You've seen this before. At least a thousand times. And better. Probably much better. With far more blood. Still every time you witness a reckless, unpredictable frontman like Damian Abraham, it's exhilarating. Doesn't matter who you are. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. Guaranteed. Even when you know it's coming.
And it's even more transcendent when it comes directly after yet another colorless, flavorless indie rock band du jour that's not even worth mentioning and nowhere near as alluring as the irresistible notion of braving an open bar serving domestic beers (in the can) that's maintained a constant current of freeloaders, ten deep, for hours.
Yessir, when a dude like Abraham strides out on stage, pops open a Pepsi (yes, Pepsi) tall boy, chugs a few ounces and then commences to crushing cans with his head, you know you're in for a good time. Bearded napalm with eyes, this guy.
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Oh yeah, and his band? Yeah, nothing spectacular. You've seen (and heard) this before, too. And probably better, as well. Punk as fuck. Songs not much longer than the average kid's attention span. Regardless, the minute these lads (and lass) strap on the guitars and start sawing away, it's like you're hearing it for the very first time, and it slices through the agonizing dullness of day two of this musical smorgasbord with the ease and efficiency of an infomerical Ginsu fresh out of the box.
Next thing you know, more and more people snap out of their mid-afternoon malaise and affix their eyes on the LED screen at the back of the tent (the wisely invested are already up front). It's fun to see the noob's reactions, those who have never seen anything so gloriously Fucked Up. No way. Is that guy taking his shirt ... off? Jeezus! He is. Look at all the hair on his back. What an ugly motherfucker! And is he ... wait ... no, he is ... he's in the crowd. And they're trying to pick him up. This band kicks fucking ass. Holy fuck!
Close: Fucked Up. But not really.