Originally published in ‘zine issue #33, 2005
Maryland Deathfest 2005
House of Rock, White Marsh, MD
by Lenny Likas
I’ve been attending Maryland’s international death metal extravaganza ever since its earliest incarnation of evil. Each year, I call my asshole friends to see who’s going. This year, no one. Typical. So with only myself to abuse, I launched my gas-guzzling hotrod in a tire-frying haze north to the new venue of this year’s fest, the House of Rock in White Marsh, Maryland. Not sure what to expect of the location, but not wanting to be too disappointed, I had loaded down my vehicle with a cooler of microbrews and several tweeds of modest girth.
After a brief bout of directional confusion, I finally rolled past the club to witness a horde of enemy policemen prowling around like angry ants. It was like a scene from Waco. Actually, it wasn’t as bad as that sounds. But the heat was definitely on, so I concealed my stash of spliffs and slipped in through the backside. Found a parking space in the middle of a swamp, then strutted toward the front door. I was surprised to see no meathead fuckface collecting money or checking IDs, so without further ado I walked right in and enjoyed a night of free mediocre deathgrind. Hells yeah!
I got there right after locals Pig Destroyer had played. I deduced this upon seeing grind impresario Scott Hull receiving congratulations in a puddle of his own sweat. First stop: the vendors’ hive, where anonymous scenesters grovel and the robber barons lick their blood-stained lips at the sight of an open wallet. Yes, there was alot of money to be spent here, let me tell you. I chatted it up with some cronies; some merch table folks asked me who I was because they thought they recognized me. I told them I had no idea what they were talking about. But I did buy an old Hiatus LP from the guy from Hater Of God Records. I talked to Craig Pillard, ex-Incantation. He’s got a really slow new group called Methadrone and they’re releasing an exotic DVD with Swans covers or something. I talked to my my friend EricT from Torture Garden Picture Company who had set up shop on the down low. I think he said he was doing a tribute that covers the entire Scum album. Cool stuff. Finally I headed back inside.
It was late in the day and I could see that already many of the attendees were hurting, sick, and drunk. There was puke, trash, and blood everywhere. In the distance, probably on the stage, Aborted was playing and they had the clicky digital death sound down to a T. I think I remember yawning a few times. At another point during the fest I remember standing near the pit and seeing people slipping and falling on spilled beer and broken bottles. Then I saw a few people helping out the staff by crouching down and scooping up shards of glass.
The next band I remember was Gronibard from France, and I liked their style: a bunch of skinny French dudes wearing women’s undergarments and playing completely unexceptional grind. The dutiful bouncers became confused when fans started jumping up to freak the fanciful Frenchmen. Unsure of exactly whom to throw around, the fat help just stood centerstage appearing dumbfounded as more and more Francophiles jumped up to dance like fops before tripping over PA monitors and crashing back into the crowd. Yes, a gay time was had by all.
Then the moment I had been waiting for—San Francisco’s godless Abscess polluted the stage. According to the band, this was their first show outside of California since the band’s inception over 11 years ago. I was beyond stoked! And when they opened with a personal favorite, “Speed Freak,” a hallucinative coma of feces, vomit, and dirty hypodermic needles descended over the crowd. The ripping d-beat action was kicking my ass, but when I looked around to see who else was thrashing I was surprised to see the rest of the crowd in an apparent daze. The band dropped into some really heavy psychedelic grooves, and guitarist Danny Coralles erupted into his trademark solos like a terminal psychotic.
Next up was Regurgitate from Sweden, who seemed way professional. Their set was really blasting, controlled, and abrasive. I was impressed with their tightness and competent grasp of textbook grindcore rudiments and song structures, which they used extensively to pulpify and scour the now re-energized crowd. Before Cryptopsy, boasting the return of original vocalist Lord Worm, could even mount the stage, I ducked out to blaze one and the rest is already a forgotten memory.
Day Two was much better, even though I had to pay to get in this time. Knowing what to expect after the first day, I sparked my doobie early into my last-chance power drive and had it in tweezers by the time I rolled into the parking lot. Fewer pigs today, I noted with a mischievous grin. At the entrance, some neo-crustbags loitered and I asked who was playing. “Rotten Sound is about to go on,” came the reply, so I hastily parked my wheels, pounded a few ice cold brewskies, and headed inside for what would be a real blast. I had seen Rotten Sound a few times before, but this day they were on fire like a fully loaded B-52 crashing on takeoff. I have to say it: their drummer plays at the absolute extremes of human possibility. His mastery and endurance seemed unattainable except by only the top one percent of practice-obsessed drum nerds. Awesome set.
Then came my fun-loving favorites, Birdflesh from Sweden. If you haven’t heard this trio, they play super-catchy grind with super-moshy breakdowns and have a completely absurd persona. The guitarist/vocalist was dressed like a mentally challenged ‘80s amateur wrestler, and the bassist wore a woman’s house dress and a long-haired skeleton mask. They bounced around the stage through one grinding anthem after another, much to the delight of the crowd. I noticed there were a lot more punkers inside for these guys.
The real highlight of the night, though, was General Surgery, also from Sweden, who were fucking beyond deadly. They raged through their set of old-school Carcass tributes with mountains of energy and enthusiasm. I was completely slayed. The band, draped in bloodstained dentist’s frocks, butcher’s aprons, and black ties, drew a huge response from the crowd at every pause. My fingertips began to feel sliced and bloody just watching the relentless six-stringed carnage. Savageness!
The end of the night would see legends Immolation take the stage, a band who never fail to impress me with their signature dark and twisted riffage. They played a bunch of really catchy songs from the new album, Harnessing Ruin, which, if you haven’t heard it, is really quite good. Excellent, intelligent lyrics, too, with bassist/vocalist Ross Dolan’s voice sounding as fucking heavy as ever. But I wondered at what hellish fate might have befallen longtime drummer Alex Hernandez, notably absent. The new basher was good, but Hernandez was really great, especially on that Disassociate album.
All in all, a solid rockin’ time and I look forward to increasing variety and more international acts for fests to come.
Find info on next year’s fest at www.marylanddeathfest.com. ■
