Bask In The Last Days of Metal Summer Before It’s Too Late!


metalsummerHoly shit, is it already the middle of August? It seemed like only yesterday that everyone was hung over from Memorial Day, pools were finally being uncovered, and Mayhem Fest still existed. But suddenly, September is looming in the distance, and it’s not quite as bright at eight o’clock as it was a few weeks ago. The last of the summer treks are rolling through. I’m putting shows for November on my calendar.

The season’s fading fast. So get in those last days of metal summer. Yeah, I sound like a dad, but you’ll regret it if you don’t.

Wear every sleeveless shirt you’ve got. Air the ol’ corpus out. That ratty Carpathian Forest sleeveless you have lying around, the one where you can’t even see Nattefrost’s face anymore? Toss that shit on and go for a walk. Put your chalky-looking pits on blast. Show off your tattoos at the bar and impress an attractive person by explaining the eldritch symbols inked into your sweaty-ass arm. Get that ridiculous tan that metalheads do so well, where you look like a Frankenstein monster made from Floridian arms and a Canadian torso. You’re going to be consigned to longsleeves and hoodies before you know it, and heavy jackets soon after. Bask in that shit for now.

Find an outdoor concert. Head to your local arts center or arena or amphitheater and watch the sun set as some big-name band or day-long event rages around you. If you have the chance, dig out the tent and go to a multi-day festival where you can pass out drunk with ringing ears in a field somewhere for three glorious nights. Buy beer that you have to drink quickly before it gets tepid, or just spill it on the obnoxious couple in front of you. Puff on the one-hitter in cupped hands and exhale a big ol’ cloud into the open air. Feels good, right? Keep in mind that pretty soon you’re going to spend three months seeing bands in a small room reeking of stale booze, carcinogenic insulation, and a millions sweaty anuses. Coat checks, cordoned-off smoking sections, the works. Get out in the open and go apeshit.

Do some outdoorsy crap. Go fishing, camping, hiking, anything that will be totally impossible once a layer of fucking ice coats most of the world. Climb a tree. Sit by a local lake and watch birds skim the surface by day, bats by night. Watch a sunset from on top of a hill or boulder and think about the lyrics to “Wasted Years.” Live in the city? Find a rooftop. Watch the shadows move across the skyline. Enjoy the breeze. It’s going to be a long winter.

Have a barbecue. Invite everyone. Grill and smoke enough meat to make Cattle Decapitation weep openly. Fill the bed of a truck with ice and domestic cans. Blast Metallica and Clutch. Get lit up. Drink those cocktails you normally wouldn’t fuck with — margaritas, bourbon bucks, zombies, all that shit that’s gross normally but works perfectly with the warm weather and sun. Let the party go through movements, like a symphony; polite conversation, loud cackling, violent headbanging, destruction of all your least-expensive property, and finally staring at the stars from a folding chair while wondering how the fuck it got this late. If you have the space, build a bonfire. Make fucking s’mores.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s fun stuff coming. There’s Halloween and football, sweaty club shows and Christmas presents, all that. You can wallow in The Misfits and frigid black metal until spring breaks. But summer is rare, bright, fun, and made for metal. It’s a season that promotes being tipsy and crazy in a way that none of the other three do.

You’ve got a month left, maybe a little more. Don’t blow it. Have fun.

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