Standing atop my impregnable perch - a vociferous monitor reanimated by the hysteria of the Southern Ontario Metalfest (held in Hamilton, Ontario this past weekend) - I looked out over the throngs of people united under the banner of metal. I had a clear view into the macrocosm of a mosh pit whose inhabitants beamed with a passion and spirit unparalleled. With my mind sufficiently stimulated, I began to ruminate over the social complexities inherent to a mosh pit. I knew that somewhere within this assembly of barbarity there existed at least a smattering of mortals plagued with societal anxieties and intimacy issues. I wondered how it was, then, that these same people can surrender their anxieties and inhibitions - inhibitions that hamper their relationships and daily routines - for the relatively safe confines of the pit? Me thinks it has something to do with the animated-yet-sedative potency of metal and its inherent brotherhood.
Now, I'm sure we can all admit to experiencing issues with intimacy at one time or another. For some, though, it can be a debilitating, life-long social phobia and anxiety disorder resulting in real difficulty when attempting to form close relationships with other people. Psychologists and physicians alike are still baffled by the complexities of this affliction. Perhaps it's time for a new doctor...
Enter the Fetus. Drs. Dying Fetus, to be precise. Don't be fooled, this is no ordinary assemblage of musical physicians. This practice comes armed to the teeth with a practitioners bag awash with various aural-surgical instruments. Tonight, as they thundered onto the stage, the vespertine stillness of the August air gave way to a impassioned congregation resolute in the paralyzing brutality about to be unleashed. Reaching out, fists in air, they implored to be alleviated by the auditory annihilation so analogous to this triumvirate of inhumanity. The Drs. did not disappoint their subjects.
From the opening notes of 'Grotesque Impalement', from the EP of the same name, the crowd was immediately hooked on the pharmaceutical-like effect of the strain of riffs spewing forth. Like the caged, frenzied lunatics of an insane asylum, they stormed the security-less stage for their daily dose of medication, dispensed via songs such as 'We Are Your Enemy', 'From Womb To Waste', and crowd favourite 'Your Treachery Will Die With You'.
It was at this point, midway through the set, that the camaraderie really became prevalent. The Drs., seemingly blown away by the overwhelming intimacy-by-means-of-psychosis that took hold of their victims, aggrandized their curative methods to a level unmatched by anything these defiled eyes, and ears, have ever been subjected too. 'Homicidal Retribution', 'Beaten Into Submission', 'The Blood Of Power', and 'Killing On Adrenaline' were delivered with a padded-cell-inducing vehemence.
Bordering on malpractice, the Drs. then administered one last dose upon the (by now) mentally and physically rabble-roused. 'Second Skin', 'Praise The Lord (Opium Of The Masses)', 'Kill Your Mother, Rape Your Dog', and 'One Shot, One Kill' ended the night with horns held high, and hugs.
If tonight was any indication, metal is the only medicine that matters. Now, go get your fix, and, while your at it, embrace a fellow metalhead.