I ask Bob the time until the show. It’s negative 5-minutes. There is a hard curfew, it can now only be a 67-minute set!!
The intro begins. It is the kind of music/ambiance you hear on a haunted Halloween CD. A deep, monstrous voice speaks, “I am going to eat you.” The air becomes kinetic over the Ocean before the erupting thrall comes.
Sounds.
Doyle’s guitar. Jerry’s Bass.
The curtain drops. Lombardo’s drums.
Glenn is a ferocious wolverine.
Suddenly, death comes rippin’.
There is a surge.
Everyone fades away, as we are churned by the Ocean’s current. I try to weather this force of nature. The crowd tightens. Shoulder to shoulder. The flank that was just watching Rob Zombie must be pushing from the left. It loosens, and I am sucked forward into the first of many circle pits. I jump around and have a good time, but don’t stay. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Except for negotiating the occasional tall fellow, the closer I get, the better my view. I am a moth drawn to the light.
There are tech issues but the band sounds great. Jerry is right. They are at the pinnacle. Old timers may have seen them back in the day, but never like this. We are at the right place, at the right time to see Glenn, Jerry, and Doyle. Monsters are among us. They play their songs, and it inspires unity among us in the Ocean, and we sing. We don’t know each other. Under any other circumstances, we might not like each other… But tonight, we turn to each other and sing the lyrics like we have a thousand times before – On our iPods, YouTube, CDs, tapes, and vinyl. We put our arms around each other. We are strangers embracing, in disbelief that we are seeing what we are seeing.
Some of the audience don’t know the words. But it’s ok, they know Woah, Go, and No – and that is all they need to join our fellowship.
And then there are ones who frown. They don’t sing. They don’t Woah. They have no clue. They just know this is a historic event, and they are curious to see what all the fuss is about. They’re on their phones. Or watching the show through them, probably thinking about all the YouTube hits they are going to get from their cellphone video, that they will probably forget to upload anyway.
They are here in place of the fiends who could make it out. The fiends who deserve to be here to see history taking place.
Now, I am closer.
We are 138 is about to begin. A girl takes an iPad!?! out of her bag. She starts recording. It blocks her face from the stage RIGHT in front of her. She is happy to watch through the screen. I am not, it blocks my view. I talk to the back of her head,
“Hey, I’d lower that if I were you, it’s 138, and I am about to lose my mind.”
She doesn’t even turn around, instead turns slightly to the side and scoffs.
A loud crescendo of chords.
Silence, and then like a baseball chant… 84,000 people all sing that WE ARE 138. The song RIPS wide open.
I jump in front of iPad idiot and do exactly what I said I would: Lose my mind! From behind I feel punches and slaps on my back. I jump up high like Air Jordan (at least in my mind) and soldier on forward into another circle pit.
A guy who has no business crowd surfing, crowd surfs despite gravity’s insistence otherwise. He is concerned for his well-being. I am concerned for mine, and I try to have nothing to do with it but somehow find myself holding him up with both hands (I do have help) but still, it makes me feel like Superman. He is passed on. Something drops - delicate aviator sunglasses, I try to return them to the surfer by placing them on his face. As he floats away he lets me know they are not his.
Paradoxically, I somehow never seem to completely run out of energy. My onboard reserves may have depleted, but I am now tapped into the music.
Nothing can stop me.
I am closer still. For a brief moment, my vow is almost broken, I almost take a picture.
Layers of various condensed liquids cling to my person. More liquid falls on my head, gross. I smell it. Thank God(s) it is not beer, just water. It is actually refreshing like the cool breeze that occasionally graces us with its presence.
Miraculously, I have found the ability to sing without any voice. Anything less than singing would have been unacceptable. Dehydration headaches (from trying to sing as loud as possible) have begun. Certain sound levels make it momentarily unbearable. I press on, hoping to squeeze every last drop of excitement from the show.
We are close to the end.
We ALL sing Astrozombies. I close my eyes in the middle of the chorus, having ascended to musical Nirvana as I Whoa with one of my all-time favorite bands. Because, when the Misfits play, Glenn doesn’t sing at you. He sings with you. And we sing with him.
Then we sing Skulls. It’s awesome.
The end of the show has come.
Last Caress is everything you could hope for. Danzig and Doyle play a game of chicken to see who is going to false start(?) the song. The band’s whole mood is jubilant and playful, except for the tech stuff.
The set ends and the band walks off for a (hybrid) moment. When they return, Jerry takes a moment to thank the fans with some poignant words. Glenn shares a tidbit about the origins of the Bullet EP cover – how he sent Jerry to “borrow” a picture of JFK from the library. Glenn reminiscences about how they were ahead of their time. They smile and fist bump. The camaraderie is amazing to watch as the crowd picks up on it with some applause.
If you don’t know the name of the next song they played… Then why the fuck are you reading this?
I am now 25(ish) feet from the stage, and it is here that I will remain.
They play Night of the Living Dead. Glenn tells the Ocean that they’ve run out of time.
He asks us all, “What do we think of that?”
And then, “You know that we don’t give two fucks. We’ll play more songs.”
And we all cheer. They launch into She.
Unlike Denver, we bear the fortune of hearing Attitude and the Ocean churns one last time. Jerry throws his bass guitar high in the air and it breaks. Lombardo throws drumsticks. Jerry first tosses the bass headstock with Cyclops skull into the crowd. He then thinks it over only for a moment before tossing the WHOLE bass in afterward.
The show is over. The Ocean calms and recedes, leaving the savage remains of carnage from the brutality witnessed. I traverse the front railing to meet my inside man. People shine lights down to reveal PILES of shoes, clothing, and other various personal effects. The piles of shoes and socks are astounding. People search for their keys, wallets, and cell phones.
I joke about finding a piece of Jerry’s “Devastated” bass guitar. A friend would later tell me that he witnessed six people holding onto the bass headstock with the Cyclops skull. No words were uttered. Just six angry dogs with an equal claim on a bone.
I make it to the barricade and manage to get backstage via my inside man. I touch Glenn’s giant fucking pumpkins. They are light and seem to be made of fiberglass. He is right, they are pretty fucking cool.
I shake Doyle’s hand, thanking him, my friend Sal introduces me to Jerry. I thank him as well for an incredible show. Jerry is warm, friendly, and gregarious. I am amazed that he gives me some of his time despite having just finished the show. He takes a picture and signs my Dave Lombardo setlist. I will be framing it.
