Originally published in ‘zine issue #23, 2000
“Horrors in a Retarded Mind”
March Metal Meltdown, South Jersey Expo Center, Pennsauken, NJ
by J.R. Hayes; photos by Amanda Curtis
“Am I prepared for two full days of metal?” I must have asked myself this question at least a thousand times during the four-hour drive to Somefuckingville, NJ for the “March Metal Meltdown” 2000. We arrived in town just a CH behind schedule, promptly checking into our illustrious four-star motel (note: in “J.R. land,” any motel that has a giant neon arrow pointing to it is a four-star motel) before heading off to consume a heroic dose of glorious metal. The fact that my band was playing the first day meant that I didn’t have to pay $55 for a two-day pass. Hey, that was $55 I could blow on records as far as I was concerned. So with my spiffy new laminated pass in one hand and my trusty bottle of Percocets in the other, I took a deep breath and readied myself for two days and four stages worth of death metal armageddon.
The building in which the meltdown took place consisted of three gigantic warehouse-style rooms connected by a lobby area. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How can there be four stages if there are only three rooms?” Well, the promoters decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest to put two stages side by side in the smallest of the three rooms. Then they innocently hung a black curtain between those stages—damning evidence of a dangerously retarded mind at work. I mean, if you can’t see the other stage, then you certainly won’t be able to hear the other stage, right? Fucking morons. Needless to say, that room sounded like a space shuttle taking off for two days straight.
The lobby area was in perpetual motion. Metalheads either scrambling to catch their favorite band or searching in vain for a broom closet so they could feed semen to their cow-assed and/or pig-faced girlfriends. The biggest sucker of the weekend, though, had to be the guy that shelled out around $125 for official Slipknot coveralls, but that’s a story for another time. What do you say we talk about some bands, eh? Right on.
Day One
I had planned to catch the one-two punch of Beerzone and Fatal Aggression based solely on their so-bad-they’re-good band names, but unfortunately, while trying to sort out where to put our equipment and such, I missed out. That really sucks, ‘cause I’m sure they were both incredible (note: biting sarcasm). Things started turning sour early when we learned that Cattle Press would not be playing as originally thought. I was wicked sad, but not as sad as Rich. Rich looked like he’d just sat down for a big, juicy steak and had instead been served a stinky pile of fresh dick. He was wicked, wicked sad.

As you can imagine, my day only got better when the Bad Luck 13 Riot Extravaganza decided to start a fire and get the room in which my band was playing (the one with two stages) shut down five minutes before our set was to begin. Eventually the room’s stages resumed, and we kicked out a decent set, although I’m sure the by-now-infamous two-stage room made us sound like a Namanax cover band (note: Namanax is synonymous with shit, crap, doodoo, and so on. So basically, I’m saying we probably sounded pretty vile. If you’re unfamiliar with Namanax and are thinking about listening to them for a point of reference, don’t do it! It’s not worth it. You’ll just have to trust me on this one.). For better or worse, our job was done, and it was now time to go (ahem) “enjoy” (read: with paralyzing fear and apprehension) some metal.
Things started to look up when Spirit Caravan took the stage and rocked out like a sumbitch, achieving good sound on the stage my band played, which up to that point had seemed about as possible as Billy Milano turning down a box of Twinkies. Other than Spirit Caravan, the horrifying sound of that stage mercilessly killed off every other band I saw on it that day, including Dave Witte’s new project, Burnt By The Sun.
A little later on, I shot over to the Nightfall stage in another room to catch Impaled Nazarene, who I’d been wanting to see for a long time. They put on a good show, but the weak sound undermined their performance and I walked away feeling woefully disillusioned with the metalfest experience. Too much bass and too little guitar was the story for almost every band on this stage, which would be fine if this was “February Funk Fallout,” but it fucking wasn’t. I need crushing guitars—is that too much to ask? By the way, S.O.D. blew, in case you were wondering.

Day Two
Day two was a bit more enjoyable and eventful. A fully clothed Jasmin St. Claire, the porn star, made an appearance, charging hordes of unwitting, undersexed metal fans American fucking dollars to get their picture taken with her. As if to say, “You know, Jasmin, I like the way you fuck other guys so much that I just have to give you my money.” Many a metalhead was hoodwinked on that day, let me tell you.
Due to vehicular difficulties we didn’t arrive until about 5:00 p.m., so I ended up missing the bound-to-be-legendary Lo-Phat (note: more biting sarcasm). On a brighter note, I did manage to catch Deceased at the Relapse stage, and they totally stole the show, proving that they are, without a doubt, the most unashamedly metal band on the planet (however, King Fowley, never one to rest on his laurels, decided he needed to further reinforce that claim by getting himself thrown out of the building later that night). Deceased kicked ass and took names, and the crowd responded with a sea of devil horns and the most genuinely appreciative ovation I heard all weekend.

With my faith in metal restored, I checked out Dying Fetus on the Nightfall stage. They turned in my second-favorite set of the night, laying waste to every trendy poser in their unholy path. I don’t know if Hate Eternal was blowing the sound guy or what, but somehow they managed to achieve far and away the best sound of the weekend. They sounded incredibly fast, incredibly heavy, and incredibly extreme, the way death metal fucking should be. Finally, I stumbled towards the main stage to catch Testament, where S.O.D. had played. Much like Impaled Nazarene the night before, they performed well but were ultimately subverted by a muddy, lackluster sound.
Having just seen more metal than a goddamn scrap yard, it was time to collect the crew and drag our exhausted, war-torn carcasses back to the motel. Although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy myself a little bit, I think it’s apparent that these metalfests are organized by people with too much greed and too few brain cells. I only traveled four hours and got in for free. I can’t even imagine how ripped off I would feel if I had traveled 12 hours and paid $55 to see my favorite band sound like shit. But you know, I think that deep down we must enjoy getting tortured, insulted, and ripped off at all the same time. I mean, what other explanation could there be for Limp Bizkit selling that many albums? ■
Photos: Doro Pesch (top), Angelcorpse (smashing Christians with their “Christhammer,” center), and Deceased (bottom) playing that weekend




