get the job done.

2. Always carry a spare tire.

3. Fights will happen but remember why you are here and how luck you have it. You could be working behind a desk under soul-sucking fluorescent lights.

4. When fighting, don’t make it personal unless the greater cause is at stake and the fuck-up needs to be put in his/her place. Other than that, refer to #3.

5. Always carry a spare gas can for good luck. If you have it, you won’t need it and if you leave it, you’ll be stranded.

6. GPS lies. Pay attention to signs, intuition and if in a jam, you can always ask a local.

7. Play more Tetris, it will help when loading/unloading all the gear, merch and half dozen guitars you just HAVE to bring along.

8. 10 minutes of space away from everyone else will spare you 10 fights down the line.

9. Eat whenever possible because you never know where your next meal will come from or when it will be.

10. Don’t forget to bring a towel.

11. Always search your hotel room. Apparently Sting’s bus driver stashes his drugs in the different hotels he knows he’ll be returning to while on the road. According to reliable sources, it’s not just him.

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Hail, Hail Portlandia!

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Nestled at the confluence of the Columbia and Willamette rivers, lays the 162-year-old city of Portland, Oregon. Originally inhabited by the Multnomah Indians, the environment provided plenty of fishing, edible plants and berries, and even hunting in the nearby Tualatin Plains, for the local population.

As it usually happens, the natives were driven away by the onset of white pioneers from the Midwest. By 1843, a Tennessean named William Overton had arrived in the area and saw great business potential for the land. White people always seem to look at nature and see “potential” instead of the importance it already possesses. Go figure.

So Overton buys the land for with a business partner, then sells his shares in 1845 for $50 to one Francis W. Pettygrove of Portland, Maine, who had recently moved to Oregon to open a general store. Overton then skips out of state for various parts of his life, ending up in Texas to take care of his sick mother, where he we was rumored to have been hanged.

Pettygrove and Overton’s business associate, Asa Lovejoy, couldn’t agree on what to name the new territory, each wanting to pay homage to their hometowns. As with all brilliant moments in history, the decision was settled by a coin toss. Three years later Pettygrove was one of the richest men in the Oregon Territory.

I don’t think either man ever could have imagined Portland turning into the environmentally friendly, progressive, hipster and delinquent haven it is in 2013. But! I already talked about that in my last post, so onward and upward we go.

The Orcs’ usual load-in time has be 2:30, so we rested for a few hours, eating the catered breakfast provided by the Roseland Theater and Voodoo Donuts. Which, by the way, are as amazing as everyone says. Between the Froot Loop topped donuts, the caramel and Oreo cookie ones and the cock ‘n balls donut (give you a wild guess what it’s shaped like), there’s a cream-filled treat for everyone in the family. Oh yeah, I went there. Rumor has it Voodoo also supplied the cream-filled, chocolate, weed cupcakes at the end of the night, but that is neither here nor there and I’ll get into that later. There was also a cake.

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The Roseland Theater itself is a premiere venue for years with a capacity of 1410. Much like the Filmore, its walls are adorned with pictures of a smorgasbord of artists who have played the stage from Frank Zappa to Prince and, of course, GWAR. They have a built-in restaurant where they fed us menu courses like bacon mac ‘n cheese, burgers and mile-high sandwiches. The cheese tortellini with mushroom cream sauce was definitely the best food I’ve had on tour so far. It was even better scarfing it down at the merch table 10 minutes before doors opened.

With a presale of 950 tickets and an eventual 1243 total, the Portland audience was ready for a legendary concert and the bands did not disappoint.

A Band of Orcs shuffled out and blew through their set with an energy that riled up the newly arrived crowd. Immediately when they began the set, a circle pit opened up and kids began thrashing about with an intensity that didn’t break until the Orcs were done.

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There are three times when the merch booth is busy, the beginning of the night, after the band plays, and the end of the show. Once the Orcs were finished I was swarmed by Portlandians asking about the band, all holding crumpled bills ready for whatever merchandise they could afford. Here’s a typical conversation:

Customer: So where are they from?

Me: Herntoadia.

Customer: Ha ha, no, really?

Me: Really. Looks like you could use a shirt.

Customer: Naw, I’m just thinking about a sticker. Well, how long does it take them to put all that stuff on?

Me: What stuff? Dude, a shirt last so much longer and you can’t wear a sticker.

Customer: You know, the masks and stuff?

Me: What masks? You sure you don’t want a shirt?

Customer: Ha, uh. . .*realizes he has been defeated* yeah, give me a large.

Eazy peezy fresh ‘n squeezy.

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After Iron Reagan and Whitechapel brought the crowd to a whole new level of chaos, it was almost time for GWAR. I was sitting behind the merch table when Jesse walked up to me with a professional-looking, chocolate cupcake in each hand.

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“Here,” he said with a suspicious grin, “It’s a special cupcake from Oderus (GWAR lead singer).” Not thinking twice, I unpealed the foil from the stump and bit in.

“Oh shit, they really are special.” I replied tasting that familiar spice of THC. And special they were, within the hour Jesse, Oog, Gogog and myself were watching the spectacular show of lights, blood, crass humor and ridiculously offensive alien costumes on stage; laughing our asses off at the blood-soaked crowd slipping on the floor and making fun of/with the fans in a good-humored way.

Portland is an old GWAR town, and I had a dozen or so people tell me it was their 13th, 16th, or even 20th show. By the third song bodies, legs and shoes were flying through the air, surfing on whatever hands they could find, trying to find the best way in front of the blood cannon on stage.

GWAR held no punches. I know I’ve only been on the road for less than a week but it was easily the most blood I’ve seen them spray on an audience yet. Pools filled the floor afterward and there wasn’t a single white spot of clothing in the building. The band played an extra-long set, bringing out every character they had on the road, giving Portland what it deserved.

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It was a helluva night that ended with the usual quick load-out back to the RV. When we hit the road the cupcake had been working for several hours and it was time to pay homage to the Land of Nod as we coasted down the blacktop back towards our native California.