The Spin wore earplugs! And yet, even the morning after seeing Black Tusk at The End on Thursday night, our right ear is still like, “Nah, dude. You don't need to hear those frequencies.” This is what we get when intrepid Spin photog Diana “Br00tal Porkchop” Zadlo hooks up the free passes, and it's probably what we deserve for dragging her to all those smooth R&B and weird techno shows. But all auditory perception issues aside — we're figuring that if we get the football-sized lump of wax out of our ear-hole we'll be fine — Thursday night's show at The End was exactly what the metal-as-fuck doctor ordered. As Porkchop would say, it was "broooootal."
We showed up at a time that we thought was a bit late after a day that included working far past our normal quittin' time — The Spin wouldn't be The Spin if we were into workin' like normal folks. But lo and behold, we were actually on time. Just in time to catch a really shitty opening band! Like really, really, really shitty. Think half-assed black metal by way of that extremely annoying late-'90s screamo/post-hardcore sound. Every time the band would find a decent riff or groove they'd switch it up with something boring and drawn-out and utterly yawn inducing. Also — and this is why we didn't even bother to find out their name — the singer had his back turned to the audience, about as active and exciting as a dude waiting for the bus. OK, we did find out their name — against our will — but we're not going to print it, 'cuz we're vindictive, narcissistic mofos and would like our performers to acknowledge our existence. OK, fine. They're called Evolve or Die.
Whatever, fuck all that — those dudes were just 45 minutes of ear-splitting boredom in an otherwise awesome night. Which brings us to the next order of business: Why didn't anybody tell us about Clorange? Given The Spin's deep love for all thing doomy and psychedelic, and our love for tough rocker chicks in leather jackets, and guitar players who look like Leslie West, and guitarmonies, and ... well, you get the picture. How we didn't know about this band is a mystery to us. But they're a mystery no more! Sign us up for the Clorange Fan Club! And Atlanta's MonstrO, too! Those dudes throw down hard on some psych-soaked, prog-powered trad metal, seamlessly fusing Hawkwind and Motorhead like they ripped all their songs out of our pot-fueled day dreams. And guitarmonies! God we love some guitarmonies!
And headliners Black Tusk were no slouches either. In fact they were utterly pummeling, epically brutal and downright un-fucking-stoppable. The Savannah, Ga., three-piece has perfected a mix of doomy, sludgy metal and classic tough-guy hardcore that is as intense as it is fun. Hell, they're even an exception to the “singing drummers always suck” rule, which is about as rare a black rhino flying in a helicopter — it happened once, right?! Nothing says “not Don Henley” quite like some extreme brutality. The Spin doesn't get to spend a lot of time getting our metal on, so we said "fuck taking notes," put our fists in the air and set our heads to banging. And then, when it was done, we bought some merch. It was cold as hell out, and a second hoodie for the ride home seemed like a good idea.