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Priestess Concert Review
As predictable as ever, just as I was starting to plan my evening out at the Congress Theater with Black Label Society, the rain began to fall. The day had begun quite clearly, with warm sunshine edging out the cold, but by 5:30 the clouds were thick and the wind rather brisk. The theme continues.
And, as I sat in the suffocating crush of inbound traffic, the light drizzle became torrential, dampening my hopes for a quick and smooth commute along with the world outside. An hour later I was only four miles further in towards the city; so, abandoning the highway I took to public transportation. I am unsure what fit of madness made me think this a good decision, but I was forced to stick to it once boarding that first train, forty minutes of waiting later. I disembarked at the Western stop. ‘Southern’, of perhaps even ‘South of the Border’ might have been a more appropriate name; as many signs in this neighborhood were in Spanish as there were in English, and its general alien nature made me feel even less at home.
Following the map provided by Google, I took a right from the exit of the station, walking through what had become one of the wettest nights in recent memory. My camera bulged awkwardly under my jacket, but even a second outside in that downpour would have turned all its pretty digital machinations into an obstinate, inert lump of expensive plastic.
It was about 20 minutes into this proverbial running of the gauntlet that I realized the map had been incorrect. The block numbers were descending, not ascending, though it had been until this point impossible to tell, considering how poor the street and property signage was. Strangely, perhaps as a defense mechanism, my mood was unaffected, and I turned around, this time walking into the wind and freezing rain, and headed back the way I’d come.
When I finally reached the Congress Theater, I had been ‘commuting’ by one form or another for two full hours, the last forty minutes by foot through puddles on the sidewalk and muddy paths. Fortunately, the show had a 7:30 start time, so I only missed the first few minutes of the opening act, Priestess.
Before I could focus on them, though, I was overwhelmed by the theater itself. This was my first time at the Congress, and while it was a unique and fascinating experience, physically, I cannot say it is one I would soon like to repeat. The entry to the building is rather homely and unkempt—a few panes of glass in their numerous front doors are spidered with cracks, and the general décor seemed almost entirely infused with must. After this distinctly underwhelming façade, the interior came as quite a surprise. Upon passing through the outer doorways, one enters into a spacious, elegant ballroom with sweeping staircases on either side and intricate decorations upon the walls stretching all the way up to the ceiling, some 60 feet above. The staircases lead to the 700 balcony seats set at the back and sides of the actual concert hall, while the two hallways underneath them led to the 5,000 sq ft. standing floor. I took the latter route, passing three beer vendors along the way before seeing the stage.
At this point, the venue was perhaps 1/5th of the way full. Some rather bored looking fans loitered at the back of the hall, others sat in the old-fashioned, velvet auditorium seats, while perhaps a hundred or two were grouped down near the stage. This room, too, was elegantly decorated with a massive cupola taking up nearly half the ceiling, but it looked as though it had not seen renovation since the turn of the century (the 20th). That worn quality combined with the smoky air and sparse attendance made it feel like something out of John Carpenter’s ‘Escape From New York’. This is, of course, a rather unnerving feeling, and I found myself looking over my shoulder regularly, either to dissuade potential sociopathic pickpockets or thinking I might see a feather-haired, eyepatched Kurt Russell ducking into some darkened alcove. Neither appeared—one of the few turns of luck that went my way this night.
On the wide, recessed stage, Priestess were pounding out the most recognizable tracks from their debut, ‘Hello, Master’. I was struck by how young they looked, both against the backdrop of that aged concert hall and also as performers to this largely grizzled (or at least over 35) ‘good ol’ boy’ crowd I now found myself uncomfortably a part of. This was the sort of audience where a leather vest, plaid flannel, and v-neck Miller High Life T’s shirts were considered dress-up. This jibe aside, there were, actually, a truly remarkable number of fans wearing Black Label Society shirts. I realize it was their show, after all, but few bands aside from the classic rock legends and Iron Maiden can inspire that sort of heart-on-sleeve (or logo on chest, as it were) loyalty. Along with these shirts, the women in the crowd (of which there were quite a few) wore a lot of blonde hair dye and tanning lotion—a combination that seems to have worked, as I saw at least a few of them being led through a side door, presumably to backstage.
Back to Priestess. They had a raucous quality to their music that does not come across too clearly on the album, and the AFI-like sing-along choruses were overmatched by the hard rock fury with which they played their instruments. The wails of lead singer/guitarist Mikey Heppner reminded me somewhat of Wolfmother’s young exuberance, and the way he held his guitar up high against his chest looks like it’s pulled right out of the book of axe-chopping metalcore stage show technique. They played with high energy, taking the briefest of breaks between songs to introduce the next one (sometimes twice, mistakenly) or say, ‘How about them Bears?’ which the crowd obviously appreciated.
They chose an impressive one-two to close out their 30 minute set, beginning with an impressive drum solo from Vince Nudo, whose heavy kick usage put Priestess closer to the realm of metal than anything else they’d played until that point. As the final capstone, Priestess included a classic sludge piece consisting of a single, monolithic riff that oozed and bristled with each repetition. It doesn’t sound like it came from their album and in searching I have yet to find it, but it was, alongside their drum solo, the most metal cut of the entire night, from any band.
After half an hour they finished and the next band, Black Stone Cherry, began to set up. I hadn’t known they were going to be performing, nor had I ever heard of them before, but they are labelmates with Black Label Society and fit the bill of groove-laden hard rock, so their inclusion here makes sense. The audience seemed to recognize them, some of them cheering when band members appeared to set up equipment and singing along to some of their catchier tracks.
Their gimmicky back-drop (which took the form of two, 6x6 screens set up in front of the monitors, each with a cigar-chewing, fierce looking cherry upon it) was a little disconcerting, but once they launched into their opening track, ‘Rain Wizard’ with a surprising fury and coordination of headbanging, I perked up. Unfortunately, those clever harmonies and heavy riffing are cut down almost completely for their verses, which fall into that stereotype of hard rock where a simple vocal melody is ‘sung’ over a simple one-two drum beat and palm-muted power chord. Vocalist/guitarist Chris Robertson seemed to try to kick up his delivery for the setting, though, breaking out the yell a bit more often than he does on album, with mixed results.
After a few songs, they introduced themselves, praising Priestess and thanking Black Label Society for bringing them on tour, and then talking a bit about themselves. Black Stone Cherry come from Kentucky, as the blonde guitarist Ben Wells told us proudly. The crowd by this time was drunk enough to find this a highly commendable feat and cheered enthusiastically. Although Kentucky is not quite a hotbed of metal activity (and, to be fair, Black Stone Cherry are not its ultimate harbinger), they still were charismatic and knew how to play to the crowd. They played their take on the southern ballad (Lynyrd Skynyrd still wrote the best in ‘Simple Man’), had a surprisingly soulful blues solo duel between Robertson and Wells, and throughout their 40 minute set were supported by one of the best drum performances I have seen in recent months (legendary Flo Mounier of Cryptopsy included). Their skinsman’s name is John Fred Young; to describe him, picture Sideshow Bob (The Simpsons) in reality, make him sweaty, continually grimacing, and yes, include the hair. If possible, make it even more outrageous.
Young would from time to time stand up, gesturing at the crowd or clapping his fist to his chest, tossing drumsticks out into the crowd or screaming along to some of the words. In the photo pit, I could hear him bellowing out as he smashed away, once even shattering a stick in half (clean break, no splintering here), the front half of which came clattering to my feet. Towards the end of their set, Wells and Robertson showed off some flair, putting their guitars behind their heads and soloing away. As if the crowd wasn’t energized enough by this, Young climbed up, one foot on his stool and the other on his snare, goading us all on to further cheers. At the final climax, Wells held up his guitar and Young ‘played’ it with his drumsticks. The sound wasn’t quite comparable to Jimmy Page with the violin bow, but it certainly looked nice in action.
Once finished, the crowd began to stir in earnest. The theater had by this time filled up, and as I surveyed the crowd I realized this was the largest live metal show I had ever attended. There were at least 3,000 people in attendance, milling around the floor or packed into the balcony seating above. During the half-hour layover, I had more than enough time to soak up the nicotine and booze through my pores, and was interested by the unveiling of BLS’s massive front stage banner (their logo across the top of a huge, forward-facing skull), but the real entertainment (and disappointment, too) was the crowd.
It is easy to forget, ensconced at the computer, that the majority of metal fans are beer-drinking, blue-collar folk looking for some aggression to expel. BLS fans embody this stereotype quite fully, although I was surprised to see some Slipknot or Nile shirts on some of the younger fans. What wasn’t a surprise was the stumbling drunk carrying a canned beer in either hand mumbling about $100 bills being handed out in the rear of the theater and thinking himself quite clever in his attempt to trick people into moving out of his way. Whether he thought that drinking from each can in alternation would provide him with a unique taste sensation or simply keep his equilibrium from being further compromised will remain a mystery. I suspect the latter, though I doubt he thought of it quite that clearly.
This episode, the noodlings of an amorous, typical southern couple next to me, and the cheap thrills offered by a pseudo-flasher on the balcony made the half hour bearable, and at around 10:00 the air raid sirens at the sides of the stage began to howl. I turned back to the stage, for the first time seeing the second, even more complex banner at the back of the stage, and realizing for the first time how huge the amp set-up was. Each guitarist had a bank of approximately 8, stacked in pairs, spanning at least fifteen feet from side to side. The kit was raised between them, and the front of the stage had stakes with skulls on them as props. The piano prelude began, taken from the Dimebag tribute ‘In This River’, and then the twin guitars of Zakk Wylde and Nick Catanese chimed in. At this point, the banner covering the front of the stage was still lowered, hiding some of the band members (Zakk included) from view. Even after the first couple bars of their first song were sung, it remained. It was not until the verse kicked into high gear and the lights came up to full that the banner dropped to the floor and the band were revealed. The crowd, of course, thought this was just the most delightful thing ever and roared in appreciation. I myself thought it a bit coy, but they’re the one’s playing to the crowd, not me.
Zakk stood center stage, wielding the black and white swirled guitar that has become his trademark, and with excellent production (something all the bands benefited from) they carried away. I was not too familiar with BLS, so this night was my first critical exposure to them, and I must say that he’s got his niche worked out. Easy to remember, straightforward hard rock tracks sung in his signature, reedy yet powerful twang (no doubt influenced by his time with Ozzy) with time in each track for his bluesy shredding. Not only a musical niche, either—his physical image has been groomed quite well, reflecting the carefree rustic look that beer-loving men aspire to and southern women swoon over. While he wears it well and no doubt is completely comfortable in it, I could not help but think him a less fearsome version of Amon Amarth’s Johann Hegg.
I digress.
The audience was absolutely in love with their show, singing along or cheering and throwing the horns at almost every opportunity, clapping their hands and pumping fists (both woefully out of time but with admirable gusto). As I absorbed the backdrop, rife with alcohol references and other southern imagery, I realized that no matter how much small cliques of Americans enjoy bands from overseas, the real (read: successful) American metal is the style that Black Label Society have patented. It’s easy to identify with, appeals to our simple sensibilities, and, gosh darn it, it’s done by good ol’ American boys.
I suspect the tendency of BLS fans to also be fans of NASCAR is rather frequent.
At the beginning of the second song, I went to the pit to get some pictures. I had done this for both Priestess and Black Stone Cherry without incident, but after getting through the crush to the stage, I was told by security, ‘No, no more pictures’. Confused, I showed them my photo pass, issued by BLS staffers themselves, with the custom image of their ‘Shot To Hell’ tour and all, but they were obstinate.
And this is where I got frustrated. As part of the press, I represent (vicariously) the institution that provides these men the exposure that grants them their livelihood. Perhaps it was simply a misunderstanding, but I somehow don’t think so. If I’m going to suffer a 40 minute torrent of freezing rain and drop 15 bucks on transportation just to photograph a band, the least they could do is actually allow me to do my job. Perhaps they already had enough press, perhaps they didn’t want any pictures taken that night, either way, it is irrelevant. The point is, don’t string me along and make me endure the sloppy indulgences of your fans just to tell me two hours into the show that I can’t take pictures.
Obviously, this was an…issue, so after retreating back into the crowd and taking some pictures anyway (albeit from rather far away and without flash), I left. Or, I was going to. BLS, not to be upstaged by their opening acts, also performed the over-the-head trick, and in closing out one of their new singles tagged the signature riff of ‘Iron Man’ onto the end. I suppose playing with Ozzy gives Zakk some right to its usage, but I still stood there for a minute or two afterwards, peering at them, undecided as to how I should react.
As if to punish me further for my petty resentment, the outbound train was delayed by forty minutes, while no less than four trains from the opposite direction came and went. The rain had blessedly stopped by now, but the temperature was quickly dropping to freezing. After descending to the ground floor to complain to the attendant, I finally heard the rattling of the el arriving (how appropriate my timing), and was able to dash back up to catch it in time, get back to my car at a respectable time, blast the heat at maximum, and, somehow, still hit bad traffic at 11:30 at night coming home.
I thank Priestess and Black Stone Cherry for putting on a good show and making the night worth my while (in part). Black Label Society and Zakk Wylde, while I respect the solidarity and camaraderie you invoke in your fans and peers (indeed, it is as strong as I see in any part of the music scene), this miscommunication is less than becoming. Poor relations and communication between band members, between band and label, band and press, press and label, etc. can be quite frustrating, and sometimes for no intentional reason, so I will try not to hold a grudge.
But next time, guys, please get on the ball.
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