Combichrist, Consumption, and Labor Day

Friday last, I staggered off to go see Combichrist with my friend Jesse. We decided to give the opening bands a miss as none were bands that I'd ever heard of before. While Dr. Echidna said that SITD could be clichéd but wasn't too ghastly, I wasn't exactly sold on the deal.

So, we got there at a quarter to ten. SITD had cancelled owing for some reason that I never heard, we missed Modulate, and arrived in time for Imperative Reaction. At the time, I noticed that Combichrist would take the stage at 10:45.

After entering El Corazon, I beelined for the lounge area as my tongue was hanging out for a drink. I should've known better than to order a whiskey and soda since what I was given bore about as much resemblance to one as a four-year-old's sidewalk chalk drawing does a Rembrandt. Anyway, while we stood in the line for our weak and overpriced beverages, I was bored to tears by the repetitive and uninspired music of IR.

As the Weltschmerz mounted with every passing second, I hurriedly drained my drink and legged it for the open spaces so I could have a puff, escape from the press of people, and kill the time until Combichrist came on stage. Eventually, I wandered back inside and ran into my friend Brett and his girlfriend Jennifer. We surveyed the all-ages crowd with something of a jaundiced eye and retreated to the lounge again.

I finally took up a position near the center area and was predisposed to enjoy the Combichrist show - how can you not love hot, rivet-head Norwegian boys? Unfortunately, the crowd intervened and ruined the show for me in short order.

This show, sadly, ranks as one of the worst I've ever seen and I thank all of the underaged fucktards for this.

Yes, you want to dance to Combichrist. I sympathize. However, in a venue the size of El Corazon, slam dancing is not quite appropriate. Shoving your way through the crowd repeatedly to visit friends is unacceptable.

Confidential to the dumpy short chick who thought it'd be awesome to thrash about like a gaffed salmon or someone with St. Vitus' Dance: Thank you for elbowing me in the thorax repeatedly and for stomping on my feet. You weigh about as much as a Belgian draft horse. And no, I was not kidding when I told you that, if you didn't stop stomping on me, I'd donkey punch you. I hope your dog dies.

Being forced to absorb twenty-year-old boy sweat is unacceptable, too. I think the final straw came when I got hit in the eye with about a cup of lukewarm water. I don't know whether it was thrown from the stage, from an audience member, or what. Nor do I really WANT to know.

Anyway, I legged it out of the venue when Andy said they were playing their last song - I couldn't handle any more and I wound up furiously chainsmoking and waiting patiently for Jesse, Brett, and Jennifer to exit the building so we could head up to the Mercury and get away from the under twenty-one crowd.

Other than that, Friday night was enjoyable. Saturday, I woke up feeling a bit lungy and it has gone down hill from there to the point that I feel like I'm in the throes of a raging consumption or at the very least the Lesser Asiatic Death Cold. Fortunately for me, I'll be heading to Coeur d'Alene for Labour Day weekend to spend time with my family and friends.