Serious as cancer

Sometimes you have to accept you're living a lie. A few months back I declared my resignation from the pit primarily due to laughably long recovery times. However, last night I fell off the wagon in a big way as my town was absolutely destroyed by Vera Cruz, Trash Talk and Cancer Bats.

French mob Vera Cruz are a fairly nonthreatening cartel to look at, particularly diminutive frontman Flavien. They took the stage to a relatively full room and started a really quite splendid display of hardcore. The crowd was dead and fuelled by Newcastle Brown, I made the executive decision that a pit needed starting. I consider myself an ambassador for the local music scene and thought it imperative that our European friends got a decent response. So a couple of other lads got stuck in and before long we were getting a decent swell, and I felt a bit smug to be honest.

Vera Cruz left the stage, I pounded a beer and chatted to my fellow pit monkeys about the need for organised chaos at hardcore shows, then Trash Talk came on to Lagwagon's Stokin The Neighbours, which gratified me a great deal. Unlike Vera Cruz, these lads seemed a bit more likely to look you in the eye whilst pissing on your shoes. Bassist Spencer Pollard started vocal proceedings before front man Lee Spielman opened his mouth and, to coin an oft-used phrase, unleashed hell. They are pure, nasty hardcore, and the place went mental. Beers, spit, teeth, probably some piss, a couple of shoes, bodies, hair and expletives were being thrown all over the place. A personal highlight for me was my shout of "CIRCLE PIT!" that was greeted by "listen to the guy in the Morbid Angel top!" from the lead singer.

Spielman was a proper mental. He was in the pit, up on shoulders, kicked a heckler in the face and told a chap who insisted on being ultra cool and sitting on the stage drinking a beer that he was going to kill him (shortly after stealing his beer and downing it).

Despite an older gent warning us about the broken glass on the floor, which I think was my bottle of Brown, the pit was insane. By the end of Trash Talk's set I was cripplingly exhausted and went outside for a breather. Then a fellow patron who was talking to a bouncer points at me and says "he's fucking mental"; after an accolade like that I had no chance of staying still during Cancer Bats, did I?

One more quick pint and back in. My first time seeing the Canadians live and the rumours are true; they're sick. Liam Cormier said he recognised people from other gigs they've played in our town over the years which might have been fluff but fuck me, it worked. The entire floor was moving, people were flying all over the place, and by the time Cancer Bats played their excellent cover of the Beastie Boys classic Sabotage the air in the room had been replaced by a misty hue of sweat and Red Stripe.

It's the morning after and I really, really hurt. Banging my head on the stage during a particularly raucous moment wasn't ideal, I could have done without getting windmilled in the jaw and the Vans-shaped bruise on my back is a little on the sore side but what a fucking gig. Absolutely immense. Ten out of ten. Simple as that. However, I am definitely retired from the pit now.

Honest...

M
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