THE HORROR
It’s all stupid.  I’m stupid and crazy, an idiot who thinks he’s a writer, standing in line with a bunch of other idiots who all either think they’re writers or photographers or some kind of journalist for sure but they’re all wrong.  There I am in line, already writing down the whole mad scene in my head, worried about too many adjectives, where’s a good metaphor when I need one?  Two drunken Mexicans cut into line in front of me.  I let their dumb asses know what they’ve done, but they’re literacy level is in such disrepair and total ill regard that fifty percent of their dialogue consists of the word, “Puta!” repeated over and over like a parrot with turrets.  Why care?  I let them remain where they are.  What’s two people more inside before I to me?  Nothing.  Fucking nothing. 
The line is full of dangerous journalists.  A feeble red haired jackass with a several hundred dollar Nikon draped over his shoulder tells his friends about how he once pinned a guy down and “bappita, bappita, bappita” mashed his face to pulp.  I believe him because he’s a big dangerous tough guy.  He’s the Joe Pesci of journalists, and he tells this story every chance he gets.  It’s his alpha male routine.  Now throw your feces at the other journalists to assert your dominance. 
The obviousness of the macho-macho-man death metal fans is sickening.  They disgust me and I wish they weren’t here and I wish I didn’t like the music that they liked.  Why the fuck do I want to have anything in common with these self-absorbed, gutter brained misanthropes?  Give them “The Poem of Ecstasy.”  Give them Pushkin.  Give them Van Gogh’s sunflowers.  It’s all beyond their understanding, they’re narrow worldview that screams, “Fuck you motherfucker!” and maybe “Shut up, cocksucker!”  They’re all very ready to display their knowledge of Freud.  So Oedipal.  So homoerotic.  Soon I’m on the inside of The Palace.  Beautiful place except for all the people.  Some total rehashed death crap called Lamb of God is finishing up on the four-foot high stage.  They finish, and it’s time for Sweden’s own, The Haunted.  The crowd is restless.
THE HAUNTED
“Allo!” cries the Haunted’s huge tattooed singer half way into their rip-roarin’ set, “Are there any ladies here tonight?”  I guess it’s hard to tell from up there on the stage or maybe in Sweden it’s customary to ask, just to be sure, since the women do tend towards the hairier side over in Europe.
The Haunted play for the crowd and not to the crowd.  They are stripped down, jeans and tee-shirts wearing fellows who hearken back to a day when bone crushing musicianship was enough for a band to get across their messages of anguish, aggression and horror without the use of gallons of Bozo’s grease paint.  The comparisons between the Haunted’s music and Reign in Blood era Slayer made by every music writer out there prove to be apt.  I was caught up in some of the head banging rhythms that sadly resulted in many blurry photographs of the floor.
As enthralled as I was with the music, I was not won over by new vocalist Marco Aro, and not because he’s new either.  I’ve never heard pre-Made Me Do It Haunted.  I simply feel the vocal barkings lack passion and daring, but it really is a minor complaint.  With the fast double bass kicks, white hot guitar licks and Marco prowling the stage with a passion for prowling not found in the singing, The Haunted are a worthwhile catch and almost worth the irritation their fans will surely cause you.  But, then again, if Slayer is still doddering about, then why not catch the real thing?
DIMMU BORGIR
Eerie, beautiful, inspiring flowers blossomed upon the stage next.  These wondrous and unique buds are called Dimmu Borgir.  Under the dazzling lighting arrangement of ever shifting greens, blues and reds they grow best.  Harvested only from the cold regions of Norway, they are hard to come by in America, but worth the wait and price when they are available. I stared upon them in mild awe.  Froze them in time through the lens of my camera.  They are amazing to behold, but I recommend not getting too close, as these flowers do not have the most pleasant fragrance. Weeks on the road tend to make men stinky and mean.  The stinky I could have done without.  In the trench between crowd and stage the olfactory climate was nightmarish, but I’m sure “nightmarish” is an adjective D.B. would approve of.  The mean, however, translated well to the stage, and new guitarist Galder, from the equally good, Old Man’s Child, infused the show with menacing lunatic appeal as he bared his fangs and shot savage wide-eyed looks to the audience.  And, yes, as you can tell, he stole Bozo’s grease paint.  Soon and sadly, the flowers closed their petals against the night, and with their departure, I departed.  I knew deep down that Cannibal Corpse would not beat what I had witnessed after the performance given by Dimmu Borgir.  I left, forever now, Cannibal Corpseless.