Like a komodo dragon, Assacre freaked the fuck out of everyone at The Metal & Lace Lounge.
If this band were an animal, what and why?
Assacre was a motherfucking komodo dragon. As I entered the Metal & Lace venue, he paced to the entrance and looked me square in the eye through goggles and a black shawl-mask that lent his countnance the appearance of a woman in an extreme Islamist country, chugging at his black SG in the same way that a komodo dragon flippantly and sarcastically flicks its tongue at prey. He held his performance across the whole bar rather than the stage, and knelt down to execute thrash-y riffs reminiscent of Slayer. His cultist-looking, black gown was adorned with fabric akin to bike-reflector material, so I each flash photo I snapped of Assacre bounced right back at me with a sabre of light. At one point, he left the enclosure of the venue (his guitar cable was of the mobile, cordless ilk) and went outside to interrupt an Irish-folk busker band’s set to the amused chagrin of its frontman, headbanging casually on the sidewalk with each open-E pedal tone. Also, I think he was wearing the silver, space-shoe-looking Kobe Bryant basketball shoes that Adidas made, like, 13 years ago … like how a komodo dragon would.
Give a musical equation that describes the band’s sound.
Assacre = (Toxic Holocaust + Midnight) / molestation from Ministry * therapy from Author and Punisher ^ Black Breath alcoholism
How was their stage presence?
As noted, Assacre didn’t really bother with the proper “stage”: The whole bar was his platform upon which he caroused in a masturbatory death-thrash concerto. The drums, bass and second guitar were pre-recorded, but that somehow lent itself to his aura, as he bobbed his head subtly yet maniacally to provoke the audience into headbanging along as he chugged away at his black SG that was amped live. The black lights in the venue served to create an ambience like makeshift prison that somebody (who owned pythons) would make in their West Valley apartment. His costuming was perfect—it was not so contrived that it seemed gimmicky like something Gorgoroth would do, and was just tawdry enough that it transcends a getup that a kid throws together in his parents’ basement to transform him into a post-apocalyptic psycho let loose in a suburban neighborhood.
What was the crowd's reaction?
The crowd was transfixed. The spectators, for the most part, formed a circle around Assacre in the same way that people would surround people break dancing. It was clear that a lot of folks weren’t really into metal (there were a lot of bright colors), but Assacre’s balance of rock set and performance art was enough for people to undulate toward the center of the room to his riffs. I got a drink during his last song, and the bartender (total babe) said, “I’m kind of freaked out.” Everyone was—but the degrees to which people were freaked out were tempered by Assacre’s spontaneity, which generated a mass sense of intrigue.
Did the music make you want to mosh, close your eyes and sway, or something in between?
Assacre made me want to hold my claw hand in the air (I don’t have people hands) and gesticulate that I had a beating heart in my palm while I rocked my head back and forth—which I did. Assacre is cult music: not in the same way that Moss incites Satanic cult practices, but more in the way of Charles Manson, where his funky, black- and silver-trim costume demands attention, and his parochial use of “The Star Spangled Banner” (distorted by industrial noise effects) at the beginning of his set established that shit was gonna get weird. So, the only way to jive with Assacre is to accept the weird and flow with it—like a juggalo telling a joke, but with out the juggalo—replace it with “THE DEMIGOD OF QUEER METAL.”