Emissions from the Monolith 5
By Brian Varney (a.k.a. kokoblue)
Call me Koko. Everyone else did. One of the most commonly asked questions this weekend was, “Are we going to call each other by our screen-names or by our real names?” A valid question, I suppose – after all, there’s no reason to make this seem like any more of a D&D-fueled nerdfest than it already is, but with the amount of drinking, drugging, sleep deprivation and other synapse destruction that makes Emissions the tub of gooey delight that it is, who’s got the spare braincells to memorize two sets of names? Not me, fucko.
Before I go any further, I should say that the focus of this feature will be the forum members that I met over the weekend. This is the way such written summaries usually go, but inevitably a small but vocal minority will complain about the lack of band and music discussion. Music is what Emissions is about, sure, but it’s not everything, especially for those of us who spend part of every single day reading these forums. Strange as it may sound, a lot of the weekend was spent meeting good friends for the first time. It was an unfortunately too-rare chance to meet the people who make us laugh and piss us off on a daily basis for the other 362 days in this trip around the moon. For those of you who will complain about the lack of music discussed in these pages, I say this: Go to Emissions and write your own damn article.
Also a contributing factor in the paucity of music coverage is the fact that I’m a lame-ass. As much as I’d like to report otherwise, I simply do not possess the physical endurance to stand in a really hot, really crowded room in front of really fucking loud bands for 14 hours at a time. I had to take breaks frequently (of the weekend’s 30-something bands, I think I only watched 3 sets from start to finish), and I even had to miss a couple of bands I was really looking forward to due to my own foolishness. In any case, anyone who says they’re not interested in reading stories about forum members is lying. Would you rather read “Meatjack RULED!” or hear about the upside down athletic tape cross that omind left on furious’s hotel door? Uh-huh.
Things started off in fine fashion on Friday afternoon. Since C16 and I had the fortune to be located directly across the hall from the Room of Doom, we immediately jumped into the fray. Once the introductions to Arzgarth (Five Feet of Fury) and tagplazen (omind’s long-lost twin, I’m convinced) happened, it took about three minutes of socializing and wondering when GodShifter was gonna show up for the tequila to materialize. As I was designated driver, I wisely abstained while the others managed to kill most of the bottle, plus most of the beer omind brought along, in the couple of hours before we decided it was time to head to the Nyabinghi.
To give you an idea what kind of shape we were in at this early point in the proceedings, omind and tagplazen decided to go down to the lobby and make sure GodShifter wasn’t wandering door to door asking, “Is this the Room of Doom?” About 15 or so minutes later, they return GodShifter-less but in hysterics as they told us they had stood in the elevator for about 10 minutes before omind finally said, “This elevator’s moving pretty slow” and tag realized that they had neglected to choose a floor and were still on the third floor.
As it was now near 5 o’clock, we decided to head where the rock and alcohol were, piled into the car and headed for the club. Once we arrived and the social lubricant (alcohol, you sicko) had been properly distributed, I acted as unofficial tourguide for Arzgarth and tagplazen, introducing them to the SR.com folks I knew from last year. I also met plenty of cool folks for the first time, including Mr. Red, snailhook, furious, Josh27, mower, stargazer, m2, gothchick (perhaps the best argument yet in favor of cloning), Nyabinghi himself, and a whole bunch of others.
And then it was time for the rock. I didn’t know anything about Floor, but Big Shirley described them as, “the heaviest fucking thing you’ve ever heard with Beach Boys vocals.” Needless to say, that description had me pretty intrigued, so I checked them out. They ripped. It was about three songs into their set when I realized I hadn’t eaten since noon, so I left the music area, went to the food tent and had myself big a ol’ poke chop sammich with hot sauce, which put me in the proper frame of mind for RPG and All Night’s double-fisted ass-kicking, the likes of which I haven’t experienced since I pissed off a mule down at my grandpappy’s farm when I was 11. A belly full of pork, several beers, and my giddiness at finally being at Emissions all combined to produce a feeling of warmth and happiness, which is why I spent most of these two sets jumping around like a mental patient.
At this point, the heat, the crowd, and the beers knocking at my bladder’s door began to catch up with me, so I watched a few songs from Erik Larson’s very fine set before I excused myself for a trip to the secret bathroom and the merch tables, where I hung out with the super-cool Jonah Jenkins of Traktor 7/Milligram fame and bought several of the ridiculously low-priced items (all CDs only $5!) from his table.
After jawing with ZodiacLung for awhile (long enough, in fact, that I completely missed Throttlerod’s set, dammit), I realized I was still hungry and headed back to the food tent, where I had the misfortune of choosing the pasta salad. I had the pasta salad last year and remember it being pretty tasty, but this year’s batch was the Emissions equivalent of the brown acid. In the space of about a half hour, I went from having the time of my life to, “I will be expelling the contents of my stomach at a high rate of velocity in t-minus 3 seconds.” I managed to maintain a successful food containment policy, but I had to leave early, thereby completely missing Halfway to Gone, which was one of my two or three most highly-anticipated sets of the whole festival. Fuck!
Considering the shape I was in Friday night, it’s quite lucky that our room was one of the few spared the repercussions of furious’s love affair with the hotel phone. Of the many rooms who were treated to one of his drunken 3 am calls that night, here is the one that will truly live in infamy:
Furious: Who’s this?
Unknown female citizen: Who’s this? You called me. Who is this? I really don’t appreciate being called in the middle of the night.
Furious (realizing this isn’t a SR.commer): Oh, I’m really sorry ma’am. I’m working the front desk and this is my first night and I made a mistake.
Woman: Well you should be! You woke me up!
Furious: I am really sorry. Tell you what, I’ll give you a refund when you check out. Just make sure to ask for your refund when checking out and I’ll take care of it for you.
Needless to say, I don’t think the Comfort Inn will be accepting any group bookings for the University of Chicago next year. So after turning in early Friday night (1 am or so), it was up and at ‘em Saturday morning for the highly-anticipated Meet ‘n’ Greet at the Holiday Inn buffet. After bursting into the Room of Doom and being greeted by tagplazen, who enthused, “Dude, last night’s show rocked so hard I sweated the pentagram off my nards!,” we shot the shit until it was time to eat. The Room of Doom contingent and the rest of the Columbus crew (PoleofJustice, kokojones, Fes and DeathMetalJay) hiked over to the Holiday Inn at 10:30 and were greeted with the underwhelming sight of five old people chowing down. Too hungry and hungover to be disappointed in the lack of SR.com team spirit, we tore into the buffet with reckless abandonment (as we sat inhaling our first platefuls of processed meats, I saw one of the restaurant employees pushing a cart across the dining room frantically barking, “We need bacon and sausage NOW!” into her walkie-talkie). The Jersey Crew (furious, Josh27, ZodiacLung, and some other guy whose name I forgot), blandoon, and renfield all showed up, by which point omind had consumed approximately five and a half tons of bacon topped liberally with gravy, whipped cream and, uh, more bacon.
Because the first couple of bands on Saturday were ones we’d either already seen or didn’t care to see and also to give ourselves a break, Pole, Arzgarth, omind and I decided to take a drive to Lakewood (an hour or so away, near Cleveland) and visit Charles at My Mind’s Eye, i.e. The Greatest Record Store Ever. This accomplished, we returned with our spirits and bodies rejuvenated and our wallets lighter to Youngstown and the Nyabinghi a few hours later, just in time for Party Dream.
It was around the time of our arrival that the fabled “May May” incident happened. The May May back story has already been told elsewhere, but I didn’t know a thing about it when I turned and was greeted by a very large, very ugly 60-year old woman whose pancake tits were flatteringly complemented by the canary yellow thing she was wearing. The man accompanying her, whom I can only assume to be her pimp, was walking his dog and carrying a staff-sized plastic pooper scooper (no shit, the handle on the thing was long enough that he could’ve totally struck an American Gothic pose if he’d wanted) as he led her to the door of the club and loudly inquired, “Where the fuck is spacecakes?” Believe me, the phrase “local color” doesn’t get much more apt than seeing a toothless, grizzled Youngstown dude saying the word “spacecakes.” I assumed they were looking to score the cakes in question, and it was only after L. Ron filled me in that I was able to piece the whole story together. In any case, it was a classic moment.
As far as the bands, Saturday was probably the weakest of the three days for me. Not that I’m complaining – I certainly needed the free time to rest, socialize, and witness classic moments like the afore-mentioned incident. This is not to say, though, that I did not enjoy any bands. I had my first Keelhaul experience and left a fan. I enjoyed their instrumental moments the most and their guitarist Dana makes the best rock face EVER. I tried to buy a CD but couldn’t find a merch table selling their stuff. I guess I’ll have to buy one from All That`s Heavy.
The next band I was really jacked to see was Scissorfight, so C16 and I made sure to get in the music room early and get a good spot close to the stage. The first thing I noticed as the band took the stage is just how ugly they are. Rock musicians are generally not the best-looking bunch of folks on the planet, but these guys were almost psychedelically ugly. However, once the band tore into their first song, all such thoughts were banished. Though they didn’t sound quite as gargantuan as they do on CD, they brought the rock in a big way. For those not familiar with the band, their sound is almost exactly what nu-metal SHOULD sound like. The band’s heavily syncopated, almost hip-hoppish beats, massive downstrokes and Ironlung’s shouted vocals had everyone in the club swaying and bobbing their heads. I finally surrendered to the heat and crowd and stepped outside during their final song with the intention of taking a breather since I’ve seen the next band, Boulder, quite a few times. I dig Boulder quite a bit, but at this point in the evening, you had to choose your moments in the music room wisely, so I took a breather. I stepped back in for a bit of Weedeater’s great set, staying just long enough to avoid the splashback from Dixie Dave’s vomit. I also caught a bit of Mastodon’s set, the entire duration of which I spent in awe of the drummer, who is so ridiculously good that I’m convinced he is some kind of cyborg. I heard they closed with a cover of Thin Lizzy’s “Emerald,” but I was back outside by that point.
It was at some point in the evening that the police showed up. I was among the crowd of folks hanging out in front as five squad cars pulled up in front of the club. As the entire festival had been very friendly (people apologized when they bumped into you, for cryin’ out loud), very easy-going and totally free of incident, I couldn’t imagine what the problem was unless there were noise complaints. However, since the staff made a concerted effort to keep the doors closed as much as possible, this wasn’t too likely either.
I stood close enough to hear the policemen talking to various staff members, explaining that someone had called and said there was a fight in front of the club. This was completely untrue, so we soon figured out that someone must’ve seen Arzgarth drunkenly rolling in the middle of Salt Springs Rd. as he tried to impress foetuscide with his manliness, fifth-grade style. In any case, Greg handled the cops like a pro, asked us to move from in front of the club into the side parking lot, and everything was cool. As we were moving, I did have a rather amusing conversation with the security guy, which went more or less as follows:
Security guy: Did you notice how fast the cops got here?
Me: Is the police station nearby?
Security guy: Uh-uh. I don’t know how they got here so fast. This is a really bad part of Youngstown.
Me: Is there a good part of Youngstown?
Security guy: No, not really.
At this point, the Room of Doom contingent decided to head back to the hotel since none of us were particularly interested in seeing Atomic Bitchwax. Once back in said room, I switched to water while the others plowed down the remaining alcohol (I can’t remember precisely who was there, as the crowd fluctuated throughout the night, but I remember Randolfio being around for most of the night). Shortly after our arrival, the Jersey crew came over from next door with a bottle of apparently good bourbon, which was uncorked with teeth and passed around, Wild Bunch-style. Between the six or so folks drinking from it, the entire bottle was gone in just over a half hour, which is when the real fun began. None of us are quite sure what happened to furious, but about 4 or 5 shots in, he turned into loud, happy-drunk furious, which would’ve been fine had the next door neighbors on one side not been regular citizens who, one would assume, were not amused by furious’s drunken wall-pounding and screaming, “Get back over hre, you fat fucking Jew!” This last comment was directed at ZodiacLung, who had gone to their room for more booze. However, in his whiskey-fuelled frenzy, furious apparently forgot which side their room was on and ended up pounding on the wrong wall.
It was at this point that he also rekindled his torrid love affair with the hotel phone, calling rooms and saying things like, “This is Jam8, I’d like to speak to ElsaEE.” I have no idea if he knew which room he was calling, or if he’d even dialed a number, but it was damned funny nonetheless. Between laughing at this, his attempts to dislodge the railing on the balcony, and throwing omind’s trolls onto the roof of the neighboring building, we somehow managed to drink all of the beer in the room (by this point, even I’d given up on the “I’m rehydrating” ruse and returned to beer). With the hour now nearing 4:30 am, the beer gone, and a noise complaint as inevitable as a Sunday morning hangover for the folks in the room, I decided to cross the hall and go to bed. While I was leaving, someone managed to find a stranger roaming the hall equipped only with a cellphone and a large cooler filled with beer. Needless to say, he was immediately asked to join the party.
The next morning began with the Columbus contingent, Room of Doom residents and Randolfio adjourning to the Denny’s across the street for breakfast. Much hilarity ensued, culminating in omind’s consumption of an inhuman (though typical for him) quantity of bacon and Fes drinking a shot of maple syrup.
That delightful part of the day over with, it was time for yet another trip to the Nyabinghi and another day filled with rock. It was Sunday that truly separated the men from the boys, as two consecutive 14-hour days began to take their toll on the weaker elements in the audience, i.e. me. The final three bands of the festival, Acid King, Solace, and The Hidden Hand, were among my most anticipated moments of this year’s festival, but it became apparent early Sunday afternoon that only a feat of Herculean endurance was gonna carry me through to 2 am.
Though I was so tired that I’m having trouble differentiating between my actual memories of Sunday and the hallucinations (non-psychedelic) that keep intruding when I try to think back, I can clearly remember that there were many musical highlights on that wondrous day, the first of which was the Rubes. Plenty of folks jammed into the music room to check these guys out and, as usual, Mace’s voice instilled awe in all who were present. And, hey, Greg and Brent weren’t so shabby either. The band instantly won the crowd over with the amazing yet tasteful playing, great songs (a combination of songs from Hokum and a couple of new ones) and Mace’s kind and gracious stage patter. Tag, who was experiencing the band for the first time, came up to me afterward and said, “The Rubes make me want to fuck!” Not knowing just how strong the desire was, I decided to give him some space and stepped outside.
By this point, I was being forced to choose my moments in the club wisely, so all I had on my mind was resting until it was time to witness Dixie Witch’s patented brand of devastation. However, based on how much their EP impressed me, I stepped inside and watched Pelican, which is one of the best decisions I made all weekend (better even than the one to grab Arzgarth’s ass while in line at the Holiday Inn buffet – Yowza!). My line on these guys is “a cross between the Melvins and Godspeed You Black Emperor,” which may not be the most accurate comparison, but it captured the attention of the folks I said it to, so I guess I did my job. In any case, they crushed. It was sort of amusing to hear such a monstrous sound coming from such little people (no wonder they only had small t-shirts!), but the authority with which they brought they rock demanded and got the respect of all present.
Shortly thereafter came the next brass ring in the form of Dixie Witch, who played to a veal-packed crowd. They stole the show at last year’s Emissions in my opinion, so I was anxious to enjoy their set. However, the crowd (the biggest I saw during the whole festival) and the absolutely punishing volume caused me to seek refuge outside after 4 or 5 songs. I have no problem with bands playing loud, but such was the volume of Dixie Witch’s set that I literally got an erection from the rumble of the bass. And when you’re getting rock bone from guys that look like Dixie Witch, you know it’s time to step outside.
Things get really blurry at this point. Omind and I decided to head to the Iron Skillet for some grub, where highlights included an Asian guy modeling cowboy hats and a guy so fat that he turned in his booth to reach for more food and literally got stuck. We returned to the hotel to check on C16, who’d headed back for a nap after the Rubes and was still asleep some 6 hours later. Once awake, she decided that, due to the crowd and the case of Emissions SARS that was beginning to envelop her being, she would not be returning to the club. When I exited our room, it was to find Omind bouncing excitedly with a mischevious grin on his face in front of furious’s room, where there was an upside-down cross made of white athletic tape in the middle of the door.
Giggling and eager to catch the final three bands before I fell over, omind and I returned to the club in the falling dusk. While omind, tag, kokojones, and deathmetaljay slunk over to omind’s car for some “refreshments,” I went inside to check out Acid King’s set. After the band’s murderous opening charge through “Blaze In” and immediate segue into “Electric Machine,” I hit the wall. Before I fully realized what I was doing, I was in omind’s car, being driven back to the hotel, where I collapsed into a deep sleep. I regret missing Solace and The Hidden Hand, but I literally had no choice at this point in the proceedings. Apparently I also missed out on a packed house and another late night laden with more booze, insults, and noise complaints in the Room of Doom, but I couldn’t have done it if I tried.
