Chris “Cheese Dog” Krovatin is the author of two young adult novels,

On June 3, I saw Marduk with Aura Noir, Black Anvil, Hod, Panzerfaust, and Natur at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in NYC. Here’s what I witnessed.

• Number of hours spent being tattooed before the show: Three.
• General feeling: Just…just a little woozy.
• General feeling about the tattoo: Hail!
• Easiest way to find the Williamsburg Music Hall: Follow the guy in the Nunslaughter T-shirt!
• Disheartening sight of the night: The sheer lack of Aura Noir merch available. I wanted an “Ugliest Band In Metal” shirt!
• Onstage when I arrive at Williamsburg Music Hall: Natur from Brooklyn.
• Sounds like: Blackened thrash with over-the-top power-metal moments. Pretty entertaining overall.
• Happy time fun fact: The cover of Natur’s Spider Baby EP is preeeetty fucking cool.
• Number of people in corpse paint present: So far only one, and his is pretty low key.
• Thoughts on this: Marduk is just a little too militant and nihilistic for people to dress up in full black-metal costume for.
• Unlike: When I saw Immortal in February: Half the crowd wore corpse paint.
• Next up: Panzerfaust from Ontario.
• Sounds like: Really raw, acidic black metal powered by thrashing rage and morbid chugs.
• Overall opinion: Any band that turns their mic stand into a chain-and-skull-covered inverted cross is OK by me.
• Rainbow puppy good time fact: The band’s name is taken either from the Darkthrone album of that title or a German anti-tank weapon whose name means “armor fist.”
• Hope for the night: That some corset-wearing black-metal chick will notice my awesome new tattoo and swoon over me.
• Only people who notice my awesome new tattoo: Two Mexican black-metal dudes, in the bathroom.
• Sustenance consumed: A cheese dog and a Lone Star over at the Levee on North 3^rd Street.
• Now, we have: Hod from San Antonio, Texas.
• Sounds like: Unrelenting death-march black metal instilled with a weirdly American sense of groove and sweep.
• Number of leather/denim vests onstage: 4.
• Number of members in Hod: 4.
• Diagnosis: True.
• “Say No To Drugs” fact: Hod’s first demo is named Cry And Piss Yourself. You only wish you could come up with such an awesome title.
• Weirdest merch: Thin metal shields and blasphemous art prints by Remi from Light’s Eclipse Productions. (Check his shit out at remiart.carbonmade.com).
• Other random items sold: A whole bunch of rare patches, sold, I think, by the dudes from Warhemic in Flushing.
• Patches include: A Raped God 666 patch! Holy shit, I just got a Raped God 666 patch! MEXICAN METAL DEATH SQUAD ARISE!
• On that note: Black Anvil from Brooklyn.
• Sounds like: Shred-heavy thrash with holocaustic black-metal overtones and brilliantly dark lyrics.
• Favorite song of the evening: The cunt-punching declaration of “Angels To Dust.”
• Explanation: It’s not a song about cunt-punching; it just feels like some huge unholy necrospirit has uppercutted you clean in your cunt.
• Members of the Metal Press Class Of 2009 present: Two that I’ve run into—Henry Yuan and “Grim” Kim Kelly.
• Members of the local Brooklyn metal militia present: At least six, including Lucky 13’s Melody Henry, Ralph from Demilitia, and a slew of others.
• Shout outs: Done and done, son.
• Second to last: Aura Noir from Oslo, Norway.
• Sounds like: Furious black metal-inspired thrash putridity.
• Personal response: AURA FUCKING NOOOOOIR!
• Standout track of the night: “Unleash The Demon.” What lyrics.
• “Unleash the demon!”: “Come satisfy my need!”
• “Release the semen!”: ….uuuuh…
• Aura Noir songs to look up when you get home: “Death Mask,” “The Pest,” “Blood Unity,” “South American Death.”
• Physical state at this point: Semi-conscious.
• State of my tattoo: Officially starting to throb like a bastard.
• Finally: Marduk, from Norrkøping, Sweden.
• Sounds like: Steel-plated occult war brigade marching across a field of desecrated coffins and burnt church remains.
• Peace love and happiness fact: Marduk’s lead singer Mortuus studies Judo (I believe) and threw a drunken fan over his shoulder at a show.
• Performance observation: Man, these guys are killing it, much more so than the last time I saw them.
• Favorite track: “Burn My Coffin.”
• Wave of nausea and exhaustion: Sudden and jarring.
• Number of times I’ve missed “Panzer Division Marduk” encore: Twice, once due to excessive drunkenness, once due to tattoo-inspired blood loss.
• Diagnosis: False.
• But guess what: No one really gives a shit.

Chris “Shinsplints” Krovatin is the author of two young adult novels,

On Sunday, April 17, I went to see Skeletonwitch, who played with 3 Inches of Blood and Praetorian at the Gramercy Theatre in New York. Here’s what happened.

Average age of an audience member at Gramercy Theatre: 17.
Feelings on said age bracket: Positive. Good for the kids for supporting battle metal and death-thrash.
Strange venue alteration: Gramercy Theater cutting their seating in half and adding a new VIP section on the side of the stage.
Special crazy VIP treatment: Pay 10 bucks and you get to sit by the side of the stage and get discounted prices on Bud Light tall boys.
Price of a Bud Light tall boy with VIP discount: Nine bucks.
Other terms for Gramercy Theater pricing: Highway robbery, total bullshit, a Shakespearean fucking tragedy, ridiculous.
Coolest denim vest of the night: The big chubby dude with the Toxic Holocaust back patch. Badass.
Favorite line overheard while wandering through the crowd: “You’ve gotta understand, man, it all started with Immortal. They were, like, the first black-metal band ever.”
Piece of metal trivia: That is not true.
First up for the night: Praetorian from Long Island.
Sounds like: Grindy death metal with power-charged solos and keyboard flourishes throughout.
Crowd reaction: Reluctantly positive.
Estimated age of Praetorian bassist Eddie: 12.
Best track: Blackened shredder “Fallacy.”
Stage issue: Praetorian’s lead guitarist seems to really like running to center stage and vamping with his ax, but he needs to figure out how to do that without almost running over his lead singer.
Number of inches of blood it takes for someone to drown in it: 3.
Number of inches of soup it takes for someone to drown in it: …3? Probably?
And with that: 3 Inches of Blood from fucking Canada.
Sounds like: An armor-clad war-beast riding a dragon’s back as he swoops into Hell to do bloody battle with the Devil himself.
Awesome opener: “The Goatrider’s Horde.”
Much-loved charger: “Night Marauders.”
Much-anticipated B-side: “Destroy the Orcs.”
Combined hair length of 3 Inches Of Blood: Sixty miles.
Interesting stage banter choice: 3IoB vocalist Cam Pipes choosing to do half of his spoken pieces in his normal voice, the other half in his unholy Elmo-ish screech.
You heard me: Cam Pipes sounds like Elmo riding a tank through Hades. What of it?
And finally: Skeletonwitch from fucking Ohio.
Sounds like: Bathory and Aura Noir take a page from Pantera, then make the biggest bowl of chili you’ve ever seen.
Number of children that vocalist Chance Garnette’s beared eats daily: 6.
Ever seen a kid eaten by a beard: All that’s left behind is a skeletonwitch.
Favorite tracks of the night: “Upon Black Wings” and “Crushed Beyond Dust.”
How do you crush something beyond dust: Mortar and pestle, gotta warm your hands first.
Track sorely missed: “Vengeance Will Be Mine.”
Members of Skeletonwitch I’d rather not be punched by: All of them except Scunty D.
What, is he a pussy or something: No, it would simply be an honor to take a fist in the eye from one such as Scunty.
Number of Taquitos bought post-show at 7-11: Three.
Resulting intestinal drama: Let’s get say I had a bad case of the Night Marauders, if you get me.

Skeletonwitch photo: John Mourlas

Chris “Shinsplints” Krovatin is the author of two young adult novels,

On February 21, I saw Deicide with Blackgaurd, Neuraxis, Pathology, and Carcinogen at Gramercy Theatre in NYC. Here’s what I saw.

First Deicide album this reporter owned: Serpents of the Light.
Number of times this reporter has seen Deicide live: Zero. This is a first for me.
Number of Deicide fans it takes to screw in a lightbulb: Go fuck yourself.
Old fuck moment: Man, we made fun of Deicide a lot back in the day for writing album after album about the same damn thing. Who knew they’d just get better?
Band playing upon arrival: Carcinogen from Long Island.
Sounds like: Pretty standard death metal.
How standard: At one point, the singer was just yelling, “YOU’LL BE…DEAD!” while swiping his hand across his throat. Like that.
Still: The lead singer’s wearing a Nile Black Seeds of Vengeance shirt. That’s cool.
Lame merch situation: Deicide appear to be mostly sold out of their only two good shirts. Lame.
What am I gonna do: Get the one with the gargoyle on it?
Deicide’s merch guy: Fattest biker you’ve ever seen.
Next we have: Pathology from San Diego.
Sounds like: Ultra-grunty gore metal with melodic interludes.
Strangest stage routine: Pathology singer Jonathan Huber stalking to one side of the stage and back with his hands down at his sides. Huh?
Hard balance to strike: When do gore metal vocals go beyond having lyrics? If this dude’s trying to actually say things, I can’t understand word one.
Counter-argument: Lots of people say that about metal, period.
Back patch of the night: The dude in the Anthrax Spreading the Disease vest. Old-school bastard.
Wait: Have I given that guy a shout-out before?
Rule of thumb for the night: Apparently the best way to worship Satan is to be an overweight scowler with a pinch-faced midget for a girlfriend.
Hey: I’m down.
Ballsiest shirt choice of the night: The guy in the Stryper shirt.
Favorite old-school Glen Benton story: Apparently, Benton sat down for a short conversation with Euronymous back before the Mayhem guitarist was murdered. The conversation was mostly Euronymous declaring metal “true” or “false” and Benton responding, “…okay.”
Favorite photo of Glen Benton: The one where he’s tripping mushrooms waving around a tricycle.
Now we have: Neuraxis from Montreal.
Sounds like: Imagine a jet engine made with rusty razor blades being fed the writhing insane.
Tech-death stage move: Three sets of hair windmilling at once, in the same direction. Amazingly choreographed.
Realization: Neuraxis frontman Alex LeBlanc seems like a really good dude. His stage banter is jolly as fuck.
Time spent setting up Blackguard’s drum kit: Fifteen, 20 minutes. Seems like forever.
Oh, fuck it: I’m sitting with the other old fucks. Oh man, that’s comfortable.
And honestly: Do I have to be standing for Blackguard?
On that note: Blackguard, also from Montreal.
Wait: Are we thinking of the same Blackguard? They’re on this tour?
Sounds like: Some pirates listened to some Soilwork? I guess. With more keyboards. So.
Bold move of the night: Blackguard vocalist Paul Zinay mouthing off at the crowd. “Dragonforce rule by the way…yeah, you and me, guy. After this.”
Come on, man: You’ve got a New York Deicide crowd trying to deal with pirate metal instead of Belphegor. Be cool.
Number of audience members witnessed wearing huge Satanic jewelry: At least ten.
Number of reporters in the photo pit for Carcinogen: Just me. It was vast.
Number of reporters in the photo pit for Deicide: No more than five. Still vast. Kind of awesome, kind of lame.
Percentage of audience ready to cut out their still-beating hearts in the name of Satan: 666%.
And now, ladies and gentlemen: Fucking Deicide from fucking Florida.
Why try? World dies! Christ hides: When Satan rules his world.
Sounds like: A massive behooved demon, mouth wide with fanged malevolence, punching through the Empire State Building and and lapping the mangled bodies and rubble off of his arm. Then he drops the grossest deuce imaginable onto St. Patrick’s Cathedral before having sex with Lady Liberty.
Number of times Glen Benton has branded an inverted cross into his forehead: Seven or eight, I think, at this point. Does it matter?
Favorite stage banter: “I’ve been told there’s a dude in a Stryper shirt wandering around the crowd…man…good luck getting home.”
Deicide is: A band’s vocalist warning an audience member that he might be murdered for liking Christian metal.
Classic of the night: “Dead By Dawn” off the self-titled debut.
New classic of the night: “Death To Jesus” off of The Stench of Redemption.
Holy shit: This is easily one of the best death metal sets I’ve ever seen.
Question of the night: Where is your God now?
First Deicide show ever: A smashing success.
To the guy in the Stryper shirt: Hope you made it out of there, dude.

Chris Krovatin is the author of two young adult novels,

On February 19, I saw Immortal play with Absu at the Gramercy Theater in New York City. Here’s what I saw.

Percentage of my hangover from last night’s Eyehategod show: 72%.
General attitude about the world: Poor.
Temptation to take one of the seats at the back of Gramercy: High, but I can’t, man. Gotta take pictures. Besides, it’s a fucking show.
Number of long-sleeve Emperor shirts witnessed: 3.
Number of wispy Toki Wartooth-style mustaches witnessed: At least 640.
Number of dudes who might of have been skinheads: 3.
Skinhead or not: That guy has an awesome old-school Death shirt.
Number of bands playing tonight: 2.
Price of a ticket: Almost $80.
If you didn’t think black metal was mainstream: This many metalheads paid this much to see a Norwegian black metal band?
Merch situation: Not great. Lots of shirts, no patches, no nothing. Just shirts all around.
Doesn’t matter: Jesus, the merch table is mobbed! Took me a while to even see that there weren’t patches available.
First on: Absu, from Plano, TX.
Sounds like: A swirling blizzard of gold-tipped razors flying around at the behest of a heavily-tattooed wizard, his hands chapped, his lips cold.
Notable feature: Absu’s lead singer is also their drummer.
How does that work: Dude wears a mic strapped to his head by a studded headband.
Get out: I mean, he also wears weird spandex arm-stockings. And some Celtic Frost-esque eyes-only corpsepaint. He’s going for a look here.
Type of metal that said drummer Proscriptor insists Absu are: “MYTHOLOGICAL OCCULT METAL.”
Bummer: The dude from Absu’s stage banter voice makes him sound a little like Megatron mixed with the Great Gonzo.
Highlights of the set: “Four Crossed Wands (Spell 181),” “Swords & Leather,” and of course, “Nunbarshegunu.”
Back patch of the night: The dude with the gnarly Manilla Road patch.
Number of beers bought: Two. I owe Matt from Heavy Metal Happy Hour a beer, and shit, hair of the dog…
Shameless plug: Heavy Metal Happy Hour at Arrow Bar every Friday from six to nine! Two for one drinks! The only place to hear Deströyer 666 and Motley Crue’s “Kickstart My Heart” back to back.
Number of fans witnessed in actual Immortal-style corpsepaint: 11.
Number of front-row Immortal honeys reenacting the Battles in the North cover: 2.
Eventual dream in life: To mack a chick in corpsepaint.
You or the chick: Both of us. All smearing our corpsepaint together. Spiked leather just starts clattering to the floor.
And now: Immortal, from Bergen, Norway.
Temperature: Grim and frostbitten.
Awesome stage effect of the night: Dropping the logo banner to reveal a massive backdrop of Blashyrkh itself, bathed in the cold light of its black sun.
Band mythology: Many of Immortal’s songs take place in or give reverence to Blashyrkh, a mythical kingdom of stoned and frost invented by the band that’s ruled by a raven-headed god named Mighty Ravendark.
So: There’s that.
Crowd response: Utterly rabid. Everyone’s packed together like sardines, fists in the air.
Outfits worn by the band: Insane studded leather armor.
Number of times singer Abbath does a Gene Simmons impression while playing: 75, 116.
Actually: Overall, these guys are pretty unabashedly proclaiming their love for Kiss. The face-paint, the synchronized headbanging, all of it.
Scowl of guitarist Demonaz Doom Occulta: Immovable and overwhelming.
Best tracks of the set: “Sons of Northern Darkness,” “Damned in Black,” “Tyrants.”
Holy shit: The ultra-long pause in “Tyrants” is such an awesome mindfuck.
Favorite Abbath song banter: “MMMHERE WE GO AGAIN.”
Personal wish: That New York clubs allowed fire-breathing.
Percentage of hangover left upon exiting club: 28%.
New cure for a hangover: Gale-force blasts of wintery hatred, apparently.

Chris Krovatin is the author of two young adult novels, Heavy Metal & You and Venomous. He is currently working on multiple new writing projects, as well as new material with his local New York metal band Flaming Tusk. He is a freelance writer for Revolver, and generally comes off as a good-natured pain in everyone's collective ass.

This past Saturday, I went to see Incantation, who played with Mortician in Brooklyn. Here's what happened.

First time I heard about this show: August.

First thought upon hearing about this show: Fuck yeah, Mortician!

Notable aspect of this concert: Incantation are to play their legendary album Onward to Golgotha in its entirety.

More notable aspect: Fucking Mortician!

Arrival time at Europa: 7:00 P.M.

Door time, according to Europa’s website: 6:00 P.M.

Seems a little early: But whatever, this is supposed to be some big metal party, right?

Band banners onstage upon arrival: Fatalist. Guess we missed them.

Between-band time passer: Another Budweiser, please.

Time spent waiting for the next band to come onstage: An hour. Huh?

Shirt bought: A Mortician shirt with the classic double-axe NYDM logo on the back. Brutal.

Sad merch fact: No Hacked Up for Barbecue or Darkest Day of Horror shirts! Denied!

Words overheard repeatedly in the bathroom: “9:30 curfew.” Wait a second, what?

Time a single speaker gets loaded onstage: 8:40. Uh-oh.

Local metal journalist encountered: Atanamar, writer of the awesome Mindful Of Metal blog.

According to Atanamar: Incantation were providing the backline for the entire show and got stuck in George Washington Bridge traffic. Meanwhile, the club has a 9:30 curfew, at which point the metal concert is over and their White Party, which is described to me as a Polish mob dance party, takes over the space. So now, Incantation have to play as much of Golgotha as they can in what time they have.

Hold on: Are you fucking kidding me?

First band on: Is it…oh, it’s Mortician! That’s “Zombie Apocalypse!”

Sounds like: The fattest, scariest serial killer you’ve ever met chopping you down with a meat cleaver and then resurrecting your corpse so he can do it again.

Favorite track played: “Blown To Pieces.”

Amount of time Mortician play for: 15 minutes, at most.

Next up: Incantation, from Johnstown, Pennsylvania.

Sounds like: Rot-faced demons with chainsaws running through a post-apocalyptic wasteland and mutilating any idiots stupid enough to get in their way.

Amount of time Incantation are allowed to play: 30 minutes, tops. Golgotha is a 40-plus-minute album.

Unceremonious method of ushering a band offstage: Begin flashing the lights on and off during their last song.

Best word to describe the concert: A shitshow.

Realization: Well, now I’m drunk in Greenpoint. Awesome.

On top of that: The G train is fictional. This is fantastic.

Chris Krovatin is the author of the young-adult novels Heavy Metal & You and Venomous, as well as Revolvermag.com's “Final Six” blog. The latter book was the inspiration forDeadlocke, a one-shot published by Dark Horse Comics.

Last night, I went to see Dimmu Borgir, who played with Enslaved, Blood Red Throne, and Dawn of Ashes in New York. Here's what happened.

Word of the night: Monolith. 

First time I saw Dimmu Borgir: The Hard Rock Café in midtown with Krisiun and Cryptopsy. Some dude behind me kept screaming “STORMBLAST” for the entire performance.

Last time I saw Dimmu Borgir: Wacken Open Air 2007. They killed it.

Favorite thing about Terminal 5: It’s nestled beneath this grey monolith of a building overhang.

Least favorite thing about Terminal 5: It’s about three blocks West of anything.

Number of dudes in corpsepaint witnessed upon arrival: 6.

Number of dudes in corpsepaint in the audience: Too many to count. Hey, why not, man, Kiss and all that.

Weird corpsepaint choice of the night: The dude rocking the weird sideburn lines that Dimmu frontman Shagrath used to wear. Looks really weird next to all the slapdash paint jobs, I have to say.

Sad realization of the night: I’ve missed Dawn Of Ashes, who’s new album, Genocide Chapters, actually kicks two tons of blackened-death ass.

Price of a beer at Terminal 5: Six bucks for a Tecate. You people should be fucking ashamed of yourselves. Really.

Band one: Blood Red Throne, from Norway.

Sounds like: Exactly how you imagine a Norwegian death metal band to sound (and look). Big windmilly riffs, non-stop war machine drums, grunt upon grunt.

Crowd response: Monolithically positive.

To be fair: Blood Red Throne don’t get to the States much, and they’ve got a ton of material, so of course their fans are rabid. Plus, they have easily the best T-shirts available.

Confession: I bought BRT’s debut, Monument of Death, in 2001, and really disliked it, but I think I was just not in a death-metal mood at the time.

Crowd demographic: Predominantly people of color—black people, Latino people, Asian people. You think Dimmu shows are like this in Norway?

Lame merch situation: You guys are selling inverted cross necklaces, and you don’t have any fucking patches? Not a one?

Weird merch choice: Enslaved are going for a really weird tie-dyed hippie-metal thing for their shirts. Not really my cup of monoliths.

And with that: Enslaved from Norway.

Sounds like: The dark ethereal powers channeled by those beings who we can only comprehend as the Norse Gods.

What time is it: Why, it’s weed o’clock!

Awesome new jams played: “Ethica Odini.”

Classic guitar insanity: The masterful guitar wailing on “Ground” by the monolithic Ice Dale.

The great thing about Enslaved: They convey all the dark psychedelia of black metal while at the same time just being five dudes onstage exercising the ether—no set pieces, no costumes.

Number of times I covet Grutle Kjellson’s moustache: 35.

Newsworthy artistic choice: Dimmu Borgir recently changed the cover art for their newest album, Abrahadabra, only a few weeks after it was released. The change was from a multi-eyed industrial gargoyle man to the exact same image with a skull instead of a man’s face.

Recent suggestion heard by this author: The change was because the man’s face looked like he was blowing a dude.

HAIL: THE GRIMMEST OF BLOWJOBS!

And finally: Dimmu Borgir, from Norway.

Sounds like: The slow-rolling tank brigade of the Marquis De Sade’s apocalyptic army.

Looks like: …snow leopards, currently.

Dear Dimmu Borgir: I get what you’re doing with the white furry outfits. You’re trying to show how all-white is as kult as all-black, and you’re attempting to look like Vlad Tepes or Atilla the Hun or one of those maniacs out of time. And I respect that, that mountain warlord thing. But it’s really, really weird to see you dressed like black metal snow bunnies, and I was really, really hoping for some spiked black shinguards tonight. Just saying.

Crushing opener: “Spellbound (by the Devil).”

Great new track: “Born Treacherous.”

Best song of the set: The monolithic rendition of “Puritania.”

Interesting set piece: The standing model of the blowjob-y gargoyle head. Huh?

Must be a microphone: No…no, I think it’s just there.

Proof I’m psychic: “This next one is…’The Blazing Monoliths Of Defiance!’”

Of course: They wait to play “Mourning Palace” at the very end.

Verdict: Say what you want about Dimmu Borgir being mainstream or sell-outs or whatever—they sell it in the live arena.

But hey: That’s just my two monoliths.

Photo by Kjell Ivar Lund

Chris Krovatin is the author of the young-adult novels Heavy Metal & You and Venomous, as well as Revolvermag.com's “Final Six” blog. The latter book was the inspiration for Deadlocke, a one-shot published by Dark Horse Comics.

On Sunday, I went to see High On Fire, who played with Torche and Kylesa in New York. Here's what happened:

General aroma of Webster Hall: Resin-soaked beard.

Number of beards present at Webster Hall: 4,237.

Number of flannel shirts present: 1,482.

Number of dudes wearing the same bootleg Slayer shirt as me: Four. One of us is going to have to change.

Favorite piece of merch available: High On Fire’s ashtrays. The bottom features the logo and a skull-faced Indian chief.

First on the docket: Kylesa from Savannah, Georgia.

Chosen genre: Melodic and melancholy stoner metal.

Actual genre: The sound of Edgar Allen Poe being beaten down with a plank of wood.

Song of the set: “Unknown Awareness.”

Coolest effect of the night: Kylesa’s Spiral Shadow cover art projected into a whirling spiral behind them.

Best thing about “hipster” metal kids: The chicks are all…wow, the chicks are all hot as balls.

Even the reporters: Especially the reporters! Damn!

Best part about being a reporter: Getting to go upstairs to the balcony area and take a load off between sets.

Worst part about going to the balcony and taking a load off between sets: It reminds you how much of an old fuck you are.

Favorite T-shirt in attendance: The skinny kid in the Those Poor Bastards shirt.

Favorite thing about Webster Hall: It looks like an old bombed-out theater. Other venues could learn a lesson from this place.

Next, we have: Torche from Miami, Florida.

Wait a second: Torche are from Florida? Huh!

Sounds like: Super-happy smash rock. Southern sludge meets weird Japanese shoegaze with a touch of T. Rex. The band calls it “thunder pop.”

Favorite member of Torche: Bassist Jon Nuñez, who looks like he’s about to take four shits and die the entire set.

Claim to fame: Torche’s Meanderthal was hailed by critics everywhere when it came out in 2008.

Least favorite mosher type: The chick—it’s usually a chick—who writhes around with her arms clasped over her face, then barrels blindly into one side of the pit, expecting people to hold her up in her reverie. Also used by totally wasted dudes as well.

Fuck those people: I’m all for acting as a buffer for the occasional thrasher, but the whole run-from-one-edge-to-another-slumping-on-people thing is just obnoxious. Fuck off, die slow.

Notable line-up fact: The set is three solid bands, no hidden list of local openers and performance acts.

And finally: High On Fire from Oakland, CA.

Sounds like: Stone clubs, hard liquor, weed smoke, and the Devil.

Hammers: Arise.

Matt Pike in a few words: A leering demon, forcing his guitar to puke gravel, inviting listeners into a crashing abyss of hard-edged decadence, with his plumber’s crack showing.

Notable difference: Matt Pike acts so much scarier in High on Fire than he did when I saw him in Sleep a few weeks back. Guess this band just gets the fire going in him.

Number of bowls, joints, and one-hitters lit: Huh? Sorry, dude, I’m just so fucking hungry all of a sudden…

Best track of the night: “Turk” was just insane.

Weird track of the night: “Blessed Black Wings,” which appeared to be plagued by technical difficulties.

Listen up, sound guys: There’s no reason for a band like High on Fire to be getting this many feedback problems during their set. There was some of this when I saw Black Label Society the other night. Come on.

Scariest bastard of the night: High on Fire drummer Des Kensel. Jesus, look at him go.

Favorite way to end the night: Warm molten chocolate cake from the dessert truck on 4th Ave.

High On Fire and chocolate cake: In some countries, they’d probably arrest you for this combination.

Chris Krovatin is the author of the young-adult novels Heavy Metal & You and Venomous, as well as Revolvermag.com's “Final Six” blog. The latter book was the inspiration for Deadlocke, a one-shot published by Dark Horse Comics.

On Wednesday, I went to see Black Label Society, who played with Clutch, Children of Bodom, and 2Cents in New York. Here's what happened:

Number of Black Label Society back patches witnessed before entering venue: Six.

Number of said patches witnessed in venue lobby: Seven. Jesus Christ, it must be good to be in this band.

Crowd forecast: Burly and leathery, with patches of hairy and gale-force drunk warning in effect. Skanks have been sighted in many of the densely populated areas.

Hilarious sight: The one kid in spikes and eyeliner here to see Children of Bodom.

First band of the night: 2Cents.

Sounds like: Pantera.

Looks like: Pantera.

Specific Pantera look-alike: Lead singer Adam O’Rourke. Dude’s got an amazing Anselmo thing going, down to the shaved-except-for-one-long-patch hair.

Attendance: Already exceptional for a show like this. The crowd is at least four rows deep with solid bikers.

Number of children in attendance: Four.

Number of said children wearing BLS denim vests: Three.

Price of a child-size BLS denim vest at the merch table: $160.

Price of an average T-shirt at the merch table: $35. Are you kidding me? What happened to 20 dollars a shirt?

Next we have: Children of Bodom, from Finland.

Sounds like: Yngwie Malmsteen crashing his Cadillac into a truck full of Kreator in a crowded intersection. Twisted Sister calls the cops.

To be fair: If you’re reading this, you know what Children of Bodom sound like. This is Revolver, people.

Best track played: “Angels Don’t Kill.”

Number of fingers owned by Alexi Laiho: 47.

Actual biker club in attendance: Members of the N.Y. chapter of the Lost Souls.

Amount this reporter actually knows about biker culture: I’m catching up on Sons Of Anarchy now.

Cool reporter moment: Getting ushered backstage for a meet-and-greet with Clutch.

Amount of free space in Clutch’s dressing room: Two square inches.

Totally lame reporter moment: Spilling a beer on one of Clutch’s set lists.

Good to know: Press cred or not, I still fucking suck.

Next up: Clutch, from Maryland.

Sounds like: A bicep gets drunk and laid in New Orleans.

Last time I saw Clutch: They played a very jammy set, focusing more on their far-out dance elements. It was really chill but not what I was looking for.

This time: Every song is a pounding voodoo-infused muscle anthem.

Best track played: “Animal Farm” off of their self-titled album.

Utter shitshow of the night: The bar post-Clutch, pre-BLS. Who wants a beer? Everyone.

Worst drink special ever: Five bucks for a shot of…spiced rum?

Oh boy: Straight spiced rum! Who doesn’t like that? Everyone.

And finally: Black Label Society.

Sounds like: A collection of walk-on music for the meanest fucking wrestler in the world.

Where do Black Label Society sit in a movie theater: Wherever the fuck they feel like.

Licks: Tasty.

Chugs: Brutal.

Zakk Wylde’s daily diet: For breakfast, a hot stack of buttered denim vests. Lunch is a knuckle sandwich with extra vinger. And for dinner, it’s a big pile of whiskey-marinated chains. For desert, there’s a middle-finger mousse.

Amazing physical feat: The amount which BLS rock the fuck out at their shows. How can you keep thrashing around like that and not get totally bushed?

Favorite song of the evening: “What’s In You.”

Metal phrasology lesson: "SDMF" means "Strength, Determination, Muscles, Forever," and also "Society Dwelling Mother Fucker."

Touching moment: “In This River,” Zakk’s tribute song to the late and great Dimebag Darrel.

Best moment in the “In This River” video: After child versions of Zakk and Dime wander a forest wasteland and swim in a river, Zakk fucking destroys a piano with a hammer, in a river.

The honest truth: You only wish you could honor your dead boys that way.

Best post-concert moment: A woman’s "Happy birthday" song at the diner down the street being interrupted by a dude shouting, “BLACK LABEL SOCIETY!”

Hey, man: They never said you had to like ‘em.

Chris Krovatin is the author of the young-adult novels Heavy Metal & You and Venomous, as well as Revolvermag.com's “Final Six” blog. The latter book was the inspiration for Deadlocke, a one-shot published by Dark Horse Comics.

Last week, I went to see Nachtmystium, who played with Zoroaster, the Atlas Moth, and Dark Castle in Brooklyn, NY. Here’s what happened:

General state of the crowd at the Knitting Factory: Hairy.

General state of this reporter: Hungover, hairy.

Best hang-over cure: Psychedelic black metal, I guess?

Merch consistency: Groovy '70s-style block lettering. Guess these guys do drugs.

Coolest piece of merch available: The Atlas Moth back patches, featuring the phrase “Drop Acid, Not Bombs.”

First up: Dark Castle from Florida.

The skinny: A two-person band, featuring a female guitarist-vocalist and a drummer, that sounds like Bathory having a panic attack after smoking some high-potency grass.

Favorite fashion choice: Frontwoman Stevie Floyd’s shirt, a simple white sleeveless shirt with fake bloodstains running down the collar, like her throat’s been slit.

Best back patch of the show: The dude with the Impetigo patch. Solid.

The difference between a Brooklyn metalhead and a Manhattan metalhead: Brooklyn kids smell better. I know, it surprised me too, but if last month’s Exodus show proves anything…

Noteworthy venue detail: The bar actually has a number of decent beers on tap.

About the old Knitting Factory: If I remember correctly, they did not have a bunch of good beers on tap. If I remember correctly, they had PBR and Budweiser cans, shit like that.

Coming up second: The Atlas Moth of Chicago.

Noteworthy name bullshit: The band is named after a type of large saturniid moth named after the Greek titan Atlas due to its map-like wings.

Sounds like: The titan Atlas listening to Neurosis, then dropping the globe on his back as he’s eaten alive by a swarm of poisonous moths.

Worst thing about the Atlas Moth: They must not know that I’m brutally hungover, as their music makes my brain feel like it’s getting fucked with a hammer.

As such: They’re obviously doing their job.

Available tour poster: Mother Nature, lilly in hand, reels back from a line of blow while the Grim Reaper reaches around and cops a feel on one of her tits.

Drug use worth mentioning: Nachtmystium seem pretty down with promoting the yayo in a way that is often shunned by more extreme-metal bands. Maybe they think it’s too glam.

Drug use not worth mentioning: When I’ve done it, the yayo made me take epic forceful shits all night. I’ll stick to weed, thanks.

Door number three: Zoroaster from Atlanta.

Comprised of: Two big hairy dudes, a wild drummer, and a fourth guy on his knees manipulating a sound box to add that super-psychedelic flare.

The result: Crushing, riff-based stoner metal with throbbing pulse that makes you wonder if you might have a stroke if you stop banging your head.

Coolest band gear of the night: Zoroaster’s transparent orange drum kit. I shit you not, man.

And finally: Nachtmystium, from Chicago.

Sounds like: Master Of Reality–era Sabbath meets Sons of Northern Darkness–era Immortal, with a touch of Varg Vikernes thrown in for good measure.

Intense state of perspiration: Nachtmystium frontman Blake Judd sweating buckets from the moment he started playing.

Sudden thought: Maybe he’s as hungover as I am!

Favorite stage moves of the night: Nachtmystium just lining up, legs spread, and fucking thrashing out as they play. It’s simple, it’s old-fashioned, and it still looks fucking cool.

Song of the set: A tie between “Ghosts of Grace” and the indie-friendly mindfuck of “Nightfall.”

Holy shit: A mosh pit! Brooklyn kids starting a little black metal mosh pit! Ain’t it grand!

Actual hang-over cure: Going up to the front of the stage and pounding my fist against it while headbanging to “A Seed for Suffering.”

Look for: The band’s new video for “Every Last Drop,” directed by Revolver and Guitar World writer/photo dude Jimmy Hubbard.

In conclusion: What an awesome show, but Jesus Christ, I smell fucking awful.

However: B.O. ist krieg.

Chris Krovatin is the author of the young-adult novels Heavy Metal & You and Venomous, as well as Revolvermag.com's “Final Six” blog. The latter book was the inspiration for Deadlocke, a one-shot published by Dark Horse Comics. He is also the vocalist New York sludge-metal band Flaming Tusk. Feel free to follow him on Twitter (@bloodinmystool), but honestly, it’s mostly just dick and weed jokes.

On Sunday, I went to the Gwar (left), who played with Dirge Within and Mobile Deathcamp. I brought my girlfriend with me. Here’s what happened:

Number of times I’ve seen Gwar: Three, if you include Wacken.

Decision to bring my girlfriend to the Gwar show: Poor.

Amount of time spent lost in New Jersey: Twenty minutes.

Sad truth: That’s a record low for me.

Number of warning lights that came on in my car: Four—brakes, seat belts, brake lamps warning, and battery.

Number of prayers said on the way to Starland: Three.

Approximate description of the stench of a Gwar crowd: Hot dogs made by lepers from Boozetown.

Fravorite Gwar-related term: Bohab.

First up: Mobile Deathcamp from Toledo, Ohio.

Sounds like: Hatesphere-style thrash/death played by Laurel and Hardy.

Good band promotion move by MDC frontman T: “MOBILE DEATHCAMP TOLEDO OHIO. MOBILE DEATHCAMP TOLEDO OHIO.”

Favorite post-song stage banter of the night: “Come back to the merch booth! We’re selling shirts, CDs, poorly drawn pictures, all kinds of fuckin’ cheese, string, bits of clay, you name it!”

Amount of alcohol consumed between sets: None. I have to drive, with my girlfriend in the car. Ugh.

Amount of alcohol this reporter would consume he wasn’t driving: All of it.

Awkward moment of the night: “All right, honey, I have to warn you, there might be some poo flying around tonight. And some green semen. So just, uh, be careful.”

Next up: Dirge Within from Chicago.

Prognosis: I’ve seen lamer bands with stupider hair who are worse at playing this kind of music. So yeah, they’re OK.

Crowd reaction: Absolutely rabid. These kids love some big riffy circle-pit action.

Favorite band merch: Gwar toilet seat lids.

Those are drum heads: With Gwar, though, they’re sort of the same thing.

Note to Gwar: Get rid of the neon colors on all the new shirts. Let’s get back to that old merch, all poorly drawn and covered in countless dicks.

Speaking of countless dicks: These diehard Gwar fans are some of the rudest and grossest motherfuckers I’ve ever met. It’s just one slimy, obnoxious douchebag after another.

Proud moment of the night: Watching my girlfriend get in a fight with some fat, shit-talking Jersey chick.

Number of fat, shit-talking Jersey chicks encountered on any given night at Starland Ballroom: 141.

And then: Gwar, from Antarctica.

WOW, CHRIS: YOU PLAY A MEAN GUITAR, MAN. IT’S TOO BAD…YOU MUST DIE.

Gwar’s Behind the Murder opening video: In true Gwar fashion, barely tolerable.

Things killed onstage: Mutants, gorillas, dissected space-fiends, Michael Jackson, a deformed baby, Cardinal Synn, and the dignity of the entire crowd.

Badass new track: “Metal Metal Land” off of Lust in Space.

Historical fact: Gwar invented music by stretching dinosaur guts across the grand canyon and plucking them in tune with their own rancid flatulence.

Most poetic moment of the night: Gwar front-genital Oderus Urungus raping a deformed baby with a sword while softly singing Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.”

Favorite Gwar stage banter: “YES. BRING FORTH MICHAEL JACKSON. HE HAS CANCER OF THE BALLS. FUCK HIM.”

Colors sprayed onto my girlfriend: Green, red.

Number of hammered people getting behind the wheel post-show: All of them.

Best way to end a Gwar show in Jersey: Barely making it out alive.