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seasons of sickness...w/CANCERSLUG
in slc 2/12/15

Short & Sweet Review

Cancerslug ruled at The Metro in SLC.
Setlist cut short to 45 min by the venue. 

Attendance was very poor -- maybe 25 peeps by the stage. 

Crowd was lame -- cept for a very few die-hards up front center. 

Got my schwag + rare CS vinyl = Glad I went =  \m/ 

Long & Brutal Review

I was so pumped up for Cancerslug to hit SLC, I networked the entire Horde throughout this pestilential withered up valley, figuring I could generate a solid turnout to a show that just smelled legendary, and who could fucking blame me really--it's CANCERSLUG.  Well not only did every last one of my friends blow me off--nobody showed up, every single one had some lame excuse, well guess what.  They didn't miss out on too much because THE METRO cut their damn set short.   To all my friends:  you may have saved yourselves 14 bucks but you missed a wicked 45 min set despite the lame crowd who just stood there like protein deficient zombies drooling on their shoes.  I was so pumped for this show.  I wore my contacts so my  glasses wouldn't get shattered.  But if you were only there--you, too, would have stood by stupefied by the few brave souls that gathered in front of cancerslug fist pumpin' away.  Well weak turnouts happen all the time, I'm just bummed it happened here in SLC with CS.   Otherwise the band's short, sharp set kicked ass. They started off their set with a rousing rendition of Die On The Battlefield to some fist pumping from the crowd.  More than once during the intro for the first few songs, Alex mentioned in his usual way "you can dance to it, you know what that is right, you move your body around, try it you might have some fun," and made some disparaging observations about what he must've assumed to be a Mormon crowd, so completely lifeless.  Second  song is my favorite off their latest, "Generation Behind." Me and a couple of others were the only ones who began dancing right then.  I thought to myself surely someone will shove me and start the pit up, but it never came.  If you're reading this you're probably wondering well then why didn't you start the pits--and all I have to say is, one look at these miserable fucksticks was enough to fill me with pity for them.  Oh shit, triggerwarning. Granted there were several real fans front center headbanging and showing their support; but the rest of the crowd (maybe 25 people in all) were over the hill sad sacks in their denim jackets holding on to their lukewarm beers, or young kids too a-feared for having strayed that far from their local chapter's teats, I guess.  I just didn't have the heart to shatter their forlorn world.  Meanwhile, Alex is obviously getting just a tad disgustipated with the lack of slam dancing, and I knew then they weren't going to stick around much longer--and who the fuck could blame them.  At one point, Wolfman made another derisive comment about where were the pitchers etc. Ironically enough, I was going to buy pitchers for any of my friends who showed up, but considering it was a Thursday night, I suppose I should cut them some slack for their excuses.  Well fuck all that.  They missed out on a cancerslug set, albeit aborted by the dumbfounded dipshits standing around like they've never been to this sort of a show before. And I can't stress enough that it's too bad  none of my die hard friends showed up, on account of what a fucking lame evening it turned out to be--or should I hold them accountable for not showing up?-Ha, maybe- cuz if only six of them had done so, we would have had some real fun then--and awoken the primal beast inside cancerslug that was just waiting for the shit to explode. The only thing that's crystal clear to me is that the evening was absolutely not cancerslug's fault, who gave it their all only to be returned dead stares and the few obligatory shouts and fist pumps at the end of each song.  Sure, it had something to do with it being a Thursday night, I get that, but--fuck The Metro that night. 

*[Note: I found out after the show, from one of the slug cult members, that the real reason their setlist got cut short, was The Metro schedules their dance DJ for 10:15--forcing cancerslug to leave by then.  So that's where the total and complete bullshit came from. Only after the band packed their equipment away did kids start to dance--to the DJ music.  It's pretty pathetic on a level I can scarcely comprehend.]  I feel like never stepping foot in that gawdawful club again, I don't care who plays.  Don't ever book yourselves at this lame ass disco wannabe sorry excuse for a sad clown pancake makeup crusty goth dance club.  Anyhow, cancerslug wrapped up their set but quick, seemingly disgusted with the SLC crowd, but there's always more to a story lurking beneath the surface.  I was fucking mortified and ashamed by the turnout.  A total embarrassment for Salt Lake. I went to the bar and bought a pitcher for the band after just a few songs--the bartender gave me 3 plastic cups to go with it--informing me that the guitarist didn't drink.  So I purchase an additional pint of the amber beer for myself, and head over to the front of the stage, and place the full pitcher up there, with the glasses, so the band can clearly see I bought them the beer that Alex had derided us about.  Turns out they never ended up drinking any of it.  I didn't even get a chance to drink any of it--I was going to share with them, ya know--but to give them credit, they were exhausted from driving miles through the mountain, "pneumonia brought us to you" explained Dick Solid, and they were hell bent on driving the hell out of Dodge. And who wouldn't respect that. The slug cult knows they're also  "Dick Solid & the that we're not cancerslug;" it's an in joke. I don't hold any of this lame Thursday night against them, I could see how pissed off Cassie (their awesome bass player) was.  So I helped the band lug their equipment off the stage to facilitate their escape from this boring pit stop of jerk offs. Then outside, Cassie showed me their merch, and I bought one of the few remaining die hard vinyls (dark green) of their very first LP on vinyl release seasons of sickness... They wanted $35 for it which really rubbed me the wrong way at first, but I relented on account of the fact I just wanted to help support the band, help them on their way across this desolate western landscape so they could hopefully have a better time in the next city (Idaho Falls).  I intended to get two T-shirts because I was bound and determined to hook up my friend Vince Daemon, who turned me on to this fucking killer band. Cassie did not seem happy with me at all--she just wanted to get the fuck out of that place--and I don't blame her!  I probably came off like a dick myself, because no matter what I said, it was met with turned heads or ignored.  Just one of those nights. The band was mostly super nice to me. Mike their drummer was so cool, and I got to hang with Alex Story out in the parking lot, he was extremely cool to me. Like I said I don't blame Cassie--I would've been fuming myself had I been in their place. Here's to hoping I catch up with cancerslug another time in another venue--so we can have some real fun together slam dancing as the Devil intended, heh. Here's to you Cassie *raises beer* and everyone in the band, and all their fans.  I apologized to every member of the band on account of the super lame crowd that night.  When their set finally ended, cut short after the 45 minutes--the pathetic excuse of a crowd applauded as if they were at some tea party instead. I shouted out loud, "I APOLOGIZE ON ACCOUNT OF MY HOSE HEAD BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN SALT LAKE" which was uber nerdy and came across all wrong, so fuck me.  Even my best friends who were no shows, lucked out on missing me I guess.  They would have wasted their time and money on account of the dead crowd literally aborting the cancerslug show.  I had to empty my pockets at their van of all the cash I had left on me--$68--after having bought the band a pitcher they never even got to drink.  It just wasn't in the stars that night. But I ended up with a cool patch and a shirt and the killer vinyl, which was  supposed to end up being a total of $70--so we cashed out and they left.  Can't blame 'em one bit for wanting to just move on down the road to (hopefully) a better venue and crowd.  It was an ugly experience befitting the spirit of wretched, rotten nihilism permeating the cult.  I had an ugly time with a small crowd of dead beats, but we got to listen to a killer sounding set. That's what matters. I can't repeat enough that it wasn't the band's fault. Their set albeit cut short was stellar rock and roll fury. I'm so fucking stoked I decided to give em all my money to end up with this vinyl LP because it is fucking killer! There is no doubt I made the right choice.  I'm listening to it now--gotta flip it over to side 2 in fact, for some lessons in death.  I had half a mind to let Alex carve the crescent moon crossed by a lightning bolt that signifies CS right between my shoulder blades with his knife, as a sort of penance--haha/deadpan kidding--fuck that.  I sure hope they fared better in Idaho Falls, because The Metro crowd was an embarrassment I'll never live down.  And hey, Vinnie:  no, I didn't snap any pics, because my cellphone is a sorry piece of shit. Neither did I have em sign my vinyl, just meeting them was enough for me.  I'm damn lucky to end up with this flagship die hard vinyl first edition for the band.  A legendary underground item if there ever was one for this sick and jaded age.  Nothing again will be alright for you and I are on this road to hell relax and let it burn. Your fear and pain now are setting like the sun.  Fuck all of you, I'm done.


melt-banana bring their Playstation Grindcore to SLC

Late Sunday evening on October 20, 2013, melt-banana stepped up on stage and blitzkrieged Salt Lake City's URBAN LOUNGE with a fury reminiscent of a couple of Pokemon's on methamphetamines.  I couldn't possibly tell you which song they started off with, nor the titles of any of the songs they tore through last night. Suffice it to say I believe they've engendered a new genre, "Playstation Grindcore", and all the hipster bearded kids with earplugs and horn rimmed glasses seemed to like 'em well enough.

This is Onuki. Her vocals may be described as a spastic cartoon creature on helium plugged into an electric socket. She held this weird palm pilot gizmo with multicolored lights and a blue glowing ring on it in her right hand, sweeping it around and holding it at odd angles, until I realized it must have a movie camera function. I think it's a weird Japanese iPod mutation which she records their live performances with, because she kept aiming it towards her bandmate, Agata.

It occurred to me that Agata may actually wear his surgical mask not for any aesthetic reasons, but in order to prevent him from contracting any viruses from having been exposed to large international crowds every night while they're on tour. Whatever the reason for the mask, it looks sick as all get out and has become a trademark image for this post punk psycho Nintendo grindcore band.

The main complaint was the loss of their original bassist, Hamamoto. It's really too bad they've been stripped down to a two-piece. However, the two remaining members of this freakish outfit truly delivered the brain melting blastbeats and psychokinetic guitar attacks courtesy of Agata. I heartily recommend melt-banana if one is in need of staying awake late at night or has perhaps run out of coffee or crystal meth. On the other hand, if one values their hearing and wishes to keep the tympanic membrane of their inner ear from being eviscerated, one might choose to either wisely bring earplugs, stand far away from the speakers, or simply bow out from attending their shows. 


 As for the rest of us whose Cochlear nerves have withstood torrents of inhumanly loud grindcore and other variations of extreme metal without seeming to have suffered much from it, I urgently beseech thee to get thyselves to the next melt-banana show and let the exterior layers of your psyche be blasted away into another dimension. I'm glad I went despite the fact it was a Sunday night and I had to be at work early this morning. It was considerably better than going to Church. 


Peter Murphy Rocks SLC Urban Lounge w/the Mr. Moonlight Tour

That's the only pic I bothered to take at the recent PETER MURPHY show a couple weeks ago here in Salt Lake City, July 17, at our small local dive bar THE URBAN LOUNGE.

Before Peter Murphy took the stage, I want to mention that the excellent band OURS currently out of LA opened for him. I was lucky enough to catch them live the last time Peter Murphy toured through Salt Lake City, and once again they delivered a pounding, mesmerizing new wave industrial alternative set with their lead singer Jimmy Gnecco fronting with a dark charisma that I personally have found missing from today's scene. OURS is a refreshing alternative band for the Twenty-Teens. Now that I've seen them perform twice, I'm bummed that I missed them headline here last year (I think it was). If OURS ever tours through here again, I will be sure to attend that show and support them. I intend to get their albums, most likely starting backward with their Rick Rubin produced 2008 album Dancing For The Death Of An Imaginary Enemy.

Finally, Peter Murphy and his band padded out onto the stage. They delivered the BAUHAUS hits alright. 90% of the setlist was comprised of old Bauhaus tunes (as promised). Come to think of it, I don't recall having heard a single song off their excellent swan song GO AWAY WHITE, which is either too bad or else I somehow missed it during all the excitement. Peter Murphy's band is a pretty tight-knit group of goths. His guitarist resembled Trent Reznor. Drummer looked like a cross between Josh Brolin and Dax Riggs. Bass player looked eerily like my friend and Freezine veteran Vincent Daemon. That set the stage visually for the perfect 80s Goth night out. Swear to god the place was packed to the gills with dead fish. Yes it was Sold Out. . . to zombies.

I really wanted to push through the packed crowd in front of the stage—but everyone is standing room only with drinks in their hands—and I'm not about to be "that guy" who spills someone's drink, I'm there to have a good time and not be an A-hole. So we wait it out for awhile but the entire time no one up front is dancing or anything. Eventually I say "fukkit" and just, you know, squeeeeeze thru the dumbfounded dipshits until I get practically to the front center (being led the way by my beautiful friend whose good female looks grant her more of a pass than my sorry good for nothing ass I'll say that much). So I follow her as best I can, until I'm almost up there and some yahoo behind me shoves me forward (of course, which I like actually...that gets me to grinning) up into the front row peeps, whereupon this rankled bitch comes at me with a cold look and a "don't be an asshole, man" and I just look at her and smile saying "I got shoved up here, sorry" and she dares to repeat her dumb line, "don't be an asshole" again, so I just ignore her.

 My friend is right there beside me, and she obviously wants to dance, as I do. So we start doing our best, only this lost fucking generation of "twenty-teens" or whatever the fuck you wanna call it doesn't really know what to do—are we trying to mosh—?—[NO]. It's called dancing, Google it. So of course they respond as if we're trying to start a moshpit and I'll tell you what. I have no problem with the notion of starting up a pit here, but honestly that is not why I came to see Peter Murphy. Also I am not that guy. Wrong show. So of course I allow myself to be shoved to and fro with a big smile on my face all the while, really enjoying the extra attention by peeved morons in the crowd. Soon they give up, and then I really start dancing in place—not shoving anyone—just doing the Twist with the manic intensity of Tom Jones, so my friend joins in and we're just having a blast. There's maybe three other people near us also dancing and that's it. The rest just stand there, annoyed. We are overjoyed. I begin to frenetically gyrate my hips ala Ahmet Zappa, exaggeratedly shaking my ass with as much lewdness as I can muster (which is quite a lot, actually). Now we're really having fun and soon we're doing the "fish bubble shimmy", as I call it (you know the one) to Peter Murphy's impassioned singing. We were just having the time of our lives. I know Peter Murphy noticed us, cuz we were right smack in front of him practically, I had my gray tank-top with the old-school black BATMAN logo on it to honor "the bats flew from the belfry..." aka Bela Lugosi's Dead.

 It must've been in the mid-to high 90s in that club, but that didn't stop us, nor did it seem to phase Peter and his band much. They took a break at one point but when they returned back onstage for the encores, Peter had changed up his shirt to a long-sleeve! The sweat drip-drip-dripped steadily off his nose while he tweaked on various synth instruments.

 I didn't stick around for autographs or anything like that, just had to escape out into the crisp nighttime air and cool off a bit.

 That was my fourth Peter Murphy show and it was excellent.