9 - 21 - 2023
A night that will live rent free in my mind for the rest of my days, of which I hope there are many. The night air was warmer than expected on this evening of despair in the once great and beautiful city of Portland Oregon. Tonight the dredges were out in force; real red blooded Americans would feed their hunger for horror fueled reckless abandon. The stage in which our ritualistic degeneracy would unfold was set in the dank cryptic basement of The Coffin Club - the newly rebranded now defunct goth haven The Lovecraft Bar. A line, short it may have been, formed along the outskirts of the venue. The eager faces gleamed in the streetlamp light, black leather, chains, and face piercings sparkled as headlight beams illuminated us like spotlights. Our line stood fast like a legion of Orks starving for war and at the signal we besieged the compound. The walls humming with the history and sweat of a million crusty punks and the tween goth girlfriends close in tow, the floorboards steeped in stories of cheap booze, blood and sweat, and piss and vinegar - like the decks of a ghostly pirate ship lost at sea. Skeletons and coffins granted us a comfortingly spooky sight amongst the black stucco and iron bars. The horde descended into the belly of the beast, ready and willing to die for the chance to behold their idols, the mob waited as the gatekeeper held fast. Others quickly surrounded the barmaid and demanded inebriation. Cerveza would fuel my rage on this battlefield - rejoice the beer flows easily in this crypt.
We finally began our descent into the dungenous basement of the club and were struck on all sides by haughty merchants and their wares, shirts, buttons, stickers, and albums stacked and boxed, layed out bare for all to ogle and admire. We diverted our eyes and made haste, our goal and mission at heart. We made for the stage.
As the lights dimmed and the smoke plumes rose ever thicker into the dank atmosphere of the dungeon we called a venue, demonic and ghastly figures rose from a curtained cloister, their spiked armor soaked in gore and flesh of fallen enemies. These warriors of hell so eloquently named The Dead Animal Assembly Plant began their auditory assault with the haste of the Doomslayer himself and their guitars wailed and screamed hazard into the night. The leader of the pack, the Rat King, the Turned Fleshed, The Battle Axe of Hades, wielding a massive knife and battle-axe. morphed his face from one to the next like a Dark Wizard as he chanted spells of destruction and chaos. We stood no chance against them and gave in to their magic. We were entranced.
The following act, Haunt Me, took the stage, took up there places, and bombarded us with sonic waves of magic, the jaws of death clenched tighter. Out of the smoke rose three figures clad in black and silver. We were bathed in the deepest blues and melancholic reds as vibrant as the blood pumping through our veins as we danced. The echoing voice of our singer, who's eyes - hidden behind a veil of cool sunglasses - we never saw, ensnared us with his spellbinding lyrics and his bands tapestry of melody.
Finally the Calabrese brothers Davey and Bobby, accompanied by the ghoulish Argyle Ghoulsby making a guest appearance on bass guitar. The crowd was totally enthralled with the spectacle of thrashing guitars and pounding drums. Argyle brought with him to Calabrese his signature playing style; fast, wild, and the precision of a cunning vampire. Ghoulsby made full use of the stage, climbing on top of the drums, and speakers, and flinging his body through the air like a lunging beast on it's prey. The stage was theirs tonight and we drank it up. I was able to capture essence of the act with equally vivid precision and was proudly able to express the passion and energy I witnessed.
