THE SCRUNK FILES, PART I: GET SOME LAMB, DAWG
PART ONE: In which we shake hands and fists with the post-emo brethren.
Seven in the evening and the sky’s awash with PET bottles. Raining with it. I’m in the middle of Amoranto Stadium about 30 meters from the stage barricade surrounded by a couple of thousand strong metal heads, emo kids, freaks, punks, and orcs. A lot of orcs. This is Pulp Magazine’s annual Summer Slam circa 2010.
The torrential downpour of plastic has been an impromptu invention of the kids I’m sharing this sprawling arena with. We’ll call it Inter-Pit Bottle Pong. This new game comes close to being hazardous to my shaved head. And so I hold my crossed arms up to shield my head, fists curled down to the top of my spine, elbows to the sky in self-defense.
Why am I smack dab on ground zero of this heaving, malodorous mass of young flesh bent on destroying each other with a massive display of hurled objects?
THRASH THE SCRUNK
When you hit your thirties you start to doubt if you can survive a violent mosh pit at a venue the size of Amoranto. I’ve never been to a Summer Slam but all reports previous pointed to an extremely hazardous environment freed from the comfy walls of a club. There are no safe corners here, bub.
Plus, Testament and Lamb of God headlining this event was just too good to pass up. A couple of things came free with the general admission ticket: a copy of the magazine, a condom (variously flavored), and a Pepsi in a PET bottle. They inflated the condoms and tossed it around the arena like a beach ball. Guess what they did with the PET bottles?
Still, the bottles didn’t hurt per se. They were empty 80% of the time. The remaining 20% were packed with arena soil, dirt, and/or contained urine. So here I am with my hands above my head cursing the idiot who armed the little buggers. When Lamb of God finally started I took my angst out on the nearest punks unfortunate enough to be in the way of my St. Vitus dance.
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