san antonio: the destruction

the destruction 

you ever have those experiences where you build something up in your head, and then you're kinda let down by the results, because of the expectations you created? this was NOT one of those times.

from the first earth-shattering cymbal crash to the final heart-melting power chord, the boy scout cookies rocked our faces off and we loved them for it. the show began as pictured above; a symphony of syncopated eruptions piercing through the ominous cloud of smoke lingering above the crowd. just as the haze dissapated and the crowd got a first true look at the destruction they were about to endure, the doors of the bsc coffin swung open, revealing the inspekta, clad in an encompassing black robe complete with hood. never has horror been juxtaposed with talent so perfectly. as the inspekta discarded his hood, unveiling his glare which literally redefines intensity, he launched into a frenzy of tambourine shaking and face-rocking dance skills. in that instant, i knew i would never make it out alive.


fear me 

it took less than two songs for joe the ocean to discard the wifebeater he begun the show with, and who could blame him? when thumping out smooth, sensual bass rhythms, why be constricted with such trivial matters as clothing? his true concern was clear--the ladies in the house needed him, as an addict needs his fix; they needed the ocean to provide them with an orgasmic array of grindable undertones, and wow, did he ever deliver.

benvolio van novo was on a mission: to shred as much metal as humanly possible. his fingers of fury were so devastatingly destructive, that at one point, i distinctly remember fearing for my life and second-guessing the qualifications of whatever structural engineer had fortified the walls and ceiling of the white rabbit.


more destruction 

the percussive stylings of mr. concept were nothing short of man's greatest attempt at besting our creator. his conscientious dedication to his craft was morphed into torturously exquisite rhythms which brought the entire crowd to their knees. and then, when the hour of our doom was apparent, the music subsided and mr. concept exploded into a blistering multitude of kicks, toms, and crashes that may or may not be directly responsible for the explosion of two stars in our galaxy that night.

the old adage is true: whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger; and though i was among the lucky few who did make it out alive (i used some of baumann's groupies as a human shield), not a day goes by that i don't have flashbacks of the complete and utter destruction. but don't fret, i'll be ok. for after seeing the boy scout cookies play live and in person, my penis is now larger.