Didn't need to be on time, musicians operate on a different clock. That statement's half-true, otherwise we'd have had to have parked on the other side of the next set of tracks.
Some also operate on a different social planet, the drummer -- a weird breed, ain't they -- of these blokes & one ladyfolk instigating the pre-show chitchat. Friendly creatures, one & all. Behold the power of Raspooty.
The Heats rolling, grr, the headliner's neighbors Lord Dying rip late through a six-song set, their Tad Doyle-esque frontman & Co. showering the sparse crowd with back-in-my-day Slaytanic riffs, audible & not just a pot of sludge & endless double bass, but marching with menace. One to keep an eye on, but dudes, how about some CDs to peddle next to the seven inches?
One confontational LeBron fan contra the entire bar. No fisticuffs were thrown, though I did see more than one chick in her summer dress with a flowery ribbon banging along with the head it rested on; a guy post-midlife crisis sporting one too many & a shirt adorned with 50s autos; a post-post-crisis greybeard who probably saw Sabbath on their first American tour & metal geeked out the whole show by pen & papering the setlist, collecting shots, & banging the head that's banged for four decades so quit the chuckles young bro 'cause that's our future, yours & mine, unless you suck; & that worn & old Ian Gillan lookalike from downtown darkthrones. All rocking. That is
Dude, too clear. Turn off the flash & let's get back to cosmic.
Heavy as a really heavy hundred tons of bricks. Look folks, everyone says our new record's our heaviest yet, so-&-such is heavier live, blah x3. It's true, oh, it's fucking true. & better. Witch Mountain does what every band should do, says they do, but never do, "stretch" & "mature" & "progress" while kicking my fucking ass even more. An inverse evening where a propulsive Nathan Carson & Neal Munson rhythm section kept executioner's time & bees, the bass stinging like a rhythmic blade that allowed the first to throw shapes & runs, Rob Wrong pulling double duty of lead & more rhythm, oft simultaneously like all the best can do, yanking Christmas how-the-fucks out of his ass. The dude can play. Uta Plotkin owns the adjectives inked her way, siren & further, sailing on with range & power that will belt your guilt, whatever it is, for nine eerie, sad, venomous, defiant minutes, six times slow.
Spinning Cauldron of the Wild on the way home, the live did indeed confirm the grooves or bits or whatever the fuck this is. What it is a fucking beautiful punch in the heart.
Witch Mountain @ Now That's Class: The Ballad of Lanky Rae, Beekeeper, Shelter, Veil of the Forgotten, Wing of the Lord, Never Know.