A night that will haunt my mind eternally, if there's any life left within me. The night air, unexpectedly warm, draped the once-grand Portland, Oregon, in a shroud of despair. Tonight, the forsaken gathered, hungry for horror-fueled recklessness. Our ritualistic degeneracy unfolded in the dank, cryptic basement of The Coffin Club, formerly known as the goth haven, The Lovecraft Bar.
A queue, albeit brief, formed along the venue's periphery. Eager faces glistened in the streetlamp's eerie glow, bedecked in black leather, chains, and face piercings. The spotlight-like beams painted us in darkness, resembling an army of Orks thirsting for battle. When the signal came, we laid siege to the compound. The walls whispered tales of a million crusty punks, tween goth girlfriends in tow, while the floorboards concealed stories of cheap booze, blood, sweat, piss, and vinegar—like a ghostly pirate ship adrift at sea. Skeletons and coffins provided a chilling sight amidst the black stucco and iron bars. The horde descended into the abyss, ready to embrace death for a glimpse of their idols. We waited as the gatekeeper held firm, while others crowded the barmaid, thirsty for inebriation. Cerveza fueled my fury on this battlefield, a crypt where the beer flowed freely.
Our descent into the dungeon-like basement was met with a barrage of haughty merchants peddling their wares: shirts, buttons, stickers, and albums laid bare for all to admire. We averted our gaze and pressed on, our mission clear—to reach the stage.
As the lights dimmed and thick smoke filled the dank venue, infernal and spectral figures emerged from behind a curtain. Their spiked armor dripped with the blood and flesh of fallen foes. These hellish warriors, known as The Dead Animal Assembly Plant, unleashed an auditory assault with the ferocity of the Doomslayer himself. Their guitars shrieked and wailed into the night. The Rat King, The Turned Fleshed, The Battle Axe of Hades, led them, his face morphing like a dark wizard as he chanted spells of chaos and destruction. We were defenseless, ensnared by their dark magic.
Next, Haunt Me took the stage, their sonic waves of enchantment tightening the jaws of death. Three figures, cloaked in black and silver, rose from the smoke. Vibrant blues and melancholic reds bathed us, as vivid as the blood coursing through our veins as we danced. The haunting voice of our singer, hidden behind cool sunglasses, entwined us with spellbinding lyrics and a melodic tapestry.
Finally, the Calabrese brothers, Davey and Bobby, joined by the ghoulish Argyle Ghoulsby on bass guitar. The crowd was spellbound by the spectacle of thrashing guitars and thunderous drums. Argyle's signature playing style, fast and wild, the precision of a cunning vampire, enthralled us. Ghoulsby utilized the stage to its fullest, climbing drums and speakers, lunging through the air like a predatory beast. The stage was theirs, and we drank in every moment. I proudly captured their essence with equal vividness, expressing the passion and energy I had witnessed.
The following is older photographs of Dead Animal Assembly Plant
