After Morbid Angel had finished their set, I looked at my phone and found five missed calls and three text messages, all from SP.
“Ere geeze, I couldn’t take it anymore, my eyes were burning. I’ve gone back to the car.”
Burning is a term me and my friend Sam Clayton use to describe someone who blasts out metal at high volumes on their own, sweating profusely from the struggle of sheer intensity attacking them. But then SP went and brought a whole new meaning to the word. The metal was so forceful and complicated, it was actually burning his eyes, to the point where the mere sight of Morbid Angel was too much for him to take.
I’ve already seen Motorhead twice, and the last time was very disappointing. I was knackered and somewhat unenthused, so I decided to call it and day and go back to the car. SP wasn’t joking about his eyes of fire, but he put it down to a combination of lack of sleep, and hay fever. I secretly suspected that Morbid Angel had somehow infected his retinas.
I could have stayed to watch Motorhead, but I wanted to leave the festival on a high, and Lemmy’s unpredictable can’t be arsed attitude, could have spoilt that. Apparently they were shit anyway.
Morbid Angel are another band I discovered through a car boot sale gamble. After judging their LP through the connotations brought to mind when seeing its cover art, I assumed the odds of Altars of Madness sounding brutal were quite high. I knew that record belonged in my collection, and what a good gamble it was. Years later, whilst studying at university, this record was used as an example of atonal music, which is music without a sense of key signature. I was the only person in the room to have even heard of the band, and I remember feeling a little bit smug about the situation.
Morbid Angel’s most recent release Illud Divinum Insanus, wasn’t exactly greeted with the five star response they’d been hoping for. The album takes a turn in a new direction, one which even surprised their solid fan base of followers. It wasn’t what they were expecting and so they slated it, but fuckinhell, you only get one life, you may as well try something a bit different every now and again. The negative attention the band received due to their stylistic departure, could have affected their position on the bill, and even the size of their crowd, but it didn’t. It just didn’t.
A gigantic horde had amassed and joined forces, impatiently awaiting the rare opportunity to see four legends of metal do what they do. Chants of Morbid, Morbid began circulating around the huge mob of misfits, like a disease spreading claiming more and more victims for singer David Vincent.
The band entered the stage to an uproar of applause and rapturous shouts, which only got louder when they began to play Immortal Rites off Altars of Madness. I had my camera out ready for one of its last stints, but during that first number, it did not get used once, for my duties were distracted when my head started banging to one of my favourite songs.
Their sound engineer quite clearly knew his shit, as the overall mix of their show far surpassed the quality of any others who tried before. This level of professionalism seemed consistent throughout the camp, for the band did not miss a note.
A truly enjoyable experience was had for all. Morbid Angel didn’t disappoint a single member of the audience.
It was almost time to see that sexy bitch from Amaranthe again, so I headed towards the Sophie Lancaster stage early to get a good spot before the other photographers.
I then forgot about my purist morals, and started staring at Elize’s arse, getting as many pictures of her tight body as I could. I think (hope) she recognized me from the acoustic tent, because she smiled and knelt down in front of my camera giving me my own personal pose. I got some great shots and the beginnings of a hard-on.
I didn’t really listen to the music after I lost interest in it, and placed my efforts and concentration on the photos. I think it would be unfair to give Amaranthe a rating out of ten, because in a musical sense, I wasn’t really there, so I’ll leave you with some pictures that will make you want to fuck Elize. Enjoy!
After Exodus finished, I went back to the tent and shoved the last two Strongbow’s into my inside pocket. On the way back to the main stage, I noticed a second queue developing outside the signing tent. This surely can’t be a queue for the queue I thought. My fears were confirmed after asking an excited man wearing an Exodus t-shirt and childish grin. He was tightly grasping the booklet of the album Pleasures of the Flesh in one hand, whilst nervously clicking the lid of a Sharpie marker pen in the other. Apparently, the expected turn out for the Exodus signing was unusually large, which had encouraged punters to form a pre line, whilst the signing prior, was still active. I really wanted to watch At The Gates, who were five minutes away from playing the main stage, but if meant getting my copy of Tempo of the Damned signed, missing ten minutes or so of their set was a small price to pay. I got in the pre queue, which eventually turned into the queue, which didn’t move for a very long time. It was too late to turn back, but my hopes of watching At The Gates were quickly fading, as was my moral. By the time At The Gates had finished their set I was at the front of the queue feeling a little bit stupid. I got my CD signed, asked an unenthusiastic Gary Holt how he was coping with playing with Slayer as well as Exodus, and left a little bit disappointed.
Exodus, the band that could and should have been, the band other bands feared, the instigators of style and scene, the band banned by most venues on the early 80’s thrash circuit, the band that should be recognized as part of the big four, are now only five minutes away from gracing us with their presence on the Bloodstock stage floor. I’d pay the price the £105 Bloodstock price tag just to see Gary Holt tune his guitar, I’d pay £50 to see him tune it badly….. but hold on a minute, I didn’t pay anything for this festival, I very craftily managed to get in for free, but Exodus were worth every second of the time spent on those painstaking emails I sent, and the VIP treatment did help ease my tired email fingers.
I got my spot early near the front, well as close to the front as I could manage anyway, for eager thrashers had my idea first without letting me know about it. Time passed by slowly as I eagerly awaited some kind of introductory sign, it passed by even more slowly while technical difficulties prevented the band from playing on schedule, subsequently eating up a stammering fifteen minutes of their allocated time slot. Eventually though, the originators of thrash metal strutted out to the stage to a thunderous applause, and then my frustration subsided.
This is the first time I have seen Exodus with vocalist Rob Dukes, the last time I saw them back in 2004 while touring “Tempo of the Damned”, Steve “Zetro” Souza was singing. In my opinion Zetro gets way too much negative press, but the first Exodus album I bought was “Pleasures of the Flesh”, and it was Zetro’s vocals that initially won me over. Rob Dukes sings in a different style than Steve Souza, though he is very flexible and capable of quite convincingly emulated vocals from the albums that came before he did.
They kicked in at 100mph, the crowd went crazy, a circle pit of destruction spread like a disease as it recruited more and more members, taking out the weak and the posers. Names were added to Rob Duke’s “Black List”, garments were removed, tits were exposed, crowd surfers rode a heavy metal wave, a guitar was played by a singer to free up a guitarists beer drinking arm, risky opinions were spoken but not all agreed, my camera survived but by the skin of it’s teeth.
What? Already? Toxic Waltz? But that can mean only one thing, our Exodus experience is about to be drawn to a close, but 30 minutes isn’t enough.
Exodus played a fantastic set but it was way too short. The band cannot be blamed for the technical issues that caused the premature pull of the plug; these problems are unpredictable and cannot efficiently be prepared for. Overall though, I had a great time and will watch Exodus whenever possible.
Having not seen them before, I didn’t know what to expect from a Napalm Death gig. Their songs are so fast and sometimes over in a matter of seconds, and in the case of You Suffer, only one second. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy fast as fuck songs, but I was concerned that in a live festival environment, the individualism and musicality of their adrenaline fuelled compositions, might get lost in translation and not effectively communicate.
FUCK! My mouth dropped, I was shocked, amazed and confused. Vocalist Mark Greenway controlled the stage, violently shaking his head in quick succession looking as if he was suffering from a combination of ADHD, and Parkinson’s. Shane Embury, desperately trying to hide his glaringly obvious bald patch, ripped the guts out of his bass guitar, and moved well for a big man. Mitch Harris, with his brutally high pitched screeching backing vocals, shredded to the point of cardio vascular training. And how the fuck is Danny Herrera so fat? That man is a monster on the drums, and he plays so effortlessly, he must drink shit loads of ale to keep that weight up.
They opened with the song Strong Arm off the 2009 album, TimeWaits for No Slave. And I’m not trying to get all fancy here using metaphors and the like, but when that song started, I felt like I had been punched in the face. It was all so sudden and without warning. I don’t think I inhaled throughout the entirety of that first song; I just stood in shock (I did breathe. I just lied to you).
My camera fired like a machine gun, but Greenway wouldn’t keep his fucking head still. He looked like a rabid mongrel dog shaking to rid itself of fleas. I love their image though, and that’s because they don’t have one. They are themselves, they don’t need to paint their fucking faces, and the singer doesn’t even have long hair anymore - anti conformists even to the crowd they play to. I fuckin love it. But that lack of dress code which symbolizes hardcore and grindcore, is almost in itself a dress code; an image. Anyway, enough about the way they look.
Napalm Death then dropped a series of bombs on my already battered face. Unchallenged Hate, Continuing War on Stupidity, Next on the List, When All is Said and Done, Lucid Fairytale, Social Sterility, Diktat, Lowlife, On the Brink of Extinction, Scum, Control, M.A.D, You Suffer, Nazi Punks Can Fuck Off, Suffer the Children, and Instinct of Survival. As you can see they played a varied set, choosing songs which span most of the bands career, pleasing fans that have been loyally following them since their incarnation.
The Cryptic Slaughter cover Low Life, which appears on Napalm’s second cover record Leaders Not Followers part 2, was a joy to hear. Lowlife has been taken form the 1986 Cryptic Slaughter album Convicted, and is a must for any fan of hardcore/grindcore/crossover. If you’ve not heard it yet, don’t tell anyone, and buy it quick, you won’t regret it.
The Dead Kennedy’s cover Nazi Punks Can Fuck Off, seemed to be sung even more passionately than the rest of the set. Greenway lived the songs anti fascist incentives and beliefs with each word that came out of his mouth. You’d think that after playing these songs so many times the band would get bored of the same old routine, but Napalm Death quite clearly embrace their work, because they played Bloodstock with the same childlike enthusiasm as a band playing their first gig.
Suffer the Children was the only song from the entire decade of the 1990’s to make it into the set list. This wasn’t much of shock though considering how Napalm Death were treated during that era. The 1990’s and it’s ever changing fashions and dictated popular opinions did not agree with Napalm’s style of music, and didn’t agree with most heavy music for that matter. The bands that survived that decade deserve a badge of honor for continuing to play the music they love.
Many songs were included from recent albums, which evidently suggested that forward thinking and progress were high on the agenda. The box for audience satisfaction had also been ticked, heard through a handful of songs taken from their first two records.
I watched in awe knowing they couldn’t be topped, but desperately hoped Exodus somehow would. While Pure Negative were the best band of Saturday, Napalm Death were the best band of the festival. Their sincere attitude and no bullshit approach has also made a lasting impression on me, only further cementing my positive opinion of them. They shit on every other band that played Bloodstock (even Exodus), and I knew they had even before the festival was over.
Their noise attack as Greenway puts it, is something very special and not to be missed if you’re a fan of heavy music. Their lyrics cover all types of ground; some political, some social and some controversial, but they are mostly influenced from seeing the world through un-spoilt, open eyes. They have their own opinions on things and always will do. Theirs will not be changed, and you cannot encourage, persuade, or influence them in any other direction. Napalm Death are true to themselves and ask their audience to take a look at what they see, and how they see it.
On the way back from Evil Scarecrow, I stumbled upon a large crowd awaiting the arrival of an acoustic act in the Jagermeister tent. I decided to join four or five other curious photographers behind the railing, and got ready to receive what everyone else seemed to be so excited about.
A beautiful woman walked on stage accompanied by two other musicians I could care less about. The sound of cameras clicking and applause from the crowd, allowed Finnish female vocalist (and sexy bitch) Elize Ryd of Amaranthe, to feel welcome in England. I couldn’t get over how beautiful this girl was; wearing a black leather skin tight outfit, she left my jaw hanging with drool spilling out of the corners of my mouth. This girl had nothing to hide, but if she only lived by my idea instead of wearing those troublesome clothes, maybe then I’d be able to see her fanny.
I remember her having a good voice, but my attention was not on the music, it was all concentrated on trying to capture the true beauty of Elize on film (Sandisk SD card). I later found out that Amaranthe’s full band would be playing the Sophie Lancaster stage, which would give me ample more opportunity to take some good pictures of this sexy woman in a different environment.
Anyway, after the allocated three songs were up, and I felt like I had taken enough pictures, and went.
Evil Scarecrow, a band I’d never heard of before, was due to play the Sophie Lancaster stage. I was getting a lot more pleasure out of watching bands I didn’t know about, than ones who already had an established reputation. Judging by the crowd though, Evil Scarecrow had already somewhat of a reputation.
They walked on stage with their faces painted all evil, but the contradictory smiles they boasted, weakened the effect. Fuck me, their taking the piss ha-ha. What a good idea! I think this is what I needed to wake me up a bit, something a bit less serious and more light hearted. Their music was great as well, and their lyrics were hilarious; they had me smiling from ear to ear.
I got some great photos too. The guitarist performing directly in front of where I was stood, was so animated, it would have been difficult to come away from the gig without something decent. The lights seemed perfect for this band, the greens, the reds, and the blues, all contributed towards the visual cocktail. I’m really happy with the pictures, I took loads of them.
I felt lost without my camera, so as soon as Simon had finished his bands, I got a bit snap happy and took loads of pictures of Primordial. I enjoyed the band and got my CD signed after the gig, but I felt a little bit overloaded, as if the constant onslaught of metal aggression had battered my brain. I watched a bit of 1349 who were awesome, and then had a wonder around.
Hell were the first band to grace the main stage on Sunday. I’d heard a lot of good things about them, with their most recent albums exceptional sales and success being the most notable factor. Simon knew a couple of the bands who were playing early on in the New Blood tent, so he took control of the camera for the first couple of hours. But with ten minutes to spare before resigning to his photographic duties, I asked him to stick around and take some pictures of a band I wanted to know more about.
Hell’s idea of a gig isn’t just playing a bunch of songs and saying thanks for coming, they take the stage as actors, using props, reciting lines, and using special effects whilst telling a story. Almost like a Broadway musical, the scripted acting in between introduces an idea, while the song that follows, reinforces the concept and tells a story about it. Very clever stuff and entertaining to watch.
Whilst sitting quite comfortably in the throne of the NWOBHM, Hell’s approach to performance takes a different twist. It’s a bit like watching Iron Maiden, but instead of Dickinson ranting on about some political issues, David Bower tells you a macabre tale of hell and all its evils. Bruce attempts to socially connect by sharing his opinions and addressing the audience like welcome buddies, whereas Bower’s approach, is to take you to the places he describes; he wants you to get lost in his stories and imagery. These are two completely different methods of engagement within the same genre of music, but two very effective ones. But a bare-chested Bower started whipping himself at one point, which was a little bit too much for me so I went to find Simon.
Sunday began earlier than it should have, but getting all the tent shit out of the way, meant we could enjoy Bloodstock’s final day without that chore nagging at the back of our minds. I couldn’t be arsed packing up properly, so just shoved the tent and other bits of crap into my zipped up sleeping bag, and carried it on my shoulder like a hobo. One of our camping neighbors kindly allowed us to store the remainders of our food (tinned fish and half a pasta pot) in the porch of his tent so we wouldn’t have to carry the stinky shit around all day.
Next stop - cup of coffee. I spent the last of my money on an overpriced Americana; it was ok but not really worth writing about, bit of a pointless paragraph for you there.
“Ere Evans, honestly mate, this is the first time they’ve played England in about ten years. I can’t fuckin’ wait”
And I was really excited about Angel Witch:
“I’ll probably be able to watch the first two song mates, but there is no way I’m missing any of Angel Witch. In fact, I might even get there ten minutes before just incase they’re a bit early.”
Nothing more than two hysterical children ready to unwrap their long awaited presents, we prepared ourselves for the highlights of Bloodstock.
I’ve been collecting records since I was 15 years old; I have a full room dedicated to those things and still want more. At the time when I first started acquiring those out of date pieces of plastic, there were Aurora Snow sized gaping holes in my collection. Not knowing these gaps needed to be filled, I’d go to record shops and stock up on bands I was already familiar with, but the real bargains, the rarities, the weird and wonderful, came from car boot sales.
The prices of records on car boot sales are always much more sympathetic towards the depressing contents of my wallet. 50p a record mate, or three for a quid. At those prices you can afford to take chances. If you like the look of a sleeve for instance, but haven’t heard of the band, give the guy 50p. What’s the worst that could happen?
That’s how I found out about Angel Witch. I loved the cover, the red ambiguity of it all, and the gothic logo spelling out a name I found hilarious. That album was on repeat for the next month; I couldn’t get enough of it.
Angel Witch were one of the bands who stood out on the bill for me, mostly because I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to see them, it felt like an opportunity that needed to be pounced on.
I secured a good spot beneath the centre of the stage to take pictures of front man Kevin Heybourne, the one remaining original member of the current line up. I got the same feeling you get when you’re relatively new to the gigging experience, stomach jumping around, anxious excitement and all that.
Angel Witch nonchalantly walked on stage looking cool as fuck, and ripped into a furious rendition of the classic “Gorgon” from their masterpiece of a debut album. Before they came on I was a little apprehensive, as many old school bands that get back together, do so in an attempt to relive their past. But Angel Witch proved otherwise, as after the first four bars of “Gorgan” were played, the crowd traveled back in time to 1980, knowing they were in for a good time.
Accurate to the nearest semi-hemi-demi-semi-quaver (128th note), sounding like they had never stopped, Angel Witch proved that the NWOBHM was still alive. Most of my favourite tracks from the album I found on that fateful car boot day, were blasted at me louder than I’d ever heard them played before. Dr. Phibes from the 1981 single Loser took me by surprise, I’ve always loved that instrumental and so its inclusion was an added bonus. The Night is Calling, an early track never officially released, was another nice surprise – the live version of this track appears on a compilation containing both live and studio tracks called Sinister History. Baphomet, the song that captured the attention of EMI (before Bronze snapped em up), appearing on the 1980 Metal for Muthas compilation, was a great penultimate track to prepare the audience for their signature sing along anthem, Angel Witch.
What made the gig even more special was the promise of progression.
“We’re recording a new album believe it or not” declared front man Kevin Heybourne. Then blasted into a brand new, unheard of track that sounded heavy as fuck.
It was a great gig with a very diverse set, and one of my festival highlights. My only criticism, is that they didn’t play Sweet Danger, but you can’t always get what you want ha-ha.
Under the impression that I had just witnessed a pivotal stage in the career of a potentially huge band of the future, I smugly walked back to our meeting point. The sprinting back and forth for the camera was well worth the discouraging looks and mild embarrassment, for the pictures I took were fucking immense. I can’t remember the exact order of what followed, I’ve left it slightly too long to accurately remember certain stages of comparative insignificance.
I remember the bands on the main stage getting very boring, probably because I didn’t know any of their material – I'm not sure. But whatever the case, they encouraged me to explore the other stages with hopes of finding something better. A band had just finished at the Sophie Lancaster stage, so I followed a small crowd over to the New Blood tent. I’d already struck gold twice with this tent, so it was unlikely to happen again, but worth investigating none the less.
As I approached the entrance of the tent, the noise pollution from the main stage became overpowered and distant. I started hearing Phil Anselmo style vocals pumping out of the P.A system. Southern sounding riffs played at a neck snapping tempo, resonated in my gut and made me feel angry. This is the place to be I thought. Fuck all that complacent main stage bullshit, this band are ready to fuckin kill someone.
I had walked into a brick wall of contagious heavy metal, razor sharp and brutal beyond belief. Tight as a college girls arse hole, with a stage presence and dominance most bands will never sniff – Pure Negative, a band relatively unheard of, stole the spotlight. I’d go as far as to say that Pure Negative topped everyone on Saturday, and considering the talent offered from the New Blood tent alone, that’s a massive achievement.
There are a number of influences to be heard in their music, an amalgamation of styles worked into another, but the southern influence rang louder than any other. I’m sure they get sick of hearing it, but the comparison between Pure Negative and Down, or even Pantera, is undeniable. The singer doesn’t help matters with his Vulgar Display shaved head and Anselmo style stage antics – screaming on his knees with his head against the floor for example. But I actually enjoyed it more because of these potentially troublesome characteristics, you could see just how passionately they felt towards their influences, and there is nothing wrong with that.
I have a group of friends who I get drunk with whilst listening to similar music, and it always ends badly. With someone fighting, something getting broke, or the police turning up at my door (as was the case last time), there is always an expected negative occurrence. I blame it on the sheer aggression emitted from the speakers, I blame it on the lyrics, the volume, the speed, their idea of a drink, their philosophy and way of life, and I welcome it with open arms. I was already well into my Strongbows, and seeing this same kind of energy emanate from the stage made me feel like I was with my friends, only nothing could go wrong this time, for everybody else felt the same way I did. We were collectively one, with everybody part of the show and fighting for the same cause. Angry and drunk, our ears bled with delight.
I can try and be ponsy and poetic, or just tell it like it is. Pure Negative are one of the best bands I’ve seen in years.
What the fuck is that noise? I thought. It sounded like a cross between doom and death metal, but somewhere along the splicing process something must have gone terribly wrong and created this fucking sinister sound. Their clothes suggested their was an SP Viking influence, but the song still hadn’t properly kicked in so I couldn’t give an accurate description of their style at that point – it just sounded very evil.
I edged forward to get a better look at the creators of this maddening, because without my glasses I am blind with distance, but with them I look like a dick, then I realized they were just a bunch of kids who looked about 16 or 17 years old. Very photogenic though, and legitimately looking like evil bastard kids that wouldn’t think twice about ripping your heart out before eating it.
Shit, I want my fucking camera, but I can’t take it back off SP, I’ve only just given it to him. I’ll stick around and see what they sound like, they probably can’t play anyway. I was WRONG! The song kicked in at a blistering pace, and those kids played as accurate, if not more accurate, than the bands on the main stage. Their heads viciously banged in circles like possessed demons as they played their ever complicated instrumental patterns, their hair dragging behind like Catherine wheels. Those supple necks won’t feel the effects of whiplash in the morning I jealously thought.
All the songs I heard were ace, constructed very intelligently, with flowing transitions between sections seamlessly joining very different contrasting music. It wasn’t just slow, then fast either. It was wicked, then evil, then brutal, then demonic, then thrashy, then black, and then back to brutal etc.
I urgently needed my camera. The crowd was soaking every second of it up, most of whom were just as gob smacked as me. Bloodstock were definitely taking a new band home with them, along with a new patch for their denim jacket, and illegal ideas of downloading. They were outstanding, and dare I say it, maybe even a little bit better than Bludvera, but it is probably unfair to compare two completely different styles of band.
I could sense their set drawing to a close, I couldn’t take it anymore, I needed some pictures. I couldn’t see any other photographers in attendance either, so there was a good chance of my pictures being used. I ran out of the tent just as Tarrot were finishing their last song; there was an outside chance that Simon had gone back to the meeting point where his uncle had set up his heavy metal deck chair. I sprinted over to the spot (to the surprise and semi disgust of the too cool for school metal kids), and to my delight, found Simon with the camera dangling from his neck out of use.
“Alright mate, is it alright if I borrow that for two minutes?”
“Ere, to be honest Evans, I’ve already got all the pictures I want of these lot. Take it”
“Nice one mate”
It felt like an RPG computer game moment, one when you receive an important weapon or new spell or something, allowing you to dominate the road to glory. I sprinted back to the New Blood tent slightly slower than I had from it, and considerably out of breath. I must have looked like a right dick.
“Thank you BLOODSTOCK! This is our last song”
I still had time. Now was my chance to photographically discover another new band. The results were sublime and are my favorite photos of the entire festival:
After Simon had finished taking pictures of a few bands, I retrieved my camera and sat on the grass attempting to photographically capture the spirit of the festival through means of a telephoto lens.
All of the ordinarily strange faces, eventually merged into a blur of ordinary, so I found Simon and let him have a play with my camera so I could have a rest.
“Ere cheers geez! You know I wouldn’t mind taking a few piccys of Tarrot to be honest” he said.
“No problem” I said in mid stride heading towards the New Blood tent in hope of finding someone half as good as Bludvera.
The main stage line up didn’t really spark any real excitement inside me, and I felt Simon would more efficiently cover the styles on offer, so I passed him my camera and told him to unleash his photographic fury. Simon’s acronymic title and nick name is SP, so being the clever bastard that I am, I generalize his taste in music and call it all SP music. It usually involves Vikings, the hope of a better day, following your dreams, and all the rest of that feel good make believe nonsense. The music is generally good, especially the faster stuff, but some of the lyrical content is just a little bit too much for me. The thing about lyrics within thrash metal, is that they are often incoherent and incomprehensible, making it difficult to understand their subject matter. I’m sure if they were clearer, they would probably have a similar cringe worthy affect on me. So anyway, not being all too interested with the music offered on the main stage, I went back to the tent to get some breakfast.
Simon is a very enthusiastic shopper when it comes to food, and I love watching him at work. He transforms the mundanity of a Tesco or Asda, into an edible playground of endless possibility waiting to be harvested. I have a rule; whenever I go shopping for food/snacks with Simon, I have to buy all the same things he does, and that’s why I was left with two tins of fish and a pasta pot double feature on Saturday morning. To make matters worse, I only had three pounds left (a result of drunkenly spending £30 on two Exodus records the night before), and if I continued my coffee in the morning tradition, these two tins of fish and double feature pasta pot, would have to last me for two days. I ate a tin of fish, hid four Strongbows in the inside pockets of my denim jacket, and had a bit of a wonder around the four tents, not looking for anything specifically.
Another NWOBHM/power metal style band, this time hailing from Gladbeck in Germany, took the stage with a few technical problems. This was a shame really, because the audience members not familiar with the band may have been put off by a seemingly unprofessional opening track, which was all down to unexpected monitor issues. Sound engineers have a lot of say in what we are presented with when we go to watch a band. The monitors are a constant problem; it’s as if the engineers will never be able to understand that the band needs to hear the other instruments in order to play. They can compress the fuck out of that vocal, and take the ring out of those toms, but all of that’s irrelevant if the band can’t hear themselves. Anyway, after a load of abuse was hurled the way of the monitor engineer, Grave Digger settled down and started to enjoy their Bloodstock.
Singer Chris Boltendahl seems like a really happy bouncy character who loves his job, and the music he plays. Axel Ritt, a fantastic guitar player with incredibly long hair, and looks a little bit like a possible stand-in musician for a band like Whitesnake. He pulls some extraordinary faces. I simply couldn’t stop taking pictures of him, half for professional purposes and half for my own amusement. He has a full array of orgasm poses. Here are a few below:
It’s no secret that Grave Digger are getting on a bit, but I thought it was a little bit too much to have the keyboardist hidden in a skeleton outfit - or maybe that’s just his gimmick, I’m not sure. You should never try to hide your age, it just looks pathetic; pretty funny though.
The band were tight, and they played their tunes very well (after getting over the initial monitor crisis that is). The crowd responded positively banging their head to every riff, and applauding graciously after every song.
Grave Digger finished their show with a Megadeth style bow of gratitude, thanking the audience for watching, and for being in some small way, involved in the life of the band. Theirs is a dying breed, and it is up to us to keep them alive.
Bludvera finished at 11.00, which gave me just enough time to get to the main stage to see Skeletonwitch. To be completely honest, I’d never heard of this band before seeing their name on the line-up, but the shittyness of their name interested me.
The beings which walked on the stage, screamed metal before even beginning to play – these guys have lived the life I thought. The dirty, bearded, monstrosity of a front man, looked vicious and slightly intimidating; you would not want to get on the wrong side of this beast. I soon realized that their music matched their image; it was fucking brutal, heavy as fuck.
Vocalist Chance Garnette, told the crowd that they had arrived just 20 minutes prior to getting on stage, and so thanked the organizers for doing such a good job. That must be why they all look so fucked I thought.
Intense metal became the crowds hangover cure, like a giant animal breathing in out, they collectively started to move. Then heads began to bang, familiar happy aggression began to take hold, and now, the build up of chaos was ready to explode. Garnette continued to stir the crowd into a frenzy, and soon enough, a circle pit erupted in the sweatiest of just woke up fashions.
“It’s never too early for a fuckin’ beer” shouted Garnette. The idea of drinking beer was the last thing on my mind, but I loved his enthusiasm and metal ethos. “Keep smoking weed, and eating pussy” he continued. I love smoking weed and eating pussy, even if it’s got a bit of a stink on, this man likes the same shit I do, what a legend. He seems like the kind of guy who would be great to have a few beers with, listening to his stories of………drinking beer and…….smoking weed and…….eating pussy, although I doubt “a few beers” even registers in his brain as an option. Garnette just wanted to fuck himself up as quickly as possible for his adoring fans – on second thoughts, maybe they all looked fucked because they were.
I wasn’t familiar with any of the songs played in their set, but their music and AA style approach to the stage, definitely won me over. I’ve since bought their album Breathing the Fire, and its ace. Here’s a track from it:
It’s the guy I took a picture of yesterday I thought. Whenever I see a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, covered in patches proudly declaring that person’s favorite bands, I have to take a picture. This mans cut sleeve denim simply could not be denied the preservation it deserved, covered in thrash flags surrounding a giant Destruction center piece, it was one for the scrap book.
This guy looked as if he had flown in from San Francisco in a time machine, and the lead guitarist really liked Anthrax. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and huge trainers that must have cost a fortune in a vintage shop, but the big giveaway was the Anthrax t-shirt. So we’ve got the San Francisco Bay Area scene covered, and now New York, so let’s see what else we can find. The bass player had long dreadlocks which ordinarily is fine, but when a band seems to be caricaturing themselves (and I’m only saying this because of the Anthrax guy), one has to assume that the dreadlocks represented modern metal, and although I cringe when I say it, maybe even nu-metal. I didn’t know what to think before they hit that first note; their image just didn’t seem to make sense.
They started to play. All of my preconceptions were launched out of the window as well as my ideas of a questionable image - Bludvera were fucking brilliant. I was shocked to say the least, my eyes were wide open hanging out of their sockets, my ears were blissfully being ruined, and then my camera started calling me.
I don’t know how they managed it, but Bludvera were compositionally and instrumentally identical in style to the thrash bands of the 80’s. Their songs are structured in the same way, the singer’s voice is perfectly matched, the Anthrax man shredded the fuck out of his guitar, the drums and bass were locked in, the ryhthm guitarist was tight as fuck, and I felt like I was witnessing something special.
The way they talk, think, walk, dress, the way they live, is all because of an ideology and style of music. And one that isn’t exactly mainstream, and never really was to begin with - so realistically speaking they are taking a big risk concerning their chances of success and making any money. But the thrash attitude never considered consequences or financial strife, like postmodern punks, thrashers did what they wanted because they believed in it. It was obvious Bludvera had adopted this same philosophy, and that takes balls.
All of the bands in the New Blood tent have very big balls, because if their band fails, and all of that unpaid work doesn’t equate to anything, and all of that money spent on recordings and self promotion doesn’t recoup, then the people in these bands are all fucked.
On a lighter note though, whenever any journalist hears or sees something undiscovered, with talent and potential, that journalist wants to let the world know before anybody else does. So after realizing I was here to do a job, I ran over to the barricade and started getting some pictures.
After a few songs worth of photos, I put my camera away and listened to the remainder of Bludvera’s set. I still felt just as excited and involved as I was fifteen minutes ago. Their sound and stage presence blew me away; everything worked and flowed seamlessly - though I’d still suggest losing those dreads and readdressing that Anthrax style clobber.
For a brief moment, I forgot where I was and felt at one with my surroundings, and not many bands can make me feel like that. Good music is like good fucking, you forget about everything and get lost in the moment:
All your effort and concentration is focused on that fuck, disgusting ideas flowing through your mind are suddenly appealing, and you must make her come.
Adrenalin surges through your veins, your heart beat runs away from you, you're angry, you're happy. Not knowing how to vent this trapped energy you bang your head, you jump up and down, you run around in a circle, you push people over then pick them up, and you must be part of this music.
They were really good, although I will always choose fucking over music. Going slightly off the point here, listening to good music whilst having good sex, is a beautiful pairing, very tiresome though if it is metal you’re listening to.
I heard jealous bands in the crowd shouting unnecessary obscenities directed at Bludvera, probably not enjoying the amount of attention the band was receiving. That’s the funny thing about unsigned metal; there are far too many politics, a lot of bitchiness, and clicks that control the scene. At Bloodstock, it was every man for himself, no one knew or cared about the in crowd, and Bludvera’s music spoke louder than any jealousy ever could.
