![]() ![]() I’ve always theorized that the reason some music gets more interesting when we’re stoned is because it was recorded and mixed that way. For Christsake, EYEHATEGOD guitarist Jimmy Bower is in Down with metal legend Phil Anselmo! Replace that disco ball with a noose when they’re in town.Īt least everyone was sauced up on something, or so it seemed, a necessary spirit, I imagine, for getting the most out of an EHG show. These boys are trap house storytellers of the nod, totally removed from the gluttony of happy hour society, just waiting for the cops to kick down the door and drag everyone to jail. These weren’t the piss-ant acoustic folkies that got booked to play Matchbox Twenty covers on the patio during Thirsty Thursday. They’re not a bar band that’s going to be “rockin” the night away to help America’s neighborhood watering holes, much like this one, sell drink specials and get the 9-to-5’ers laid. Where in fuck’s holy name were all the gnarly monochromatic clippings of the gutter culture that’s become synonymous with the image of this band? EYEHATEGOD is and always has been a bold, unapologetic statement on the spread-cheeks of the societal downtrodden amid a governmental reaming. Nope, not unless this tour rolled into town on a pair of cocaine-powered roller skates, the 1970s afro-glitter flair was more of an embarrassment than anything of aesthetic relevancy. We love the night life, we’ve got to boogie. Might as well post a sign outside the city limits: Welcome to the Armpit of America, y’all. The sound system was puny, the stage needed training wheels, and the freaking disco ball spinning above the crowd as Ringworm, the show opener, brutalized the place was a clear admission of bewilderment. Although a decent crowd came out to be defiled by these sludge metal vets-many of which were outside smoking copious amounts of weed in an attempt to get into the right mind-set-the venue was simply ill-equipped to handle the power. Well, here it is: Fucking yuck! I was beat, feeling defeated and quite honestly not in the mood for the show.ĮYEHATEGOD, I would soon learn, wasn’t doing any better. To top it off, when I finally got home and reached into the fridge for a pre-show brew, all that was left was two cans of pineapple lager that Dos Equis sent me the other day hoping for a review. At the same time, the in-laws were in town and wanting to get together for an early dinner-5:30, hell, I just had lunch at 2-and I soon found myself scouring the Internet for discount fares to Costa Rica where I would open a banana stand and change my name to Frank. I was on the verge of a 15-hour day-coal miner hours by Southern Indiana standards-up against a tight deadline for Hustler Magazine that I would have hit, too, had it not been for those sandbagging porn stars. Let’s just say the proverbial pecker gnat was a buzzing. Long before I arrived at the Bokeh Lounge in Evansville to witness a performance from the godfathers of New Orleans, arguably the nastiest band in the sludge genre, EYEHATEGOD, there was a distinct possibility that the whole godforsaken evening was about to come crashing down, leaving my tired, broken soul face down in a pool of its own lumpy excrement while some cataclysmic beast ripped out patches of my back hair with its gnashing teeth. The obscene rumble of feedback and a queef of sarcasm resonated from the stage. ![]()
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