Local Voyeur : Rich Blecharz

Walking up to the old church, it is clear that there is some intense worship going on this evening. Young people are lining up at the door and there is some serious bass shaking the windows. But upon entering, it becomes evident that the congregation is not here to pray to the Lord, but to the Gods of Heavy Metal (or Satan, or Lucifer, or Beelzebub, as some of the former inhabitants of this place will tell you). This reformed house of holiness is now a meeting house of the devil, and everyone inside’s immortal soul hangs in the balance. It is a death metal concert at Mr. Smalls in Milvale tonight, and no one will ever be the same.

Actually, that’s not true, most of the fans here are the same.  All clad in black t-shirts, shaggy, perfectly positioned hair hanging over their eyes, various tattoos and piercings, and heavy black mascara, even on the guys. Especially on the guys. (This look can be yours for the sale price of $19.95 at your local Hot Topic.). Instead of cigarette lighters being held up during songs, it is now cell phones, to record every last second of the show. At least when someone loses a shoe in the mosh pit, (What happened to combat boots?) someone in the crowd is usually nice enough to hold it up so it’s owner can reclaim it.

Looking around, today’s youth are a bunch of pussies.  It used to be that you were afraid of the next generation and their loud music, but not anymore. These kids look like they might cry if you look at them the wrong way. Or insult them on their MySpace page. No one here appears to be having fun. Suffering and looking miserable are the new trends.

I go to the over-21 area around the bar, which is a very small, roped off section in the far back corner of the club.  This must be where old metal heads are put out to pasture. At least here we can have a few beers while standing around in death’s waiting room.

Behind me, two not-quite-evolved muscle-bound steroid freaks are creating their own mosh pit between the two of them, spilling beer and knocking into anyone they can. They clearly want to fight.  I see a lit cigarette fly over my head, leaving behind a trail of ashes.  Soon two security guards remove the beer from their hands, as if they were naughty children having their candy taken away, and then they are removed from the premises.

Now the scene in front of me couldn’t be more different. Some floppy haired guy, instead of paying attention to the show, is furiously texting on his phone what appears to be a goddamn novel.  I can’t help but check out his ramblings over his shoulder.  It appears that he is writing a heartfelt apology to about something he did while switching his meds, how he blacked out, and how his daddy didn’t love him, wah, wah, wah.  I’m sorry, but this is a heavy metal show, not Dr. Phil or Dr. Laura or whoever people nowadays need to tell them how to live their lives. Ozzy Osbourne, the Prince of Darkness himself, would be spinning in his grave at this behavior. (Wait, Ozzy is still alive? No, he died in 1995, though no one has bothered to tell him or his slave-driving shrew of a wife.)

Oddly enough, I think the two rowdy guys that were just forced to leave belong here more than the emo wannabe Hemmingway in front of me. Fortunately there’s one long haired guy in the corner who has the right idea, who is inflicting some serious neck trauma upon himself, head-banging furiously as if the band is playing the concert just for him. He deserves a devil horn salute, as he is one of the few people here who understands what rock n’ roll is all about.

As the concert winds down, and the smell of marijuana starts to subside, the sea of black t-shirt clad fans trickles out to slink off into the night. It is my hope that these young people toughen up or at least let go of their wimpy narcissism. The future of America, and more importantly, the future of almighty, dirty, decadent Rock n Roll, is depending on it.

 

 

Rich Blecharz was born a nice boy in Pittsburgh, PA.  But something went horribly wrong and he grew up into a cynical, sarcastic and opinionated wreck of a human being.  In his free time he enjoys watching reruns of
The Golden Girls while drinking cheap liquor from a brown paper bag. He is an Aquarius, and enjoys long, drunken, moonlit barefoot horseback rides along the creek in his backyard.