Oh, ye Brotherhood of Sweat! Ye goblins and goons of the pit! Revel in the release of sweaty shoves and primal pushes! Let out your magnificent "YAWP!"
For tonight you have come to the spectacle of spectacles - the dirty youth of the city gather in anticipation. The steady beat of a bass drum calls them to attention like the march of war, and bodies crush against bodies as they form a ring around the ringleader. It is a war against complacency that they fight. Against singer-songwriters and people who care how their hair looks. It's a war against material attachments. A war against not having your drink ripped from your hand and tossed merrily over the heads of fellow soldiers. Beware, those who enter here: Here there be dragons.
This is not a show for the meek of heart; nor is it a show for those mistakenly looking for a concert. You want to dance and enjoy music? Come early for Th' Legendary Shack Shakers. Their harmonica laden, tweaked out rockabilly is like a meth-fueled hoedown, worth the price of admission. Those are men who have mastered their musical craft - Duane Denison from The Jesus Lizard on guitar, Mark "Big Duke" Robertson "on the shithouse bass," Brett Whitacre playing drums, and Colonel JD conducting the whole shebang. They are a riot on stage, but a digestible one; the Shack Shakers are the petting zoo to Monotonix' cage of lions.
If you are bold enough, oh valiant beast, stay for Monotonix, the most ass-kickingest band to come out of Israel since, well, since ever. Banned from venues across that country, they take refuge in the loose morals and lax standards that we in this great union hold. Join them in their unholy celebration of the raw, the carnal. They turn their backs on the stage, choosing instead to play their show in the center of the floor, surrounded by the masses; so too should you turn your back on the norm, setting yourself free from the expectations of society.
Do you want to stand toward the edge of the crowd, listening to crunching guitars and spastic drums? So be it - the option is yours. Should you choose to push your experience to the limit, though, venture into the swarming pit, overrun with euphoric youth, tripping on adrenaline. They may emerge bloodied and bruised, yes, but they also emerge with a sense of knowledge, a frenetic combination of rage and exuberance that comes only from the reckless smashing of skin against skin as a trio soundtracks your every thrash.
This will be a show that you attempt to describe to friends. You will speak of the moving stage, the unsteady surfing of body on crowd, the brave nine-foot leap of singer onto outstretched hands. You will describe the lewd mimicry, the unique collaboration, the permanent looks of surprise on the faces of men who do this night after night. This explanation is all for naught; to understand war you must have fought in it. Beware, those who enter here: Here there be dragons.
