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Rating: To see (seee vedere) a Zeke concert, one must prepare; you can't just show up in front of Donny and watch them, or worse, mosh for only a few songs, leaving the floor with your tail between your legs after a while (floor, yes, no barriers; the beauty of concerts in small venues is that you're free to do whatever you want, you're in a club, not a damp arena that smells of rubber and paint).
I was saying preparation is very important for you to perform well (your performance, not the band's, they have way more aids than you do).
At such a concert, you don't do drugs, not at all; you have to tear yourself apart with beer and various spirits. The concert will last at most an hour not counting the bands before (though you won't exert yourself too much with them), so you won't need energy boosts. Being a Friday, note that tomorrow you'll have to work at least 4-5 hours, so it's better to find yourself worn out and go straight to bed rather than roaming the streets hyped, shouting "Revoluuutiooon."
So, everyone ready at the bar downtown before leaving (about half an hour's drive). Down with medium beers, up with pint glasses (tube-shaped), something that gives a greater sense of power over what you have in hand. At the very least before leaving, you should have 2-2.5 liters of blonde in you or 2 if it's red (Guinness is not included on the scale), supplemented by a couple of shooters or a good Jack Daniels (accompanied by half a glass of water at room temperature in a wide glass, the details are what count).
We depart. In the car, it's better not to listen to what you're heading towards, so if you're going to see Zeke, a very slow doom is just right (like Burning Witch or Reverend Bizarre) or something light (like Cocorosie or EyeHateGod). We arrive at Transylvania with the first band already playing. I don't know them at all, but entering, I feel they're covering "Shake Your Blood" by Probot, so I give myself a bit to twist, dancing at the venue's door. At the entrance, we meet two from Ojm who, cordially, try to figure out with us who they might be, but even they don't remember (the difference is, being the managers, they contacted them, not me). Oh well. After greeting El Boss (a legendary figure in heavy music around here), we head to the first floor. The beer continues since the band isn't exciting and the pack is thirsty.
There's quite a crowd, which is rare in this place. Warmly welcomed, El-Thule arrive, who anyway start well with their nice fast Stoner, little Kyuss and very distorted. They hold the stage very well and after the lukewarm welcome, the audience starts to get excited, and some heads can be seen shaking. The three hold the stage very well, especially the guitarist-singer, who, besides being good, is also a good-looking guy, so I won't say they were sometimes a bit imprecise (says I, who saw six people on stage). Really good, they managed to raise the level of the evening with a tight show with few frills, very well done (damn you, you’ll bring me the money tomorrow). I'm sitting, waiting for the moment to release the pre-show adrenaline, drinking yet another beer, chatting a bit with everyone, even though the two preferred victims are two goth girls in front of me with their boobs out. My guitarist friend and I turn off our gentleman mode and try to convince them to show them to us for a small fee, but the response is negative. The two dedicate themselves to the art of spontaneous insult, and my little friend also turns off his self-control mode and plants a kick in the belly of the most agitated. I take him away, under the pretext we grab another drink, for pleasure. They are preparing the stage, very bare and reduced to the essentials to make room for those three misfits.
People keep coming in, the place is almost full. We see all kinds, from TV SkinHeads to 50-year-old old-style blacksters, passing by 16-year-old punks. After about twenty minutes of waiting, they arrive. Madness. People start crowding forward like a swarm of ants; the Zike punch is powerful. The 3(+1) from Seattle are on form, the mosh pit is at its peak, I see people starting to bleed.
The show is the classic Zeke live-set. Short, very fast pieces, guitars like razor blades, and the singer’s mustached voice scraping the microphone. Without a second thought, drawn to the color of blood, I jump into the fray (not before finishing my drink). The mosh turns into a more ferocious brawl; I hold on because I have the knowledge; the blackster chief watches and studies my moves to come under and lay me down with his elbows. I stare at his bald head and mustaches; he thinks he can scare me with his Burzum-patched jacket, I wait for him. The SkinHeads are watching. To the challenge launched by the bald one, I respond by taking off my hoodie and proudly showing my Goatsnake t-shirt. Here we go. The crowd around widens scared, two generations compared. The bastard keeps his elbows high, I follow the rules and go forward shoulder first. Zeke performs "Fuck All Night," and I get pumped up; when "Revolution" kicks in, I explode. The blackster flies like a sparrow, slides like a rat on the filthy floor, and stands up. He turns his gaze to target other people. I've won, ATEOMILITANTS 1 - BLACKSTERS 0. As expected, the show lasts about an hour; you couldn’t ask for more given the intensity and physical blow taken.
After the concert, I stop to chat with the Skins with whom I start talking about the hypothetical bust of the Duce I have on my nightstand, bla bla bla. The flies fall for it and offer me a drink. ATEOMILITANTS 2 - SKINHEADS 0. It's two o'clock, and after the last glass, we opt for the return home. I don't remember a thing about the Zeke concert; it might be the euphoria of battle, maybe it's because I love you, but I just want to go to bed.
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