“Warning, the man who wrote this report has some distant asian ancestry and believes cats and dogs belong on your plate and not walking around. Also, a cat once used his ball sack as a scratching post, anything pet related makes him go berzerk, do not take him seriously.”
Nothing makes me vomit for longer than those “cute” puppy and cat videos smeared all over the internet. So I was not looking forward to a show whose purpose is to prolong the life of said pests, it’s bad enough that people live so long.
Anyway, it took us forever to get inside because the first band turned out to be some sort of shitty cover band. We were outside intoxicating ourselves for a long time. Fine by me, when I got inside, there was only a guy playing bad covers of random shit songs in a Friday 13th mask. Yeah, I haven’t seen a million terrible grindcore bands do the same thing already.
I think there was supposed to be blood splattered on his mask, but from where I was it looked like feces, Im gonna go with feces because it strikes me as more appropriate to what I saw.
After that came “The Gravediggers”, they sucked so bad the last time I saw them that I forgot who they were and walked in there once more, expecting to see a barbershop quartet doing Gravedigger covers, do you know Gravedigger? A classic german Heavy Metal band which I deeply despise.
After “The Gravediggers” sucked for half an hour or some shit, came “The Small Hours”. No, I’m not talking about that part of your day when nothing is going on and you have nothing to do, it’s a band. Someone actually though “hey guys, how about we name our band after that time of day which is notorious for being dull and utterly boring?” Genius! I will give them some credit, the name choice goes great with how bland and unappealing the music was. The audience was loving it, I’m guessing one half was friends with the band and the other half were girlfriends of the band. The other half was outside, excellent choice which I embraced after a while.
Then came “Happy Farm” Fuck me, these guys again. Eventually someone has got to call somebody to tell them these two musicians are taking advantage of that down syndrome boy and exploiting him from profit, they don’t even pay the guy, they just open the bar and let him frolic on stage for a while.
The last band was called “Motim” they sounded like Limp Bizkit on steroids, which means a more brutish and gross version of something that was already smelly to begin with and is only going to sag and look worse with time. As is the hangover of all the drunk retards that were hopping around to that garbage.
A night wasted for the worst of reasons, I hope all those puppies and kitties die so we can make some awesome bolognese sauce.
Text by Hugh Dick