Sandwiched between reverb-heavy cave metal and ritualistic Swedish blood worship, Deströyer 666 just seems like Motörhead (who they cover, playing Iron Fist midway through their set). For all their gauntlets and spikes, the band look comparatively blue collar, and Warslut’s questionably Arayan runic tattoos look down on the photo pit from the underside a dad bod biker belly. Unlike at past New York shows, Warslut keeps his stage banter to a minimum; if the controversy surrounding the band has had any positive effect, it’s that they keep the set tight and don’t use the time between songs to goad the crowd.
As Watain’s set approaches, everyone gets fucking wasted. Besides the usual tall boys and whiskey shots, the night’s cocktail specials are being pounded fervently, with Watain-inspired names like “Sworn To The Dark” and “Satan’s Hunger” hiding that they’re just well liquor and juice. The smoking section becomes packed and needs to be extended, but the smell of weed is rare. No-one is here to broaden their consciousness; it’s all about getting fucked up and embracing death.
So it’s especially odd when, after Watain’s first song, Erik screams, “We are Watain, and we are here to expand your minds!” Nothing else about this show suggests that goal. Watain’s set-up is black metal defined: giant iron pitchforks, flickering torches, chains and animal bones. The band members look like thrasher scarecrows, drenched from head to foot in greasepaint, blood, and what appears to be ash. The old “No Mosh, No Core” credo apparently doesn’t apply tonight, as the crowd goes violently apeshit.
And Watain stink, literally. After only a few seconds in the photo pit I’m gagging from the stench of rotting meat coming off of their stage gear. While the band don't toss buckets of blood into the crowd, they do whip their fore-covered hair like no tomorrow, and everyone in the first three rows gets striped with carnage. The photo pit is surprisingly empty for this kind of show, and while that might be due to the week’s Nazis controversy, I wouldn’t be surprised if the slaughterhouse treatment has put plenty of photographers off.