You Call it Corn, Randy Blythe Calls it Freedom
20th August 2012
In a country far from Virginia USA, Randy Blythe is a perceived criminal, and, depending on your definition of manslaughter, perhaps even a murderer. An over-enthused fan ran onto the stage during a Lamb of God show, was shoved off the stage by Blythe, and subsequently died from the fall. How many times Blythe had been in that situation before is impossible to quantify. Those kinds of interactions are prevalent in a metal show, regardless of the size of venue or popularity of band. Violence, though almost always good-natured (and there is such a thing), is as inescapable as it is cherished in the metal community. So, if we're to give Blythe the benefit of doubt, one could presume he had no reason to believe the fan's fall was fatal. Even still, as Blythe himself has acknowledged, the boy's family has spent a long time grieving a dead family member while chasing the ghost of an American rock star (who, it should be mentioned, had no idea was being pursued).
Not surprising then that, once the Czech government got their hands on Blythe, they were hesitant to let him leave. After over a month-long imprisonment and hundreds of thousands of dollars however, Blythe was granted release to the States under the agreement that he would return to Prague to stand trial, should he be summoned. Halfway through his first set back as a member of Lamb of God and not the general population of Pankrác prison, Blythe is recalling a conversation he had with the band’s manager after first touching down on American soil. His manager understands the gravity of Blythe’s return but has to ask: "Do you still want to do the Slipknot shows?" Blythe paces around the stage, as he has all night like a seething beast, letting the crowd anticipate the answer we all know is coming: “Fuck. Yes.”
There was no mistaking who was headlining the first ever Knotfest. It is, after all, an all-day event put on by and in celebration of Slipknot. But the subplot, all day, was Blythe’s first performance back from a foreign prison. Once thought to be stricken from the line-up, communal anticipation had risen ever since Lamb of God’s involvement was reaffirmed. The faithful of a genre enthralled with overcoming adversity could hardly wait for one of its champions to return with shattered shackles.
There was plenty of music to come first, though. An hour into the festival, The Urge (reanimated after ten years) delivered the tightest, most uniform performance and were better than any other band that day/night. Following Prong’s flaccid set on the main stage, they took every inch that the second stage would offer, bounding around with horns and guitars while actualizing time travel. What exactly was The Urge doing at a mainstream metal festival? The band booked Slipknot’s first show in Omaha with them at the Ranch Bowl (a venue Steve Ewing gave a shout out to during the set, rallying the crowd into a frenzy with its mere mention) and neither band has forgotten it since. That beloved venue is long gone but holds, for many, the memories of mammoth shows. Seeing The Urge, in 2012, took all of us back to that Black Dahlia of bowling alleys. Defeating the ever changing acoustics of an outdoor venue, The Urge sounded just as solid as they had under those once superior architectural circumstances.
If “People = Shit”, then “Serj Tankian = buzzkill”. With all the stage presence of a fifteen year-old LARPer, his set was so boring that the crowd for Machine Head started forming almost immediately back at the second stage. Granted, the demographic of both acts couldn’t be much farther apart but, with no overlapping bands during the festival (a great managerial move), there wasn’t really a reason NOT to watch a band unless you were utterly unenthused. By the time Serj’s set finished, fans were already shouting a chorus of “Machine fucking Head! Machine fucking Head!” across the field.
Last time I saw them, they opened for Lamb of God with Trivium and Gojira. Every band that night sounded killer...except Machine Head, who I had come to understand as an amazing live band. Their set that night was barely a half hour long though and sounded like a bonesaw through a can of tuna. The mix was downright shameful and they proved to be a downer in an otherwise triumphant line-up. Whether it was acoustics of the venue, poor sound guy, or just an off night: Machine Head flat sucked and served as the only anchor keeping the roof secure. At Knotfest 2012, they would be a highlight.
It only took the most adored posers in metal three songs to bring the mashed masses to a sweaty, dry-humping horde. Feet from the barricade, boyfriends served as human shields as they bear-hugged their girlfriends, defending them from the rolling tide of sticky flesh and wet hair. Over and over, we beat upon the shore, pumping fists to “Imperium” and completely losing our shit with every hook. That is where you need to be at an outdoor festival: smashed against the speakers and amps with no space for wind, vacancy, and echo to molest sound. Acoustics mean nothing there where kinship is forged with the exchange of bodily fluids and cacophonous distortion. Unlike most indoor venues, the further back you go: the worse the music sounds. Get in there. Extend your mantis arms into the crowd and part your peers until ball sweat supplants fresh air. Bathe in the body odor. Relish the smegma.
Machine Head’s set ended earlier than they expected when the sound guy cut their feed HALFWAY THROUGH “HALO.” It’s so unprecedented, my assessment of the situation jumped over the possibility entirely, and right to “back track”. This, of course, doesn’t make any sense when all music simply stops at the same time, but neither does the idea of a lowly sound guy pulling the plug on a major act, mid-solo. The only other possibility is total power outage but, with stage lights still flashing and Deftones set time within minutes, it’s unlikely. The band handled the situation like champs, shrugging it off and tossing picks into the audience, but what else can you do when Sheriff Soundguy drops the law?
It’s fitting that Deftones should follow Machine Head because, like Machine Head, everyone I know has seen them live and thought they were awesome. I’m the only schmuck I know who's seen a bad Deftones show. It was in a similar venue too for Ozzfest, in Kansas City, where I opted to see them over Fear Factory. My faith was repaid with an overweight and out of breath Chino huffing and puffing lyrics over an all too loose rhythm section. It killed the festival for me as Deftones are one of my favorite bands. This time, as “Diamond Eyes” began back at the main stage, my hope gushed.
My optimism, song by song, was whittled away however. Much like Ozzfest, Chino again shredded the set into indiscernible pieces. I’ve never seen a more volatile frontman, a more self-destructive musician. The band couldn’t have been tighter, the harmony soared and washed over everyone, but Chino just couldn’t contain himself. He was all over the place, singing some lyrics, skipping others, letting others still drag over bridges and choruses. His improvisations were akin to drunkenness and, for a band so in tune with the flow, he stumbled over each song recklessly in unlaced combat boots and a viking helmet. To top the whole cum sandwich off, Serj came back out toward the end of the set to lend some mediocrity to "Root" and couldn’t have been more awkward. I’m fairly certain he’d never heard the song, as he eventually gave up and started injecting System of a Down lyrics (no shit). The set ended with “7 Words” then another disappointing Deftones appearance was in the books.
Throughout the day, walking within the transformed motor speedway, talk of Randy Blythe’s return was everywhere. Everybody wanted to see just how tornadic he would be. It was finally time, after the sun had set and the second stage was awash with eerie lighting muted by heavy fabricated fog, Blythe did not disappoint. The band exploded onto the stage with a collective venom and fury reminiscent of the 2007 Patriots’s common, shared assault of the outside world (though the motivations and circumstances are, obviously, much different). Months of frustration, separation, and isolation endured by a small brotherhood were exorcised with slightly faster than normal tempos for “Desolation” and “Ghost Walking.” Both songs seemed to take a combined thirty-three seconds. Every riff, snare hit, and guttural scream was accelerated with something we all could identify but never empathize with. This was anxiety and anger, sorrow and release. When the band stopped slaying enemies real and imagined only briefly, Blythe had his first opportunity to address the crowd: “I have never, ever, ever, ever been happier to be in the middle of a corn field.”
The crowd erupted in applause. As Pussy Riot will soon discover, there’s a special badge of courage provided to incarcerated artists, and an even rarer commendation for those whose imprisonment occurs under suspicious or unjust circumstances. Blythe stood before us all, a hero returned, and the catharsis related to his experience would be a continuing theme. As barbaric hit after barbaric hit were run through with precision, tiny villages of violence settled within the hundreds of fans. The intellect of Lamb of God does a wonderful thing to a crowd full of recovering Juggalos: it transforms their wanton acts of violence into meaningful protest.
Pits of shirtless bucks, horns locked on the prairie, whirled around the herd stopping only for the few scattered moments when Blythe would again address his captivity and how relieved he was to be among the faithful. His voice is strong and though he was incredibly cordial and grateful when speaking to the crowd, his projection of lyrics sounded vengeful; hungry. The set was a cyclone, a buzz saw through the arena leaving none left to follow but Slipknot.
The field harboring this festival, an acre or so of grass within a motorplex, became incredibly dark save two illuminated columns on each side of the main stage. A red curtain hid what writhed behind: the pride of Iowan metal. Two old guys next to me lit a joint with an obviously interested onlooker behind them. His girlfriend warned repeatedly, “You better not! You better not!” but, of course, he did so she slapped the spliff straight out his mouth. Swift emasculation in such a macho environment: beautiful.
Perennial intro music for any Slipknot set, “742617000027,” began and the “Maggots” screamed in unison toward their wizards behind the veil. The curtain soon rose revealing the band atop a stage plastered with tribal S’es and a giant “All Hope is Gone” backdrop. Fire cans popped as “(Sic)” and “Eyeless” were played in succession but without much intensity. As the set went on, the continued lack of enthusiasm from the band was astounding. Granted, having never seen Slipknot before, their reputation precedes them, but this was their festival. The first one and in their home state. A band known for flipping all the way out should have been everything short of spastic. The most lively thing on the stage was Clown’s rising keg set.
Sometime during “Before I Forget,” I remembered what I had forgotten: I don’t listen to Slipknot. They haven’t done anything for me since their first album. That was thirteen years ago. When Iowa was released, I remember thinking then that the band had already gone downhill. Nostalgia and curiosity brought me there for the show, the circus, but the gimmick’s novelty wore off over a decade ago. Surrounded by enthusiastic people, shouting to the songs and dancing, their revelry echoed. Too much distance existed between us. There was no more reason to stay, so I didn’t.
Besides, the only meaningful event of the day had already taken place. David Randall Blythe was back. For how long is anybody’s guess. It’s easy to forget, when a musician you appreciate is involved in something tragic, that there exists others within the tragedy who don’t carry with them the interest of fame. Those that now pursue justice with the further incarceration of Blythe have been doing so, without reward, for some time. Long and lustfully they have waited. Determined and stubborn they are bound to be and, though most seem to feel that no malice was involved, intent has never been a deciding factor in manslaughter charges. Quite the contrary, by definition. There are those in a faraway country who believe Blythe is a criminal. Many people estimate a sentence, if found guilty, around ten years. If they’re right, if the justice starved wolves finally surround the prey they’ve pursued for years through the frozen woods, one of America’s best metal bands is almost assuredly finished.
