The cowering inferno

On second thought, I'm going to put off any movie reviewing until the next post. Last weekend was insane. Demon alcohol, slush storms, sloppy gore, surprise guests, eggs with fruit in 'em, you name it. Some triumphs:

-My buddy Corinne introduced me to a fantastic wine on Friday. I don't remember what vineyard put the stuff in the bottle, but by the time we finished it, my brain maintained that it was from Argentina and of the malbec variety. It's dark red, not as heavy or dry as that might imply, and the aftertaste has a lot of little subflavors. Like my precise description, oenophiles? What the fuck do I know about wine? This one was very delicious, and it made sitting through a terrible movie much easier. I'm going to get at more of that malbec soon.

-Saturday afternoon, I joined an impressive throng of about 3,000 men, women and children at the Fangoria Weekend of Horrors. I had to park in a skeezy lot across the street because the hotel lot was full. It took forever to get in - by the time I did, they had sold out of auditorium seating, so I couldn't go in to watch the talks by personal hero Lloyd Kaufman or unadvertised guest Gary Sherman (director of cult favorites "Raw Meat" and "Dead & Buried"). It was $5 cheaper to get in because of this, and I could still do all the vendor-browsing, people-watching and Troma-worshipping I wanted. Before I was even in the door, I'd already seen Lloyd give a genial brush-off to David "The Rock" Nelson, so the wait didn't bother me too much. Once I got inside, Lloyd signed my copy of his excellent first book, exhorted me to praise it on Amazon and posed for a photo before handing me off to a sexy Tromette. He looked tired, but he's as "regular guy" as his image suggests. I bought a bunch of movies, some presents for the birthday kids I was about to visit and several beers. I killed some time by watching another lousy movie. My buddy Jorge took my picture with a couple of the Living Dead Girlz. Dee Snider smacked my shoulder in manly comraderie. It was cool.

-The drive from the hotel in Rosemont to the Hala Kahiki took half an hour, a trip that would have taken about ten minutes had the sky not been crapping freezing rain and slush. You couldn't see the lanes, cars were spun out on Mannheim Road, it was nuts. But I made it to the first celebration of the evening, delivered a pittance of a birthday present to my buddy Amy and tucked into a zombie, glad to be out of the muck. It was only then that I was warned of the impending presence of someone I have done my goddamnedest to avoid for the better part of two years. "Mixed feelings" doesn't really cover it. I mean, there are individuals I can do without, and there are individuals I will stay home to make sure I don't encounter. This young lady sadly resides at the top of the latter stack. Later, it struck me how curious it was that I had spent the afternoon reveling in the trappings of fictional horror, only to be suddenly confronted with very real fright. May I add that I had run out of St. John's Wort earlier in the week, and that I was now about to be sitting in the same room as the very person whose antics had inspired me to begin taking mood-enhancing herbs in the first place. And, of course, the month of March was in spitting distance. I was not prepared at all to be around her, and my first instinct was to bolt before she arrived. But that's the sort of shit the old me would do. I did not leave. I kept my seat, ordered another drink and prepared for the worst. In truth, it could have been much worse - she didn't try to talk to me, as I feared she would, and I was far enough away that I could get away with acting like I was pretending she wasn't there. Inside, it was a different story. My heart was thumping so hard and fast it gave me a headache. The zombie suddenly tasted too thick and sweet. Rather than give myself another reason to feel like vomiting, I ordered some water. The idea was to sip that for a while, clear my head and make a casual exit before I lost it and said something I shouldn't. The weather was awful, and I couldn't join the next party I was heading to until 1 a.m. unless I wanted to drive downtown through the blizzard, pay for parking and kill several hours at Dave & Buster's. I was considering heading to Kyle and Eden's place early and finishing the eighth "Preacher" book in my car, then maybe hitting that dive bar by their el stop and drinking like a madman. Ultimately, I lingered long enough that the group she came with headed off to their own next party, and that was that. My guts relaxed, my jaw loosened and I could breathe deeply again. I made it through a scenario I had long dreaded. I don't care if it's petty; the very thought of that woman still provokes a strong reaction in me, and I'm extremely proud of myself for not running or shrieking or passing out. I'm also very thankful that she was thoughtful enough to leave me alone on Saturday. And if only her mellifluous laughter hadn't floated its way into my ears again, I would be feeling really, really good right now.

-My old, old buddy Kyle's birthday bash was mostly over when I joined that gang for the pajama party portion of their day. They had already been out to the Windy City Rollers match and to the aforementioned D&B's, so they were as wiped as I felt. The second half of the man's Big 3-0 was planned as a sleepover and brunch, and I knew ahead of time that if I didn't make the sleepover, I wasn't going to make the brunch. This was good foresight on my part, because for some reason I had a lot of trouble falling asleep that night. Anyway, the brilliant brunch call was made for the Heartland Cafe, which as a suburbanite I have not visited enough. I had the menu open for about two seconds before I knew I had to order "Kate's Omelette," a good-looking lacto-ovo vegetarian dish. The omelette, filled with spinach and cream cheese, was perfect, although the cornbread was a little hard on Sunday. The birthday boy ordered a peach and cheddar omelette, and we traded bites. You know something? Eggs, cheese and peaches taste pretty good together.

I have a decent scheme to keep my wandering mind busy over the next month, and if it works out, you will not be wanting for updates here. See ya tomorrow, pardners.

Vampires, priests and gunslingers

I should admit that I have been a bit distracted by reading lately. I finished the fifth and sixth books in Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series, and now I'm just one volume away from finishing the gargantuan story I started reading when I was about 12 or 13. (Well, there's also this fucking bonus story I just learned about on Wikipedia.) I used to be a huge King fan, and I had read all his shit until about a decade ago, when my damn college-educated brain had come to be annoyed by his style and bored by his subject matter. I threw in the towel at "Bag of Bones" - a 1,000 page ghost romance? No, thank you, Steve. But if I was like Bruce Willis in "The Kid" and met my 31-year old self when I was a pre-teen, and I learned that all the "Dark Tower" books had been out for several years but I hadn't read them yet, I would give my aged self a swift punch in the aged genitals. I need to finish the tale of Roland of Gilead. I owe it to the King-devouring dweeb I was in junior high.

"V: Wolves of the Calla" took a while, as it's the most languid volume of the story - the main characters stop in one place and stay there for about 600 pages, whereas the previous books were action-packed. By the end, I was hooked. If there's one thing King does well, it's give you a mental image, and the book built to a quick yet powerful climax. The damn cliffhanger ending left me no choice but to pick up the cataclysmic "VI: Song of Susannah" immediately, and as a faster-paced (and shorter) installment, it was done quickly. I have naturally been thinking in the patois of the fictional Midworld realm since I finished a couple of weeks ago. I'll try not geek out for you here.

Why didn't I start "VII: The Dark Tower" right away? For one thing, it's 800+ pages long, and I need a breather before I dive back in. For another, the "Song of Susannah" cliffhanger is not as gripping as that in "Wolves." Finally, my buddy Jorge loaned me the entire run of Garth Ennis' "Preacher" a while ago, and I thought this was a good point to read those. "Preacher" was one of those epochal '90s comics for grown-ups that came in the wake of Neil Gaiman's "Sandman," and from what I can tell has a few things in common with that title besides a publisher, mainly in its overall structure and its mix of fantasy and reality. I also have a feeling it was a big inspiration for Kevin Smith's last great movie, "Dogma." Smith wrote an intro for one of the "Preacher" graphic novel compilations, and both manage to be completely genuine about staying true to Christian ethics (responsibility, forgiveness, faith) while remaining extremely violent, profane and pointed in their criticisms of the systems erected around those ethics. Coming off the "Dark Tower" books, I slipped into Ennis' world of religion, gunfights and flashbacks with ease.

"Preacher" is the story of a stand-up Texan named Jesse Custer who gets zapped by the illicit offspring of angel and demon, and when the being melds with him he gains the "Word," the ability to make anyone do as he says - a power equal to or greater than God's. God gets scared and abandons Heaven, and when Jesse learns this, he begins a quest to find the Almighty and make Him answer to His people for doing so. He reunites with his true love, confronts his painful past and tangles with serial killers and racist industrialists and a powerful network which aims to bring about Armageddon with an inbred messiah from the bloodline of Jesus Christ. His allies include a loose cannon Irish vampire, the ghost of John Wayne and a horribly disfigured kid who tried to blow his own head off after Kurt Cobain did the same and who eventually becomes a William Hung-type pop celebrity freakshow. Just about every taboo or perversion known to humanity comes up at some point in the saga. The gore is frequent and detailed - artist Steve Dillon is a master of depicting chunks getting blown off of people. It's funny, sad, romantic, disturbing, and, ultimately, thought-provoking. It's such an engrossing story that after I got through a few of the books, it was torture to tear myself away for silly things like work or social engagements. By the time I finished "Preacher" yesterday, I was sad to see it end, but I was surprised by the satisfying resolution.

For a break from gun-toting heroes' quests, I just started reading the novelization of "The Toxic Avenger," which my MySpace friend Lloyd Kaufman himself reminded me to buy. When I'm done, bring on the finale of "The Dark Tower"... and "The Deathly Hallows" for that matter. It's all coming to an end!

You know what I haven't written about in a while? Movies. I watch 'em. Expect opinionated run-downs of recent viewings in the next post. Until I get on my keister to write those, please enjoy this review of the recent CD by local horror punks The Gravetones, and have a pleasant day.

More like, eDISharmony!

Y'all know I'm as single as it gets. Upon hearing that heterocentric dating site eHarmony was offering "free communication" for the weekend following Valentine's Day, I couldn't help but fill out their damned personality profile and see what kind of woman a computer thinks I should date. Sure, the site is famously crawling with Evangelical Christians, but the promotion was bound to drive a few normals there for the weekend. Plus, according to several reviews I found online, because of all the site's rigamarole, the people using it are supposedly more serious about looking for a relationship than finding someone to fuck (or to simply fuck with). Maybe I'd get a date out of it. Probably not, but at least I'd feel like I did something. Expecting little, I was not disappointed.

Saturday morning, I created a profile. You begin by filling out a long survey with the mouse, a few essay answers popping up at the end. I suppose the personality survey is fairly decent when you consider how inconclusive online surveys can be. With about 400 questions, it's less vague than something you'd get on MySpace. A lot of it centers on rating yourself along a seven-point scale, determining shit like how comfortable you are around new people or how important you feel it is to volunteer in your community. Because of the dating service angle, it also asks a bunch about what you like and don't like in other people, which is a sort of personality trait in itself. It's always free to take eHarmony's test, and it gives you a cute lil' pop-psych assessment when you're finished, so I recommend it to anyone as a fun time-waster.

Although it deemed me a bit cooler on the emotional front that I realize I am, eHarmony's mecha-shrink told me that I'm pretty balanced about most things, which is nice. I liked this nugget from the "Agreeableness" portion - describing your "interactions with other people":
"You are clearly a compassionate person; you believe that you should do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and you know that friends help their friends. But with you compassion is just one side of the coin; the other being a side that also expects others to hold up their end of the bargain. So you help others but it is with the expectation that others don't take advantage of you or try to put one over on you."
Yes, that sums up where I'm at pretty well. Granted, this free personality profile business is all a pep talk, spinning your flaws into strengths to make you feel good about yourself. Good enough that you want to give money to these kind folks, who obviously understand your fragile, unique snowflake of a soul better than the competitors because you answered so many damn questions.

So, I filled out this cockamamie thing, the eHarmony robot spat out these answers, and now I could look at the ladies with whom it thought I should converse. In a thirty-mile radius, it came up with a whopping two matches. Same for a sixty-mile radius, and for 120 miles, and even 300 miles. So, there are only two women living within 300 miles of me with whom the wise Lovebot believes I'm compatible. Exactly as expected. I couldn't see either woman's picture unless I paid - even then, I might not have a chance, since according to many online reviews of the site, eHarmony people tend to bury their photo until they get further into their cyber-chaperoned conversations. The first match was in the southwest burbs, a seemingly pleasant 28 year-old teacher who is "spiritual but not affiliated" and likes sports. The other was in the western burbs, and she was a seemingly colorful 32 year-old "Christian" boho/punk type. Their profiles both sounded appealing enough, so I initiated communication with both. What the hell, right?

First, you pick five softball questions to ask out of about fifty generic multiple-choicers. I chose stuff like what they do for fun, what they consider romantic and how much space they like in a relationship. You know, things it would be nice to know in advance. This is a good idea. This was also the first really distasteful part of the process. Although I have plenty of opinions on the subject, as anyone I've ever asked out can tell you, if I'm involved I'm not real smooth when bringing up romance. The sterile nature of the interpersonal screening process - augmented by the literal screens of computers - helped remove some of the direness from the awkward hello, but it was also the sort of synthetic fuckery that makes me leery of computer dating in the first place. I know, can't have it both ways.

From here, the questionee answers the questioner and sends questions of their own choosing. While waiting for these ladies to respond, I filled out my profile. There's a very handy list of "Must Haves" (choices include "sense of humor," "strong character," "loyal," "no children") and "Can't Stands" (such as "self-centered," "undependable," "denial," "racist") to choose from - you get ten each. I was shocked that all of my requirements were on both lists, and I had a few choices left over for lesser turn-ons and turn-offs. I should really print them out for future reference. You can also augment your basic profile page, the one everyone you're matched with sees first, with additional "get to know me" shit. There's even a blank field for anything else you'd like a match to know. I filled all of this out, then made lunch... and waited.

The first response I got was from the teacher. It was later the same day, and her answers seemed cool to me. Of the five questions she sent me in response, one was the same as a question I sent her. I answered the same as she did - because I agreed with her. I was, however, tempted to answer differently, just so she wouldn't think I was being all desperate and sycophantic. Aargh! This is what I'm talking about with the structured communication. The eHarmony process just adds another level of ambiguity to what you'd already experience if you were having an introductory conversation with someone. I had no way to explain my answers, and when I thought about someone I have never met reading them, I became concerned about giving the wrong impression. In a dating format, that lousy "thinking" business always trips me up, so I ultimately decided on honesty. Although that approach has rarely worked for me in the past, it's my belief that the right woman for me would value such a thing. I sent the teacher my answers... and waited.

By Sunday, I had a response from the lady with the quirkier profile. She answered almost exactly the same way as the other, but I liked her one different answer better. Her questions for me were different, and in a way less coy. I appreciated that, since we were already on a damn dating site. When I was responding to the teacher's form questions, I had seen that the Lovebot at least allows you to type in your own answers here, but in an attempt to reign in my natural verbosity, I didn't do that. This time, I decided to use a few of those fields so my response was more accurate. Besides, I didn't think I was responding to the sort of person who would be terrified of a more personalized response. Then again, how you present yourself isn't necessarily the way you really are. Someone might see me at the grocery store wearing a t-shirt with a pentagram on it and think I'm a devil worshipper, when in reality I'm just a Morbid Angel fan. Likewise, just because someone's dating site profile makes them seem eclectic and open-minded, they could merely be wishy-washy, or even mentally ill. Banishing such notions from my already-dubious head, I sent my responses... and waited.

To my surprise, the artsy lady responded quickly with her Must Haves and Can't Stands. Thinking back a few hours to my own experience filling these out, I figured that some of her choices were probably more important than others. However, when reading her lists, I had no idea which choices were primary, and which she considered pleasant/annoying but negligible. Maybe she felt equally about all of her choices - there was no way to know. Maybe if you could just rank these Must Haves and Can't Stands, it might help the quasi-communication. This shit is a grosser mockery of human conversation than text messaging.

On top of this, after seeing her list, I was suddenly unsure that I'm the sort of guy she's looking for. This didn't deter me, because I feel that way a lot. Anyone in the peanut gallery yelling "Self-defeating nonsense!" at this should know that everyone with whom I've ever considered initiating romance has at some point found herself giving me the trusty "you'll make someone the happiest woman in the world" speech. I don't know whether I can expect that trend to last forever, but it's been uniform so far. If it somehow reverses and that someone actually appears, I am quite sure that she's not going to be boring. This Christian punk lady at least presented herself in an interesting - and perhaps, interested - manner. With less than a day until my free trial ran out, I didn't have any more hope than I usually do, but I sent my own lists to her anyway, along with three more questions of the essay variety (naturally, one I selected was "Describe your spirituality")... and waited.

By yesterday, the last day of the promotion, so many people had signed on for the freebie that the eHarmony server couldn't handle the traffic. I kept trying to check my "conversation" progress, but most of the time, all I got was a stupid oops! page, which naturally dangles a picture of a married couple who met through the service. "Nicole and Jason," the page seemed to jeer, "fucking paid to have their courtship jumpstarted. You cheap bastards flooded our system, so if you can't sign in all day, you can eat it." You'd think with the "membership surge," more matches would show up when I finally got in, but, nope. Just the two. And by midnight, neither had responded since I last sent something, and that was that.

So, the teacher either lost interest or didn't sign on again, because we only got to "Communication Stage 1." The other lady and I were in "Stage 3" before she vanished. The next step with the funky punkette would have been answering her essay questions, getting some kind of "message" from eHarmony founder Dr. Neil Clark Warren (another sales pitch, I presume) and, finally, moving to what they call "open communication." I imagine that means we could e-mail each other, like human beings who are trying to communicate. Oh, well.

Look, I have no problem jumping through a few hoops in pursuit of a lady who catches my fancy, and I will put up with a hell of a lot if I think she's worth it. But I'm old, and at this point in life, I won't stand for being obviously and deliberately jerked around. eHarmony gave me a charming, somewhat accurate assessment of my character, but the experience was ultimately a successful replication all of the second-guessing, hoop-jumping and jerking around you could experience if you actually tried to get someone to date you in real life. All this without the benefit of, say, learning their real name, hearing their voice or being able to tell if they're missing a leg. It's insane, this modern age.

Yes, time ran out and I didn't get a date out of the deal. Like I said, I wasn't expecting much, so I don't feel bad about it or anything. I'm fucking done with eHarmony, and I don't even have to try to assuage my own guilt with an insincere "let's just be friends." That's one advantage eHarmony has over trying to get a date with someone you know. It's so impersonal that it's impossible to take any of it personally.

RECIPE #2: Chef Hatzis' Warm White Chocolate Bread Pudding

I tried to care about the Super Bowl this year. Really, I did. See, fútbol americano hasn't thrilled me since I was ten years old, when the original Chicago Bears Shufflin' Crew took down nearly everything in their path. I wasn't into sports then, either, but that mythical 1985 team was a damn cultural phenomenon. In Chicagoland, Bears Fever was unavoidable, and I remember actually feeling invested. I even tried to watch football games that year, although I would usually space out once I'd reached my limit of time outs, replays, turnovers and constant commercial breaks featuring a bunch of shit I wasn't interested in (cars, beer, financial services).

Today, I am comfortable enough with my masculinity to admit trying to watch football bores the living crap out of me. Sorry, boys, too much planning and strategizing and reviewing. I don't follow soccer or hockey, either, but at least those dudes keep moving. The only sports less engaging to watch than football are the ones where players stand around picking their asses for even longer, such as golf or baseball. At least football has violence, but even that's pretty weak compared to big sports in other nations.

The Bears returned to the Super Bowl this year, only this time, I had seen about twelve seconds of their season. I didn't even know what Rex Grossman, their star quarterback, looked like until I was staring at the Big Game. (Sadly, he doesn't resemble the old Brawny paper towel man, which is the mental image his name gives me). I've also given up on caring about the expensive Super Bowl commercials - commercials in general, really. I don't know, I guess I'm weird in that I don't find any pleasure in being baited into paying attention to a product. The big story this year was that a lot of companies took their cue from YouTube and aired "user-generated" commercials, meaning people made amateur ads and advertisers picked the ones that best suited the image they wanted to project. This signals the dawn of a new age, or at least a new model of psychological manipulation. Forget that trend of ads featuring people who work at the manufacturing plant (the implicit message: "sure, we're a huge corporation, but we're really just regular people like you"), or featuring people who had a favorable experience with the product ("here is one of our actual customers, who is a regular person like you"). Now, the public is so overwhelmingly complicit that consumers actually compete to create the very same ads that are being used to market to them. What an exciting time to be alive!

So, needless to say, the broadcast itself wasn't a draw for me, although I did watch parts of it. The only reason I didn't spend the day at the movies is that my friends always have a party which doubles as a potluck food fest. This was the twelfth straight year for this traveling bash. I've only missed one (sorry, I was hanging out with a pretty girl), but I must admit that my culinary contributions have been lazy the last few times I attended. Last year, for instance, I just brought a bunch of chocolate peanut butter balls that my grandma had made and were left over from Xmas. They were delicious, but through no effort of my own. Most everyone else at least opens a packet or stirs something. This year, I resolved to reverse that, and because I am trying to learn to cook some things, the Super Bowl party was a perfect opportunity to try out a recipe I'd been contemplating.

Through work, I'm on the mailing list of the Hotel Baker, a swanky old joint in St. Charles, Illinois. One of their newsletters included Chef Jamie Hatzis' concoction for bread pudding, which is something I never ate growing up but have enjoyed on the rare occasion I've tried it. Considering the amount of heavy cream it contains, I wasn't about to make a whole pan of the shit for myself. If I wanted to do myself in, a noose would be cheaper and quicker. I needed an occasion, one where people love to eat decadent food. An occasion like the Super Bowl party. Here is the complete story.

I began by filling an 8x13" baking pan with cubed bread. This is not an exact measurement, depending on the depth of your pan and the kind of bread you use. Chef Hatzis recommends brioche for a richer texture, regular white bread to make it lighter. I was gonna go rich, but I couldn't find any brioche at the damn Dominick's, and they had a sale on store brand white bread. It took nearly an entire large loaf to fill my pan (donated by mom, bless her). On top of this, you dump 4 oz. each of melted white chocolate and sliced bananas. For the white chocolate, I substituted the vanilla-flavored "make your own almond bark" stuff, only because I imagined it would be easier to melt in the microwave. I didn't measure the bananas, I just sliced enough to make a decently-spaced layer over the bread - about three small ones in total.

The next step is the sauce. For this, you need a whopping 1 1/2 quarts of heavy cream, into which you dissolve 12 oz. of sugar over low heat. That's pretty easy, you just stir it until you can't feel any grit. The recipe didn't specify this, but I took the cream/sugar mixture off the burner and let it cool a bit before continuing. The next direction needed contemplation: "Slowly add beaten eggs and whisk together with seasonings." Okay, the ingredient list calls for seven eggs, but the seasonings (vanilla, nutmeg and cinnaMON) just say "to taste." So, you're supposed to taste it and add raw eggs at the same time? Fuck that. I spiced the cream first. By the time I finished this, it kind of tasted like eggnog, and I was confident the cream was cool enough to not instantly cook the eggs as I slowly whisked them into the pot. All you need to do from here is pour your mixture over the bread, which I did in several passes, allowing the gunk to soak in and make room for more. The baking pan was full to the brim by the end. This went into the oven for 45 minutes at 375 degrees, and I had a big old pan of bread pudding.

Holy crap, was it tasty. If you have never eaten bread pudding, imagine custard with chunks of sweet doughy stuff in it. It's pretty easy to make - the hardest part is cutting up all the bread, and that's not very hard, just time-consuming. You won't notice if you put on some music while you're doing it (this batch was created to the strains of Therion's surprisingly proggy new record, Gothic Kabbalah). The only stitch in the process was that there wasn't any room in the pan for the pudding to expand, so I ended up needing to clean the oven due to some spillage. Next time, I might want to use a deeper baking pan, but make sure to use the same amount of bread.

What I like most about this recipe is that it's very adaptable. I'm not sure what difference real white chocolate would have made, but I will find out for batch number two. I'm also not sure I would use bananas again, as they didn't add much to the flavor or texture. Traditional recipes often call for raisins, but I can imagine apples, berries, mangos or chopped nuts working as well. Honey, mascarpone, toffee, granola... you could add all sorts of stuff to the basic mix. (I'm making it again this weekend, and I'm going with pear slices.) Give it a try, your friends will be impressed.

Stoopid Cupid

I've acknowledged the upcoming Hallmark holiday by stocking the player with a selection of great songs for all you swinging singles, bickering couples and creepy-ass threesomes out there. There are even some nice ones!

1. Anathema: "Temporary Peace" (A Fine Day to Exit, Music for Nations, 2001)
"There's so many, many thoughts when I try to go to sleep/But with you I start to feel a sort of temporary peace..."

2. Sentenced: "Cross My Heart and Hope to Die" (The Cold White Light, Century Media, 2002)
"My heart went down with you/At your funeral, I was buried, too..."

3. Cannibal Ox: "The F-Word" (The Cold Vein, Definitive Jux, 2001)
"All I wanted was grounds for understanding/I ain't greedy, but to hold your heart I gotta put my hand in..."

4. They Might Be Giants: "Ana Ng" (Lincoln, Bar/None, 1988)
"They don't need me here, and I know you're there/Where the world goes by like the humid air..."

5. Calexico/Iron & Wine: "A History of Lovers" (In the Reins, Overcoat, 2005)
"I asked my Louise would she leave and so cripple me/Then came a knock at the door..."

6. Agalloch: "A Desolation Song" (The Mantle, The End, 2002)
"Here's to love, the sickness/The great martyr of the soul..."

7. The Postal Service: "Nothing Better" (Give Up, Sub Pop, 2003)
"Don't you feed me lines about some idealistic future/Your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures..."

8. Alice Cooper: "Millie and Billie" (From the Inside, Warner Bros. 1978)
"God made love crazy so we wouldn't feel alone..."

9. Ween: "Cold Blows the Wind" (The Mollusk, Elektra, 1997)
"One kiss, one kiss of your lily white lips/One kiss is all I crave..."

10. PJ Harvey: "Rid of Me" (Rid of Me, Island, 1993)
"Don't you, don't you wish you/Never, never met her..."

11. The Aquabats: "Lovers of Loving Love" (Vs. the Floating Eye of Death!, Goldenvoice, 1999)
"It's so hip to give you a kiss/And taste cherry ChapStick, aaaa-aahhh..."

12. The Fiery Furnaces: "Single Again" (EP, Rough Trade, 2005)
"My husband, he died and I laughed till I cried/Oh, to think I was single again..."

13. Katatonia: "In the White" (The Great Cold Distance, Peaceville, 2006)
"And now that you're here/It becomes so clear/I have waited for you always..."

14. "Weird Al" Yankovic: "Since You've Been Gone" (Bad Hair Day, Scotti Bros., 1996)
"It couldn't hurt any more if you shoved/A red-hot cactus up my nose..."

15. The Smiths: "I Know It's Over" (The Queen Is Dead, Rough Trade, 1986)
"'Cause tonight is just like any other night/That's why you're on your own tonight/With your triumphs and your charms/While they're in each other's arms..."

16. Man Man: "Skin Tension" (Six Demon Bag, Ace Fu, 2006)
"I know I'll never be the man that she thinks she really needs/But it don't stop me from trying to be..."

17. Sonata Arctica: "San Sebastian (Revisited)" (Silence, Spinefarm, 2001)
"When I'm old and gray, I remember that day/When she came, that perfect dame, and she blew me away..."

18. The Perceptionists: "Love Letters" (Black Dialogue, Definitive Jux, 2005)
"People search for this feeling 'til they're gray/So I couldn't let you slip away/Please give me a call someday..."

19. Eels: "I'm Going to Stop Pretending That I Didn't Break Your Heart" (Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, Vagrant, 2005)
"You see, I never thought enough of myself to realize/That losing me could mean something like the tears in your eyes..."

20. Woods of Ypres: "A Meeting Place and Time" (Against the Seasons: Cold Winter Songs from the Dead Summer Heat, Krankenhaus, 2002)
"I hope it’s cold everyday where you are..."

Roibéard, blow your horn

1/20/07

I woke up sweating, my skull filled with still-drying cement. The sun's calloused fist was pummeling my face; I had apparently left the shade open a bit the previous night. At least it wasn't snowing. I stumbled toward the in-room coffee maker, which I'd had the sense to prepare before hitting the sack. With the help of some crazy FOX Kids animal shows, several Special Lights and that shitty, shitty coffee, I became ambulatory by roughly 11 a.m. It was about 1:15 by the time I hosed off, donned fresh garments and wolfed down some chow at the Perkins. (They had raspberry muffins and much better coffee.) Thus, I missed Minneapolis' Manetheren, the openers of Heathen Crusade II day two. This blows, because everyone I talked to who saw them said they were very good. On the plus side, there were still eleven bands left.

Withering Soul - This was the second time in the same week I saw Chicago's Withering Soul. Five days prior, they opened the Enslaved/Dark Funeral gig in Mokena. There was a crucial difference this time in that I could hear synthesizers, although they had no live keyboardist. I guess they were using a DAT machine with prerecorded synths or something. At the earlier show, I had been slightly impressed because I thought they had dropped the keys, but here, with proper sound, the synths sucked some of the bite from the guitars. Suddenly, I remembered what had made me lukewarm on Withering Soul's competent but conservative kind of keyboardy black-ish metal when I first saw them in 2005. As is often the case with this style, the impact of an occasional fierce blast/riff combo was muted by a lot of repetitive, midpaced filler. They closed with a song that begins almost exactly like Cradle of Filth's early hit "The Forest Whispers My Name," reminding me that they had also done so the other day. In truth, Withering Soul is not a terrible opening act by any stretch of the imagination. Their singer cut an imposing figure on stage and some of their riffs were catchy. Still, the organizers already had Vesperian Sorrow, and if they absolutely needed a Chicago-area band that plays a similar style, I would have honestly preferred Veneficum.

Dark Forest - A band with which I was completely unfamiliar, Calgary's Dark Forest is apparently a one-man job with a live line-up (or at least their record was made by one guy). Their folkloric black metal reminded me a little of Agalloch's sparse melodies, but less doomy and more Viking. Before they went on, I decided it was time to start drinking, as that might help completely silence the grumbling my stomach and head hadn't ceased since I awoke. However, I made the decision to try Bell's Cherry Stout, which the venue offered on tap. It sounded like a nice, refreshing way to ease into intoxication. I was prepared for something dark and sweet, but, holy crap, was that shit SOUR. Most of the time I was watching Dark Forest, I felt like I was drinking a glass full of the acid they spray on the outsides of Warheads. I finally guzzled the final half, swearing I would never ingest anything called a cherry stout again, and rinsed out the taste with trusty old Ace Perry Cider. As for Dark Forest, they were okay, but the keyboards were at times overbearing and the vocals could have used more conviction. The riffs were decent. I will keep an eye on Dark Forest, and hopefully won't confuse them with one of the other three Dark Forests currently listed on Encyclopaedia Metallum.

Gwynbleidd - Brooklyn-based Gwynbleidd (Welsh for "white wolf") was one of the bands I was most looking forward to Saturday. I'd only heard the half-songs they put up on MySpace, but those were enough to convince me Gwynbleidd does my type of thing. Their style is obviously very Opeth-inspired, but more like if the Swedes had listened to a lot of actual folk music rather than the '70s prog rock version of folk. Long songs that ebb and flow, choppy death metal giving way to lush atmospheres, harsh growling and soft singing when appropriate, the whole bit. They were the first band I witnessed Saturday whose music had a strong, engaging presence. Of course, it didn't hurt that I've been a big Opeth fan for a long time. A little bit into their set, guitarist Michal sat down with an acoustic guitar, such a dramatic moment that you could hear a pin drop as he plucked it. It struck me that this was the first acoustic I had seen at a fest heavily weighted toward "folk metal," and that except for Månegarm's violin, the instrumentation so far had been your standard metal set-up: drums, bass, a coupla 'lectrics and maybe a keyboard. Gwynbleidd's moderate novelty was welcome, and their skillful songcraft was undeniable. Oh, and I met guitarist/vocalist Maciej and drummer Adam later on. They were very friendly and humble, and although I forsee them eventually climbing to Arsis heights, I imagine that will remain the case. Solid fucking band - do yourself a favor and check them out now.

Earthen - As if the end of my previous paragraph had been broadcast back in time to the fest organizers, eight Chicagoans packed the stage with two acoustic guitars, a violin, keyboards and a huge-ass acoustic bass. Earthen is a brand new band - I believe this was their second gig - headed by guitarist Mike LeGros, a big, friendly dude you may have met if you've hung out at enough Chicago metal shows. Maybe you saw him saw playing with Disinter, or even filling Novembers Doom's revolving bassist slot for a time. This venture is a sort of witchy woodland deal with only one electric guitar out of all those musicians. The vocalist, one of three women in Earthen, has a deeper voice that fits the vibe, which is less fairyland than a lot of female-fronted metal-ish acts and more, well, earthy. At times, you could tell that they hadn't really played out together yet, since they spent a lot of time watching each other in case someone fell behind. It was certainly better than a "practice," though, and while not flawless in execution, the songs were decent folk/goth/metal jobs. I really dug the violin lines, which didn't simply ape the lead melodies, and the girl playing them was astoundingly cute. If nothing else, having all those people on stage was a spectacle in itself. I hope they play some local gigs soon, maybe with this Clad In Darkness about whom I'm hearing so much these days...

Shroud of Bereavement - I'll tell you, when I'm in a darker state of mind, there are few things that can soothe me like stumbling upon a good doom/death band. If I had been really depressed when I got to this year's Heathen Crusade, I would have walked out absolutely worshipping New Englanders Shroud of Bereavement. Their heaving, hulking, painfully melodic doom would have left me blubbering on the floor like a lost child. Sadly, I was not very depressed. They were still pretty awesome, though. Imagine the wrist-slitting growl/riff marathons of early Katatonia or golden-era My Dying Bride, leavened with the symphonics of two live keyboardists and sweet female vocals, yet still utterly despondent. Novembers Doom also comes to mind, as Shroud of Bereavement is also a long-running American act who sounds European, unabashedly emotional and unafraid to speed up the tempo now and then. They closed with a ditty called "...And Then Their Tears Shall Flood the Earth," which ends in a shockingly speedy death metal coda, a bad-ass punctuation to a powerful set. I don't think I'd ever heard of them before I saw the lineup for this event, and that is a shame. I got to talk with keyboardist Mike at the bar later on. He told me he has some experimental side projects, and I dished what I know about the Illinois doom scene. Super cool guy. As was the case all weekend, not only were the band members accessible to fans, but convivial and appreciative. Hey, they had to smoke outside in the single-digit weather with the rest of us.

Hordes of Yore - Remember that long-ass post I left when I put up the current playlist? In my Ensiferum entry, I talked about Viking metal as a commodity. Portugal's Hordes of Yore are further proof. It took all of a song and a half for me to think of them as "the Portuguese Amon Amarth," and they never disproved me. Midpaced, rhythmic melodic death metal with Viking-themed lyrics isn't a bad thing, but considering how good the last three bands had been, I wasn't blown away. I stayed for about half the set, then wandered to the other room and bought some sloppy joes. They were selling them out of the corner of the bar, and you could smell that shit throughout the venue. With two smallish sandwiches and a side of chips, it was a pretty good deal for $4. Then there was some milling about, some shopping, some smoking and a bathroom break before I went back for the end of Hordes of Yore, who were still doing pretty much the same thing. These guys weren't bad, and they had plenty of energy, just nothing amazing.

Mael Mórdha - So, given their self-description of "Celtic doom metal," I had imagined these dudes from the Emerald Isle would be pretty cool. I had no idea. Singer Roibéard Ó Bogail came out blowing a big fucking horn, his huge curly mustache making him look like someone's wacky uncle. The whole band's faces were streaked with "Braveheart"-style war paint. Mael Mórdha's music was comparable to Primordial's newer stuff, but considering the decent amount of folk instrumentation (tin whistle, bodhrán, the aforementioned horn), it is not an exact copy. Although mournful and definitely rooted in doom, the songs had plenty of vigor and movement. The crowd went apeshit for these guys; I almost got knocked flat like I had earlier that week at the Enslaved show. Just like Glittertind, Mael Mórdha got screwed by Karmageddon Media, who released the band's debut LP just before the label went under due to its owner's ongoing battle with the Schuldiner family. Roibéard shouted a roundly-cheered "Fuck Karmageddon," and anyone's sympathies which hadn't turned their way immediately snapped to attention. They sold out of copies of their newer disc before I could get one, which was very upsetting. Later that day, I spoke with Roibéard, who introduced himself as "Rob," and he was totally friendly, amazed at how well they had gone over. He unfortunately did not have an extra copy of the disc, either.

Obtest - One of the most alluring features of metal that comes out of places you don't typically associate with the music is that it usually sounds traditional, but somehow odd. Lithuania's Obtest were a good example of that. This is the kind of band I frequently stumble across on some web site, but when I do a Google search and see some of the acts they've played concerts with in Europe, I'll stop right there. While Obtest is certainly not a racist band, their music has explicit pagan themes, and there are only so many gigs a pagan metal band in Eastern Europe can get. Musically, they were vaguely similar to their Latvian friends Skyforger, who I'll get to in a bit. The rhythms often galloped, almost like power metal, but the guitars had that harsh, fuzzy tone you get with black metal. Their clear and anthemic folk-based melodies haven't already been heard on a million metal records, which made the music very captivating in a live setting. Add to this an outrageously animated vocalist hollering war chants in discernable Lithuanian, all the while sporting leather pants and a poet shirt in defiance of his tunic-wearing bandmates, and you have an idea of how simultaneously ludicrous and cool Obtest's set was. These guys were perhaps the fest's hardest-working band. They were there both days, they had just about every CD and vinyl release in their catalog on the merch table, there were piles of stickers with their logo all over the place, they even made special t-shirts to sell for the show that said "The Lithuanians Invade America!" and something in Lithuanian on the back. I really wish I'd bought one, because Obtest put on a great show.

Rudra - The most savage beating of the entire festival came from this quartet, whose journey to the United States was actually sponsored by the Composers and Authors Society of Singapore. I'd heard their most recent record, from which a lot of their set came, but the recording really doesn't do Rudra justice. First of all, they were the closest thing to a death metal band playing all day, and aside from matching smears of what I assume was ritualistic paint, the band didn't have the theatrical accoutrements of the performers scheduled around them. Whereas the rest of the day was filled with costumery and a parade of native instruments, these guys were dressed in jeans and metal t-shirts, and all the extra instrumentation came from a tape. But Rudra didn't need such fancified frippery, because purely as a primal death/black/thrash band, they rank among the best I've ever seen live. The intricate sonic overload seriously made me think way back to the first time I saw Nile or Krisiun - total awe. Drummer Shiva is amazing to witness in person, a precise whirlwind of hammering percussion. The stringmen were equally tight and ferocious, and bassist Kathir has a perfectly convincing pissed-off death metal vocalist scowl. It's clear that these guys take their music seriously, and once again the crowd was rocked and shocked by another band they'd never (or, like myself, never until recently) heard about. My last rock star story: I got to talk with guitarist Selvam for a few minutes toward the end of the night, when I was good and sloshed. He said Rudra was glad to have been so loudly accepted, and he kindly listened to me drunkenly blather about intercultural exchange and how great it is that people all over the world are mixing metal with traditional music and some other boring shit. Very intelligent and gracious, that Selvam.

Skyforger - By now, I had been guzzling Bell's Winter White Ale for hours, with only those sloppy joes and chips between it and that pear cider I'd imbibed all afternoon. I stood outside for about 15 minutes after Rudra played, smoking and steaming and not really feeling the cold anymore, despite how hard I was thrashing during the Singaporeans' set. Yes, I was baiting the cold I would get a few days later, but I was also good and ready for Skyforger, obviously the big stars of the weekend. Not a hugely popular band by any estimation, they are nonetheless beloved by just about everyone who's into folk metal and can get it through their post-WWII skull that the symbol in their logo goes back a lot further in world history than some murderous asshole who ruined the Charlie Chaplin/Oliver Hardy mustache. And speaking of mustaches, Skyforger guitarist/vocalist Peter had a doozy, a big old walrus job that gave the Mael Mórdha frontman a run for his whiskers. With his bald spot, he looked like a Viking David Crosby. These guys are seasoned live performers, sounding rougher yet more majestic on that cruddy little stage than on record. A seamlessly integrated cavalcade of folk instruments was provided by Kaspars Bârbals, whose arsenal included bagpipes, some kind of flute and something that looked like a zither. I looked the latter up when I got home and found out it is a Latvian instrument called the kokle. Two days later, I coincidentally heard an NPR report about young people playing folk music in Latvia, where they talked about the kokle's importance as a symbol of heritage that was banned under Communist rule, thus for decades only played by rebels. As an obstinately creative and against-the-grain band, the Baltic barbarians of Skyforger carried on that tradition nicely.

Bal-Sagoth - And so it was that Heathen Crusade II came to its glorious close, with a band that didn't really fit the fest's theme as much as revel in the pageantry of swords and magic. British storytellers and madmen Bal-Sagoth are a love-it-or-hate-it proposition. Their songs frequently sound like Cradle of Filth playing incidental music from "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys," and vocalist Byron Roberts alternates between a typical black metal screech and theatrical spoken sections, which he delivers in a deep, (I think) intentionally hammy baritone. There's nothing really silly about their subject matter - stuff like mythical lost civilizations, Lovecraftian gods and battles - but the occasionally jolly musical segment combined with Byron's mannered bluster can be a turn-off to anyone who can't stand real metal with a wink. Me, I've enjoyed their bizarre concoctions for years, and although I was planning to go to the fest before they even announced their participation, they were one of its main draws for old SoulReaper. The crowd thinned after Skyforger, so I got up pretty close. For their first American appearance, Bal-Sagoth took the stage in "Braveheart" face paint that they may have borrowed from Mael Mórdha. Well, all except Byron. He donned this crazy medieval-looking leather mask and a biker jacket adorned with three very telling pins: Batman, Spider-Man and Punisher logos. Most disappointingly, you couldn't hear his spoken parts for a good part of the set; on the last couple of records, he's become fond of a more conspiratorial, whispery tone, and while I first thought there was a mic malfunction, I soon realized he was just speaking too quietly to hear. The band was spot-on, though. Maybe Byron was sick. I didn't stick around after their set to ask... I was pretty wiped and suddenly sober, so I just headed back to the hotel. I would like to see them again to find out, but there are rumors that they're planning to break up soon, so I fear this was it. Still glad I had the opportunity.

The CDs I purchased at the fest: Skyforger's Semigalls' Warchant/Asinslauks, Obtest's Auka Seniems Dievams, Shroud of Bereavement's Alone Beside Her and Gwynbleidd's Amaranthine. All are recommended by the house.

Coming soon to this space: love songs for you and your sweetie (and ex-sweeties), plus a look at recipe numero dos, which was a big hit at the Super Bowl party. Not sick of reading yet? Here's a review of the recent record by Belphegor, one of nine bands I will potentially see this weekend, bringing the number of bands I've seen in 2007 to an even 30. Yep, the year's off to a marvelous start.

The fiddle and the damage done

Many thanks to the lovely and talented Eden for her suggestions. The second batch of breakfast tacos had much nicer tortillas. You gots to roll them shits thin, yo!

So, the trip. Last year, the drive to the Twin Cities for the Heathen Crusade was fraught with hardships both weather- and bladder-related. This time, with clear skies and a minimum of stupid drivers, it was a breeze. The drive only took six hours, including a stop at what turned out to be a remote golf course restaurant with an excellent seafood chowder. Even better, for the first of the three times I've gone to Minnesota for a concert in the past year, the hotel was a cinch to find. While I apparently could have stayed up partying all night with the bands at the official fest hotel, I have not partied all night since the '90s, and I was glad I opted for digs about 15 minutes away. The organizers negotiated a rate with this other hotel for only $59 a night, which happily applied to my smoking room with king-size bed. I saw a few other Heathens in the halls, but this hotel seemed mostly deserted, which was nice for someone like me who loves living and traveling alone. Plus, the counter ladies at the Arden Hills Holiday Inn were all really cute. Uff da!

The new venue for this year's fest was in downtown St. Paul. As I asked around, folks told me that last year's amazing site, Star Central, either closed or burned down. Either way, that's sad. The new place was like a crappy, medieval version of Chicago's late, lamented Bottom Lounge. Station 4 is divided into two rooms - one for the ugly, gray concrete concert hall and one for everything else. It only has one bar, doesn't allow smoking and features an obstructive support beam right in the middle of the stage. The entrance/bar/vendor/shitter room was eternally clogged, while the back of the concert hall was taken up by that creepy European guy with the insane piles of bootleg metal t-shirts who used to be at Milwaukee Metalfest. And, yes, the SwordLord was back as emcee, annoying me yet again with countless rounds of "Where are you guys from? New York? Awesome! Who else is here from New York?" I saw that guy at the Maiden show in Rosemont a few months ago. I think he's stalking me.

So much for the negatives, because despite all of that, this year's Heathen Crusade was even better than the first. It's cool to hang out with like-minded people for a while, but I really go to these "destination" metal shows for the music, and on that front the organizers did a magnificent job. These dudes hand-pick the performers, arrange for their travel and lodging and never cut their allotted time short. I didn't see a single band that was bad, and many of them were simply amazing. This was a once-in-a-lifetime deal, an international metal fest the likes of which America has never seen. With so many highlights to describe, I'd best get to day one, which started at 7 p.m. and thus had half the performers of the following day.

1/19/07
Will of the Ancients - By the time I got to the venue (there was a traffic jam on I-694), I missed the local black metal band Bronnson. Those dudes were an 11th hour replacement for New York doom/death vets Grey Skies Fallen, who sadly had to cancel, and having heard Bronnson's demo offerings on MySpace, I didn't feel too bad about getting there late. I had just enough time to grab a beer and say hello to a few folks before Toronto's Will of the Ancients took the stage. Immediately, I was fearful for the weekend's sound. These melodic death metallers sounded pretty good on MySpace, but their crucial dueling guitars were totally lost beneath the bass and drums. The vocals seemed weaker left on their own. The worst part was that you could see the guitarists playing their asses off, even occasionally hear them doing something cool when the vocalist rested. The sound improved by the end of their set, thankfully. The band was pretty good if not especially engaging; I liked the riffs I could hear, as they were very power metal-influenced. But I'm a sucker for melodic death metal that doesn't steal all its moves from Slaughter of the Soul, and WotA had enough seafaring, stein-swinging Viking in their style to justify their presence here.
Vesperian Sorrow - These Texans have been plying a tasteful brand of symphonic black-ish metal for more than a decade. The last time I saw them was Milwaukee Metalfest 2003, the last year that was any "good." I remember M.O.D. coming on stage and Billy Milano unironically dedicating their set to "the President of the United States, George W. Bush," which was my cue to see who was on the other stage. That turned out to be Vesperian Sorrow, who were at the time utilizing two keyboardists. I caught one of the t-shirts they threw out to the crowd, and can still occasionally be seen sporting it. (The back says "DARK FUCKING METAL" in hilariously big letters, so I can't wear it to church in the summer.) They were okay, but I was never inspired to pick up one of their records, and seeing them again at the Heathen Crusade didn't change that. Like melodic metalcore, keyboardy pseudo-black metal doesn't usually bother me too much, as it at least requires solid musicianship. Yet, also like melodic metalcore, every new band you hear typically sounds very similar to another you've already heard. Rather than push the envelope, Vesperian Sorrow did their thing solidly, with some amiable riffs to get the head bobbing and the suds flowing down the gullet. I have to admit I wandered away from their set to peruse the vendor tables. I only bought the reissued Skyforger demo, since everyone's selection overflowed with stupid goregrind, obscure black metal of tenebrous political affiliation and a bunch of old CDs I already had. As for Vesperian Sorrow, they're not a mandatory listen, but a decent opening act. However, if you've just discovered Old Man's Child, this band is as good as any to check out when you decide to dig deeper.

Slough Feg - NOW, the shit began to go down. Beloved by metal nerds and critics alike (I consider myself part of both camps), Slough Feg is one of those bands you play for people and they either say, "Meh," or they totally flip out. The former type of person has no business listening to metal, the latter can't believe this band has been overlooked for so long. A fest like this is the perfect way to spread the word. Mike Scalzi's Bay Area metal warriors tore into their set with typical sweaty, bloody fury. Guitarist Angelo Tringali has proven himself a worthy replacement for Scalzi's former Hammers of Misfortune bandmate John Cobbett. That night, the guitar team fired out as many regal riffs as their stage time allowed, with virtually no downtime for three or for tunes at a time. Brand new drummer Antoine Reuben, as someone pointed out to me, might have been a bit uncomfortable as one of the only black guys in attendance, but that didn't stop him from nailing every one of the band's tricky rhythms with maximum force. This band is as solid and powerful as ever, and although they were the only traditional metal act on the entire bill, they eventually won over the haughty dudes in the Ildjarn long-sleeves. I can't tell you how gratifying it was to look around the room and see all those baffled, grinning faces becoming flailing masses of hair. (Even better, every one of the really hot female Crusaders showed up the next day sporting Slough Feg gear!) Since most of the musicians were hanging out, I got to talk with Scalzi for a few minutes here and there over the two days. He's a cigar guy, talks really fast and emphatically. In person, the veteran headbanger and philosopher is as intense and well-spoken as any drooling fanboy could imagine. Scalzi told me the new record's nearly done, that he's quite aware Slough Feg sounds like Brocas Helm, that they're coming back to Chicago in June and that you're more likely to get attacked on the streets of San Francisco than actually killed. And after all that, I'm still not sure whether the band has officially decided to add "The Lord Weird" to its name again.

Vreid - The fest's biggest surprise for me. I'd never really listened to Vreid before, which turned out to be my loss. See, this Norwegian band is comprised of dudes who used to be in a very well-regarded Viking/folk/black metal band called Windir. I was lucky to have witnessed their only U.S. live appearance, which was at that last "good" Milwaukee Metalfest I keep mentioning recently. Six months later, Windir founder Terje "Valfar" Bakken died of hypothermia. The band released a final best of/tribute compilation, and announced that their new configuration as Vreid would take a more "modern" death/black metal approach. I'm not huge on "modern" death/black; although their new stuff doesn't bug me, I prefer the older Behemoth material, and we really only need one Zyklon. I'd assumed Vreid was more of the same cold, clinical battering, but that was totally off the mark. Their style is actually more rock n' roll, with lots of headbanging grooves and catchy guitar hooks. Two songs in, my neck was in perpetual motion, and it didn't stop until they were through. A kick-ass live band, I will need to investigate Vreid's studio material soon.

Månegarm - The day ended with these Swedish folk metal veterans, whose appearance was greatly anticipated by more people than I expected. I've enjoyed Månegarm for years, but until I saw the Crusade line-up, they were one of dozens of European metal bands I was resigned to enjoying solely on record. They just don't have the press profile, the record sales or the label support to tour in the States. Yet, that's what fests like these are all about - a showcase for bands who can't afford to take the plunge and leave their jobs and families for a month, all for the dubious rewards of driving hundreds of miles to play for twenty people who have never heard of you, toting merchandise that no one buys, screwed by shady promoters and venues, stuck on the bottom of a bill littered with local cover bands. An act like Månegarm is an acquired taste. Most music listeners would be turned off by their underground metal elements such as growly vocals and hammering guitars, and most people into metal would find them too jaunty to take seriously. A niche festival such as this gives fans and bands what they want: a guaranteed opportunity to enjoy each other. An hour of pure energy, Månegarm's set drew heavily on their most recent LP, Vredens Tid, so there was not much black metal to be heard. Violinist Janne Liljequist, with his curly blonde mop and glasses, was quite the oddity among the otherwise metal-dude-looking band, and his constant movement while sawing away was a spectacle in itself. I saw people headbanging, moshing, stumbling, rump-shaking and jigging, a bizarre but exhuberently natural reaction to such music as Månegarm's. Who knows if I'll ever get the chance to see them again? It's doubtful, but if the opportunity arises, I will surely take it.

That's it for day one. A look at the marathon second day should appear in the forseeable future. Until then, please amuse youself with the three very un-metal reviews I wrote this week: The Appleseed Cast's sold-out show at the Abbey Pub last Friday, Porchlight Music Theatre's "Assassins" and Brazil's sophomore LP, The Philosophy of Velocity. Smell you later.