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| - Over the past score of my life, I have passed the legendary 31st Street Pub an estimated 5,000 times. Yet until the other night, I kept putting off going since the concerts often don't end until after 2am! Thus, I've missed countless gigs, and not without much regret. Long is the tally of what could've been: Church of Misery, The Wildhearts, Byzantine, Absu...ugh. Oh Hecate, I'm about to weep, slapping my calvous skull as I write this. However, last week, I noticed that another band who'd headlined a concert here 2 years ago, one that I also skipped for whatever lame reason, was returning. Until the actual date of the show, I was still wringing my hands...at 7pm. The start time was 9:30! I gazed into the mirror, saying to myself, "It's on a Friday night! I don't have to get up early tomorrow! My doctor's appointment isn't 'til 11:30! My woman is away for the night! I just got paid! I have Lyft on my iPhone! It's only $10 to get in! I can do this!"
Before I could debate with myself further, I was showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, deodorizing, donning my "good" black boots, my "good" jeans, grabbing some ear plugs, and pulling on one of many concert tour shirts that I own.
When I arrived, I was surprised that only one floor was utilized. All of the head-snapping action was to occur in the back of the room. For all of these years, I'd thought the magic happened upstairs.
I looked about nervously. I didn't see anyone I knew...yet. I gazed at the death-themed knick-knacks, guitars, and drum covers that bedecked the walls and ceiling. I cautiously sat at the bar, ordering a Pepsi. A devil doll of a barmaid smirked, brought me a PBR, and said, "2 bucks. Trust me, it'll regrow hair."
Hell,I thought the hipsters had completely co-opted Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, driving the price into orbit. Like a house of worship is to vampires, their kind would not be welcome here, but was I?
A sweaty hand planted itself onto my scalp as I sipped on the bitter ale out of politeness. I spun around, my back tingling. I was anticipating a brawl!
"Hey, maaan! I seen them 20 times," A bearded, portly, long-haired gentleman said to me, pointing to my Testament shirt. "They're cold-blooded."
I'd made a new friend in the time it takes to whip up a mixed drink.
"Anybody gives you shit abaht not havin' no hair, you tell 'em Rob Halford's bald too," he advised.
"But wait, you ain't gay are ya?" he asked only to explode into a roar of wobbling, cheerful laughter. I grabbed him for fear he was going to fall off his stool.
Shortly, friends from the local metal scene were seeping in, shocked that I'd finally showed up here, exclaiming "It's about damn time" as they patted my back.
"Is that...him?" I asked one of my comrades.
"Who? Where?"
"Over there. Eric Wagner, the former singer of Trouble, hanging out with one of the chicks from Derketa? What's he doin' here?"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kg_hYpdKC64
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcoCYCSImqs
Alas, it was him. Shyness overcame me, but before I could work up the nerve to say hello, a creepy, clanky, thrash metal ghoulfest was underway, Deceased mastermind King Fowley proving to be one affable ogre of a man, a composite of Hagar The Horrible, Shrek, Homer Simpson, and Gardner's Grendel.
The stage is close to the floor, making shows not only intimate but interactive. Halfway into the first song on the setlist, Fowley was lurking around the entire bar while vocalizing as I wondered if his cord would be long enough, urging fellow concertgoers to sing along, and you'd better know the words when King calls on you and sticks a microphone into yer yap.
I made the wonderful mistake of standing at the corner of the stage, but the band's energy overcame me. Asudden, I was staggering around like a minion of of Samhain, Lord of the Dead...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ps3L1ETLSc
Fowley would don a zombie mask, mock strangling me before the finale, a cover of this seminal track that spawned an entire subgenre...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHmzFVDjVnM
An hour and a half of serrated guitars, flailing mallochios, and guttural screams, ended with me trapped in a bearhug by Fowley himself, my eyes red from cigarette smoke.
"You looked like you had a bad-ass time,"
"I did, I did."
"How come I never saw ya here before?"
"Eh, I dunno."
Chuckling good-naturedly, the manbeast bid me adieu. Outside, the rain intermittently spat cold droplets upon me as I contacted Lyft for a ride home. I awoke at 10:30, narrowly making my appointment on time, thanking a relative with a reliable car profusely.
The green cube of brick, wattage, noise, and sweat that is the 31st Street Pub has stood for longer than I've been breathing. Not much is ornate about it. Just enough room is allotted for the bands to do their thing and give Baphomet his due while you just rock out like its your sworn duty, cause it is! Lovers of metal and/or punk: Your attendance is mandatory.
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