EYEHATEGOD: Trap House Storytellers of the Nod

in Culture

The obscene rumble of feedback and a queef of sarcasm resonated from the stage. Wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Long before I arrived at the Bokeh Lounge in Evansville to witness a performance from the godfathers of New Orleans, arguably the nastiest band in the sludge genre, EYEHATEGOD, there was a distinct possibility that the whole godforsaken evening was about to come crashing down, leaving my tired, broken soul face down in a pool of its own lumpy excrement while some cataclysmic beast ripped out patches of my back hair with its gnashing teeth. 

Let’s just say the proverbial pecker gnat was a buzzing. I was on the verge of a 15-hour day—coal miner hours by Southern Indiana standards—up against a tight deadline for Hustler Magazine that I would have hit, too, had it not been for those sandbagging porn stars. At the same time, the in-laws were in town and wanting to get together for an early dinner—5:30, hell, I just had lunch at 2—and I soon found myself scouring the Internet for discount fares to Costa Rica where I would open a banana stand and change my name to Frank. To top it off, when I finally got home and reached into the fridge for a pre-show brew, all that was left was two cans of pineapple lager that Dos Equis sent me the other day hoping for a review. Well, here it is: Fucking yuck! I was beat, feeling defeated and quite honestly not in the mood for the show.

EYEHATEGOD, I would soon learn, wasn’t doing any better. Although a decent crowd came out to be defiled by these sludge metal vets—many of which were outside smoking copious amounts of weed in an attempt to get into the …

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Author: Mike Adams / High Times

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