Anyone who's ever survived a GWAR show knows you don't rock up in civvies. You rock up prepared for fluids of unknown origin and questionable legality.
Crowbar Brisbane is already wrapped in plastic (30 November). The sound desk is wrapped in plastic. Even some of the bloody lights on the roof tracks are wrapped. It's giving 'halfway-to-a-kill-room' energy, full Laura Palmer if she liked blast beats.
DREGG hit the stage first and they're instantly detonating the room with 'I.C.R.T.F.' before flinging everyone headfirst into 'In Search'. They look like a cartoon meltdown of nu metal, hip hop swagger and art-school chaos, all thrashing under blinding strobes.
They hammer through 'Feelin' Fine', then 'PCP', before 'Chaos Garden', all wired like someone fed Mr. Bungle too many energy drinks. The room is shifting into a sweaty petri dish while they fire off 'LV Vest', then 'Butterscotch Biscuit', before 'Internet'.
People who swore they'd "take it easy before GWAR," are already breaking that promise.
'21st Century Ignorance', which is my favourite track so far, comes ahead of 'Subscribe' and 'Dress Down'. A raucous banger, 'Dog C....' rounds it out – this last one turning into a full chaotic exorcism. The warm-up is officially done.
DREGG - image © Clea-marie Thorne
More fans arrive during the stage changeover. Now the Crowbar is heaving, shoulder-to-shoulder, humidity rising, beers spilling and a sea of tees with an unusually high number of white shirts. Yes, those are the fans ready for artistic redecoration.
Punters are buzzing like they're waiting for a cult ritual on the taped-down safety carpet in the middle of the pit. You can feel that weird collective hunger. It's blood time. I'm hitting the pit. Cameras wrapped. Poncho on. Let's go!
Diehards are chanting "GWAR! GWAR! GWAR!" Then one by one they appear, or rather stomp onto the stage like a meteor that took a wrong turn and decided to flatten Fortitude Valley on purpose in slow motion.
They rip straight into a recent release, 'The Great Circus Train Disaster', the Ring Master tearing around like he's derailing the night before it even begins introducing the show.
GWAR - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Before long he's getting his face torn off and the first sprays hit. I stop pretending to guess what's hitting my poncho. Red. Possibly edible. Probably not. Then they swing into an Australian live debut, 'Filthy Flow'. The pit is moving like a body of water with zero lifeguards on duty.
I'm super hyped, caught up in the chaos. I don't think I blink before Elon Musk gets a fitting decapitation and fans are again drenched in more red liquid. They strike with 'Metal Metal Land', the crowd on the outer edges of the carpet slipping around like a school of deranged sea creatures.
Then 'Saddam A Go-Go' hits and the place explodes. Limbs everywhere like a conveyor belt of chaos. At this point, I retreat with my camera gear to behind the sound desk. As I peel off my poncho, I feel like I've lived through the world's most unhinged baptism.
I look on as 'Crack In The Egg' brings joy to the faces of fans, this time with baby Gor-Gor bursting out without the egg only to be jacked up on a syringeful of something. All of a sudden baby Gor-Gor is just pure teeth and attitude. Someone gets bitten. The crowd cheers. Normal behaviour.
GWAR - image © Clea-marie Thorne
'Bring Back The Bomb' detonates next and Blöthar the Berserker is once again shaking his arse at the crowd like a cosmic baboon deeply proud of his commitment to the bit. Sprays reach the back of the pit. There is no safe zone.
'Womb With A View' arrives like a palate cleanser if your palate enjoys violence filtered through blood-guzzling space freaks. 'El Presidente' follows and Trump is dragged out for a display of public savagery that sees him turned into a very efficient liquid dispenser by way of disembowelment. Someone near me yells "finally doing something useful," as blood smacks them in the face.
Then comes the banging fan favourite 'F... This Place'. Everyone flips the bird. Everyone screams it. It's church, but stupid. They roll into 'Mother F...ing Liar'. Father Bohab is wobbling around like a drunk televangelist who lost his flock decades ago.
Then it's 'Lot Lizard' chased by 'Bad Bad Men'. Punters who are off the temporary safety carpet are sliding like frogs on lino on the soaked timber floor, grabbing strangers, losing shoes, losing dignity, loving every second.
GWAR - image © Clea-marie Thorne
'Tyrant King' brings out Teen Gor-Gor. The neck-slice geyser hits a section of the crowd with such force I hear someone squeal like they've just unlocked a new kink.
Then 'America Must Be Destroyed' roars through the venue, still hitting just as hard as it needs to.
Encore kicks off with 'Rock 'n' Roll Never Felt So Good'. Out rolls the giant stingray that killed Steve Irwin and Queenslanders lose their absolute minds. Half booing. Half cheering. One bloke near the bar loudly debating the ethics of it while filming on a cracked Samsung.
'Pussy Planet' shakes the floor. 'Sick Of You' turns the entire room into a choir of exhausted, blood-soaked maniacs getting hit with this last spray of bloody mystery fluids that is showering across anyone who somehow stayed dry (approximately three people and the unadventurous ones behind the line of the sound desk).
Lights come up and the place looks like a crime documentary reconstruction. Punters squelch out the door. White shirts now pink, crimson, unclassifiable. People laughing like they've survived something both traumatic and cleansing.
GWAR aren't performing. They're obliterating. They're painting. They're reanimating the inner freak in every single punter.
