Sonisphere;"A Lesson in Headbanging"
Rude AwakeningsThe cellular alarm goes off like foghorn on a Saturday morning at seven. Last night´s screwdrivers are still sloshing around in my head and only the gods of metal manage to muster in me the drive to rise from my rest. I quit the couch in the strange Malmö apartment and nearly trip over Blossom the brunette, all bursting with excessive good looks, dozing off the wages of yesternight on a mattress on the floor. Hoisting all my god awful amount of luggage I tread lightly past the door of the bedroom where Shita the blond bombshell lay similarly cataleptic.
I´m missing the area code, so no taxi through the phone for me. Instead I, slow and luggage laden, lurch towards the nearest stand.
The A.M is a series train and bus switches amassing more metal heads at every stop. At random podunk bus station nr. one, Disfigured Retard Woman is yelling idiot information through the bus window at her Daughter of the Drained Gene Pool. The daughter woman assures her she has all the pertinent travel info on lock down, but half an hour later something goes awry and she, sitting right behind me as luck would have it, starts yakking in monosyllabic confusion on the phone, louder then a yank.
The doors in the middle of the bus won´t close and bus driver guy rolls his merry way blissfully unaware, uncaring, or both. This reckless behavior triggers a chatter without respite from two teenage girls sitting across the aisle from me. Inane, offended and blatantly self contradictory in their statements they prey on the bus driver’s ethnicity and his every shortcoming, while using the word “seriously” until it´s but the empty husk of it´s former self.
Queue 4 YouFinally at the Hultsfred festival grounds I pounce at every passing employee and volunteer for info on where to find the Info tent, but am informed that this is info they´ve not been informed of. The tent turns out to be a shack and I get my press bracelet strapped on before braving the impossible line for the camp grounds. The mass of metal maniacs moves but in fits and starts and half an hour later and fifty feet farther forth the line behind me is grown ten thousand strong. The shows have long since started, but although
Dead by April currently tops the Swedish charts and can be vaguely heard performing in the distance, not a single victim of waiting within earshot expresses any disappointment in missing them.
The camping entrance has six gates side by side, yet only one is manned. Nice move AEG Live. Fed up with this shit I leave my luggage behind and advance on the gate to find out what the fucking problem is. Turns out they´re fitting festival goers with bracelets. God fucking damnit, I´m already braceleted, so the waiting was in vain. Hence I go back for the bags, snake the line and pitch the tent in a hell of a hurry.
The line at the festival entrance is afflicted by the same inefficiency, but my sweet press bracelet again takes me past lines and security pat downs- packing four of the five things not permitted on the grounds.
Then There Was Rock...As I descend on Stage 2,
The (international) Noise Conspiracy is making a terrible racket. The crowd is thin and the rock is pretentious. The fact that the least talented member of Refused is the only one that came out of the band´s death with a further career in music, albeit in form of fronting this shit, is a Swedish musical tragedy surpassed only by Cliff Burton´s 1986 death in a bus crash not far from here.
...which Succumbed to Metal!Over on Stage 1,
Lamb of God are just about set to crush. As the most relevant band in metal today, their low billing is quite a mystery. LoG are as convincing as expected, but the sound is kick drum heavy, bass blurred, and the shifting winds contribute to fucking up a performance that may have been sloppy only because the members are unable to hear each other. Blythe is audible only between songs when praising the audience for being “way crazier” then the crowd in Switzerland two days earlier. That is however as far as he goes with the pandering, unlike some ingratiating frontmen to
follow. Still, barring inadequate sound engineering, when Ruin hits it´s drum break their genius however is unmistakable and throughout the barrage, all the way to the last measures of Black Label, there is the feeling that this will undoubtedly be the harshest assault perpetrated all day long.
Then a Short Interlude of Greatness
During the post-LoG lull while
Meshuggah are still setting up across the grounds on S2 I happen upon L.G Petrov with the current Entombed line-up in the V.I.P bar and buffet area. They are jokingly discussing artist/fan relations and asking fans professing their love for Entombed for beer money. As Meshuggah breaks out in the tightest and best sounding set of the day I spot Nico Elgstrand on the sidelines puffing a joint and bum a couple tokes. The slight high enhances both the jazz metal experience and the giggles when Kidman, unlike his American peers, makes fun of the audience instead of ceremoniously kissing their asses. The Obzen tracks erupt with metronome precision, and other career spanning numbers click as well. The only thing missing is a rendition of their inarguable masterpiece Future Breed Machine.
Amateur Night at the ApolloOnce Meshuggah´s final off-beat is beat it´s time for a comedy routine on S1, in the form of
Cradle of Filth. Their stage show is a mixture of prop comedy (i.e their keyboard solos), a clown act (Dani Filth´s make-up), animal impressions (his vocals) and the black metal parody that is their music. The lead guitar neck is constantly pointed to the skies and Dani Filth (curiously the only member vain enough for a stage name) ends every line of lyrics with an incredibly high pitched shriek that he probably thinks sounds more evil then the U.S health care system, when it really sounds like the crying of a growth stunted young boy being corporeally punished after his father caught him playing with his mother´s make-up. Which, coincidentally, is exactly how he looks.
During the comedy hour Entombed is getting ever more drunk and high spirited inside the V.I.P area , laughing their asses off at Cradle of Filth. I roll a spliff of my own, aiming to return Nico the favor, but am informed he´s gone backstage to the CoF changing room to fuck with them. Fuck with them as I myself would like ( having done so on a previous occasion), sadly my press pass is not entirely access all areas.
Call of the MastodonWith the levity portion over a diametrically opposed band is set to unleash back on S2. Apparently Metallica herald this band as hopefully replacing themselves on the Throne of Metal someday. Sweet as that statement is, here´s to hoping that
Mastodon never find themselves in Metallica´s footsteps; creatively spent, adored by idiots and relying on pyrotechnics.
With Mastodon every album is beyond reproach and groundbreaking in it´s own way, which means their set list always lives up to expectations, no matter it´s components. The patter between songs is minimal, never resorting to kissing audience ass, and the music speaks for it’s glorious self. The sound is adequate, although not so stellar as previously achieved by Meshuggah, and as we are invited to the opening track of Crack the Skye the heavens open up and rain down on the festival, rinsing the air of the rancid stench left by CoF.
As per custom Sanders and Hinds share vocal duties, with Dailor, not content with merely providing the sickest drum fills in metal, pitching in on a song or two. As Sanders and Hinds pace and bang, Kelliher, as is his wont, stands stage left, immobile and playing solidly, albeit a tad perfunctorily. As expected, tracks off of Leviathan reap the most audience response, yet it´s with the closing song, the much anticipated March of the Fire Ants (from their ridiculous debut LP Remission), that the crowd goes ballistic. The Maidenesque mid-section reverberates like a stroke of aural genius and as the final riff ebbs away into the downpour, the remainder of the, by now drenched, festival is rendered comparatively moot.
And a Session of MotherfuckingBy this time alcohol is starting to cloud my mind, which somehow makes me psyched that
Machine Head are taking stage. Never having been a fan and not yet having heard their critically acclaimed new(ish) album The Blackening, I convince myself that I´d been too young to appreciated Burn My Eyes when it dropped back in ’94, and that their apparently considerable clout must somehow be substantiated.
Not so at all. Halfway through the set I´ve yet to divine a single actual song out of the screeching wail of guitars and Robb Flynn´s behaviour closely resembles Ben Stiller´s Simple Jack character in Tropic Thunder. Flynn seems to labor under the misapprehension that inserting the word “motherfucker” into every sentence automatically makes you a tough guy, and that in between songs you must heap constant praise on the audience, assuring them that they are indeed crazy as all hell.
As the motherfucking show progresses the fucking motherfuckers on the fucking stage finally start fucking wringing some recognizable motherfucking tunes out of their fucking instruments and their friggin’ appearance momentarily lifts a bit from the fucking spectacle of stupid American motherfuckers acting like stupid American motherfuckers. You dig, motherfucker?
Yet the lackluster Machine Head –albeit only according to Flynn- draws twice the crowd The Killers did on the same stage only the previous weekend. Which really proves nothing, as they had stiffer competition within a larger festival, but gives me the opportunity to interject my opinion that The Killers, or at the very least their revolting lyricist, should be Killed. Slowly.
As the last note echoes away over the adjacent lake, Flynn bids the audience farewell with the suitably idiot remark “Thank you Stockholm”. Stockholm would surely thank him back, were it not 300 odd kilometers away.
Tic Tic Boom?With daylight fading the bands get progressively bigger and less interesting, while the sets get longer, both in actual time and in the how long they feel. Save for
The Hives.
Howlin´ Pelle leads the charge, whether he be on stage, in the pit or on top of the amplifier stacks. Clad in white overalls, The Hives are all showmanship and energy. The punk rock is both huge heaps of fun and catchy like a NY Mets shortstop, but of course eons removed, both in technique and songwriting ambition, from peers such as Mastodon and Meshuggah. Yet this is the performance that the rest of the day is measured by, including Nicholaus Arson´s broken guitar, Howlin´ Pelle´s boundless circumbulation and his cocky and blatantly fraudulent claim that drummer Chris Dangerous´s left arm by it self is faster than any five metal drummers combined. Then, with with the final number, Tic Tic Boom, it´s sadly over.
And, in Passing, a Couple Other BandsThe joy stored up from The Hives performance is just about enough to see one through fucking Primal Scream, who´s agonizing performance- although filled with many hits that I´d previously not accredited to them- seemed utterly out of place under the circumstances.
The old fart´s parade continues with The Cult, whom I will waste no energy reporting on, and climaxes with the marathon performance of burnouts extraordinaire, Metallica.
Yeah You Heard Me Right, I Said Metallica!For a total of 18 songs, whereof far too many composed after the band collectively lost their fucking minds,
Metallica are a series of fireworks and burning flames, the pyrotechnic kind that is. Not to slander the bands actual stage performance, which obviously has long since become second nature to them, but I see nothing to be all that excited about. At least if you measure a stage act with the volatility of a Dillinger Escape Plan show as the benchmark.
Hetfield, of course, is seasoned and confident, with the most instantly recognizable voice in Metal. Were it not for his inability to shut up between songs, the show, for all its long windedness, would actually be bearable. That is if you ignore the fact that Lars Ulrich handles a drum kit like he doesn´t have full use of his extremities.
When Hetfield asks the crowd if anyone´s bought Death Magnetic, their latest excuses for a thrash metal album, there is not much response. “Well...” he says “were gonna play a Death Magnetic song anyway”. Which is the highest measure of attitude displayed by the aging crooner all nightmare long, as his stage patter consists mostly of sentimental gibberish about a “Metallica family” and endless yammering about the bands undying love for Sweden.
And then there´s the bald faced lies. At least three times during the encore –not the traditional sort when a band exits stage and then returns only if the general clamor for an extra number is loud enough, but merely a quick breather between too many songs and far too many songs- Hetfield promises that the current song will be absolutely the last one. Still there are more. Quantity over quality seems to be the philosophy, for how else can you justify an encore of Last Caress? A fucking Misfits cover for god´s sakes (yes I know it´s standard Metallica practice. Still doesn´t make it any less crap).
Once the actual last last song has sounded off and Hetfield is waving the Swedish flag like he just took Ivo Jima I´m hella spent, having had limited shut eye the previous night. So despite the allure of a raging night of Dj´s and obscure after hours band, I gravitate towards my tent. A veritable oasis in the muddy mire of a field subject to heavy rain and myriad footfall.
Down a quart of Koskenkorva and a dozen beers I stumble towards sweet, sweet sleep all the while wondering if Metallica enjoyed any help from Brandon Flowers in creating such transcendent play on words as evidenced by Death Magnetic tracks such as All Nightmare Long.
Words and photos by Bogi Bjarnason
Click the photos for larger versions.
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