Blood, Guts and Broken Walls at Orlando’s S.P.O.T
Blood, Guts and Broken Walls at orlando's S.P.O.T
I decided to digress on my standard format of reviews (which will be returning with full length articles next week!) and instead follow down another path, influenced by the saint of all Gonzo journalists, Hunter S. Thompson, and recount my tale of debauchery and concert-going this weekend. Through an odd series of coincidences involving a digital friend who lives on a boat, I got in touch with one of the members of Orlando based HxC band HRTDEMON on a random discord server some months ago (unknowingly– I wasn’t on some underground fame seeking journalism quest so much as my buddy Mikey invited me to a cesspool with a title I hesitate to repeat in writing). Neither of us knew anything about the other, but when Lia started talking about Society of the Spectacle, I knew we were gonna be fast friends. Frantic conversations about grindcore, bad life decisions, critical theory, and all manner of nightmares from the mind of two absolute punk-theory-losers, she introduced me to all her Orlando buddies on yet another Discord server– deeper the rabbit hole goes. Here I met the rest of the band, and a bunch of other Orlando (and outlying area) based punks, miscreants, and transgender-riffwarriors who I’m proud to call friends. I had been in mosh and show retirement since I had been struck low by a mysterious stomach illness in January that’s left me much weaker than I used to be, and much more susceptible to pain with longer recovery times, and frankly I’m still not up to snuff. But when I heard from Reya that at the S.P.O.T “they kill each other” in the pits, I smelled blood in the water and I wanted in. HRTDEMON dropped out, but I was still in– I love crowdkilling. I love mass pit violence. I will always be the kind of guy to defend hardcore moshing that gets people hit and enrages the spirit. It’s cleansing, it’s like a caveman pre-war rush that brushes the rust off the soul and really gets some energy out. My first hardcore pit had me reeling in pain for 3 days afterward– but it was my best. After nearly a year out of the wanton violence of hardcore, I needed a fix, and I needed it bad.
So I traveled to Orlando, savoring every moment of the I4 pilgrimage with the calmest smooth jazz I could put to muster. I figured I wanted to keep my ears as unfatigued as possible before I was in. 2 and a half hours of miserable straight line driving and absurd toll booth charges that hit me like a highwayman. But eventually I grabbed my friend Hannah and headed down to the S.P.O.T for a night of bloodshed and some solid central FL thrashing. We got there early, met up with my buddy Reya at the door, and hung around for a while in that way people unfamiliar with anyone at a scene do: standing awkwardly in a corner, occasionally talking between ourselves, and remarking on when they were gonna finally start up. FISTMEETFACE, the first band, describing themselves as “BLACKWATER VIOLENCE,” took a bit to get going, but admittedly thats what everyone expects at a show. Punctuality isn’t a word any of us know, and frankly that sort of thing is for the better. But when they did start– man, did things get alive. Off the top of my head, by the end of the first song I had landed on my leg funny doing spin kicks, and screwed with my right arms socket by slamming into someone. Within 30 seconds I was already panting and trying to catch my breath, and getting beaten around wherever the wind took me. I wasn’t in Jax anymore. The people here played hard, and they played for keeps. So I got back in, swinging my arms and legs like a mad man, shoving anyone who got too close, and getting slammed in the head a few times. At one point I caught a heel kick square on the nose and could’ve sworn I was bleeding like a stuck pig– but I wasn’t, so I kept going. After about 3 songs I was so winded I was gonna throw up, so I went into the bathroom, put my head up against the wall, and tried not to think about how loud my heartbeat was in my own skull. I was outta practice. I was a weak old man trying to come back to the field in a sport that had moved on without him. More importantly I was a heavyset, asthmatic man who hadn’t regularly exercised since he was 16 somehow expecting that intense cardiovascular-endurance heavy, irregular motion based dancing would not tire him out simply because it wasn’t called exercise. So I sat there for a while. Trying not to puke my guts out, and taking drinks from the sink when I could. Eventually I slumped against a wall, head in hands. I made a miserable sight– skin so red from overheating, hair fried from sweat, just shaking and wheezing like some industrial tomato. People walked by and asked if I was good– I had to reiterate, yeah I’m fine, just really out of shape. It’s a testament to the good hearted nature of most of these punks that they saw someone lookin screwed 40 ways to Sunday, and made sure he wasn’t OD’ing or having a heart attack or something. Even (who I assume to be) one of the proprietors of the venue, walking by, asked if I was alright and said “yeah, its all that volcanic ash comin from Mexico. Makes it hard to breathe.” I’m not sure how correct that is, but he seemed like a solid sort of fellow.
I contemplated for a while. Was I too old for hardcore (20)? Too old to mosh? Too old to fight it out and get slugged in the face? Too fat and out of shape for the game? Should I retire permanently and resign myself to listening to Yacht Rock and simply nodding my head at the outer edges of a venue when I went to shows? Much to consider. In the meantime of my asthmatic-melancholy however, a small crowd had formed outside the bathroom; by no means a line waiting for a spot, but people like me, who had already found their energy reserves exhausted. We chatted for a bit– a fair few were from Daytona, complaining about how cruddy their scene was, how aggressive the cops were to any sort of live music that didn’t take place in a stadium. One, a man who had just been kicked in the groin, was from Port St. Lucie. I talked about Jax and how many Riverside Arts Market shows had been busted up for lack of proper permit, and the closing of archetype (not knowing that two days after I came home, I’d hear Rain Dogs was closing too). All of us agreed though– the Orlando scene was hard, and we were all envious. After a while of standing and chatting I figured that I had paid my 5$ (a reduced price if you were moshing) and I was gonna get its worth in bruises and blood. I think (although I was uncertain) FISTMEETSFACE was still playing by the time I got out, and I remember walking with some kinda aggression in my heart, each step thudding and purposeful, through the narrow hallway that lead out into the main chamber of the S.P.O.T, and crashing like a hurricane into the great spasming mob. I wasn’t too old or out of shape– no one was. We were there for pain and swinging limbs, no matter if we could two step for 30 seconds or 300.
Intermission, some good conversation, people milling about. I’m getting more and more exhausted and already I can feel the pain of repeated blows settling into my bones. But it’s all worth it– that rush I missed so badly is back, and I am at a perfect crossroads of thinking “I’m gonna hurt so bad in the morning,” and “Why don’t I do this more often?” a contradictory joy that I’m sure is known to many. I met another man named Jack, a writer from Port St. Lucie (the same who had been kicked quite unfortunately earlier in this article) who, besides our shared name, I found I had a surprising amount in common with. I was never a social butterfly when it came to shows as a 16 year old when I first started going, but now I found myself in constant good company, laughs and smiles in abundance.
NOHEARTLEFT came next, and I was refreshed enough to throw myself back into harms way. The pit was nice and warmed up from the first band, and suddenly people were getting a lot more confident jumping off the stage into the crowd, slamming into the walls of the venue, and doing these odd acrobatic-esque cartwheel kicks into the outer walls of people. I was back in, slamming, biting at the air, catching stray limbs and spin kicks in the stomach not even flinching. At one point I accidentally shoved someone crashing into the outer wall of people too hard, sending them flying across the pit where about halfway to the other edge they fell to the ground. Part of the hazard, sure, but I still felt like some piece of crap– A mustached gentlemen reminiscent of Earl Hickey but with long hair and glasses brought me over by the shoulder to apologize (As I was too shameful to cross it on my own) where I was assured no real damage had been sustained. We met up afterwards and he didn’t seem too upset, and was glad I wasn’t hesitant to apologize– like I said, the occasional over-forceful tumble was part of the hazards of the hobby. But I digress, NOHEEARTLEFT themselves were a force to be reckoned with– their drummer was an utter barbarian on the bass drum, and the rest of the band was absolutely no slump. As Reya put it at the end of the night(paraphrased through the haze of exhaustion and head-blows that influences my memory) “A lot of bands come through here thanking us for letting them play, and they don’t seem to think that within 5 years they’ll be touring up and down the east coast… There’s a lot of outstanding talent.” I can’t agree more, and NOHEARTLEFT I hope is one of those very bands that terrorizes the venues of Atlanta, Charleston, DC, New York, Newark, and Boston. An absolutely brutal band that got the crowd fighting like someone had laced the air with the adrenochrome of A Clockwork Orange.
Up next was andwhentheskywasopened, one of those bands that proves my motto that the only decent metalcore bands are Earth Crisis, and every local band with a good pit. Metalcore isn’t meant to be seen in some glossy high production value music video, or a warped tour stage, or a coworkers iphone. It’s meant to be experienced via knuckles to your skull in a sweaty venue. People threw down for andwhentheskywasopened. One might expect the spontaneous explosions of energy that a pit demands might lessen as a show goes on, as more people leave, and get exhausted like I was. But the exhaustion of the pit is something mystical– for all the fatigue you experience, all the breath out of your lungs, all the people leaving, it seems that everyone only hardens their resolve of fighting and thrashing. Like the last soldiers condemned to death in a trench, they fight like hell. The crowd on the outskirts more and more became a target for the rotating gyre of spin-kicking sprinters who ran through them like a racetrack. The band relished in it. They gave a murderous energy to each chord, each beat, each scream, that inflamed all of our hearts and seemed to set the entire venue ablaze. What a brutal set– unfortunately, I can’t remember the lyrics or names amid all the haze, but if you ever get the chance to see them live, take it, and you’ll see what I mean. I think (although I’m not sure) it was their set that I got kicked in the groin and spent a good few minutes in the hallway screamin like I’d been shot.
After a few songs, a few more times of catching my breath, AWTSWO’s set ended and I sat outside and caught up with Reya and Hannah for a while. Made a few friends along the way that came through the doors, and hit my inhaler to maybe see if I could get some kinda breath back in my lungs. No avail, but it was worth a shot. When I came back to the impromptu gatherings outside the venue and was chatting with Reya, I heard the proprietor get on stage and shout “IF I FIND OUT WHO DID IT…” before the threat was muffled behind the door. According to Reya someone had punched a hole in the bathroom wall, ensuring its closure. This was devastating news to me– I got free refills of water from the sink and also in general lollygagged in there cause it was the coldest place in the venue, and now suddenly I was relegated to having to sit outside in the 80 degree Orlando night, which admittedly was surprisingly pleasant– I wasn’t besieged by mosquitos like I normally was at this kind of show (which I’ll chalk up to the “incense” that was being lit by countless patrons), and the conversation was good. There’s this prevailing reactionary view of punks and punk culture that its a bunch of asocial miscreants who all wanna cut each other’s guts out at the slightest provocation, some funnyhouse mirror of the Hells Angels mixed in with teenage angst and dyed hair; its not really the case. Admittedly, it’s not as though we’re a bunch of peaceniks, as evidenced by the fact that there was essentially a bounty put on the head of whoever punched the wall given out by the proprietor– but after the 15 minutes of circular thrashing hate, everyone’s pretty chill. I was asking around about late night burger spots cause I promised my buddy I was staying with some hamburgers as compensation and people were tossing out reccomendations as they would in any normal sort of social scene. General conversation about the mysterious wall-puncher was abound. Hannah and I sat on some greasy patch of asphalt and she discussed the complexities of Orlando rave culture (which I had never experienced) while I had somehow wandered onto the topic of English Highwaymen. Ever a novice to the Orlando scene, I sat on the outskirts of circles trying to find a “in” to conversation, trying to catch a little air, make a few friends, and in general just hung around on the outside. The “door” (a short entrance hall to the main venue) had a huge fan and my other friend, Reya in it, so after a while we just bummed around in there and waited for the soundchecks to pass and caught some cool air.
Second Impact was some insane hardcore that made good use not only of the stage, but everywhere outside. One vocalist writhed in agony on the floor, appeared dead for brief moments, while the other would hold the mic directly to his face with the rage of a wounded bull, (clamblunt on instagram capture some outstanding photos of their performance, and of all the other bands.) The entire crowd was alight as two stepping and hurricane limbs overtook the floor, encouraged by both vocalists. Even beyond the very physical nature of their show, their musical ability was profound; their usage of breakdowns was as precise and violent as a mad surgeon armed with scalpel, each member working the crowd into a frenzy with their particular skillset. Needless to say I took a few heavy blows in the pit during this one, but we all kept on fighting and pushing– the music was too good not too. The best bands can make you fight on in the pit past the point of exhaustion or overwhelming pain, and already two inhaler hits down and still feeling the strain of the blood in my skull, Second Impact kept me in.
Another intermission passed that I spent laying on concrete trying to reach some level of blood pressure stability while I chatted up with my buddies.
Fingerswoventogether was a screamo/skramz outfit that really impressed me with their opening proclamation that the first song didn’t have a moshing section (but we found a way) and their complete indifference to us represented by their backs being turned for the entire show. It was a good bit, and trust me when I say these things weren’t just flash either– It was some real heavy stuff they were putting out that night, and I enjoyed every second. The hate and melancholy a solid Skramz band can put out is really something to be astonished with– theres a real spark of emotion within each moment that burns on like a blue sun of straight despondency, and overcasts sorrow against the sea of flailing limbs and bruises. All this to say, I really liked their stuff and hope perhaps I can see them again sometime. It’s a conclusion I come too on pretty much every punk band I see live– there’s rarely, if ever been one I walked away from and thought “man, that sucked.”
Backslide was the final band, and man did they put on a hell of a concluding show. I had exhausted myself so much that I mainly stood on the outskirts of the crowd for the better part of the show, but during their final song, I started going in to make sure I squeezed every last drop of hitting and getting hit before I had to go. At one point I had grown so fervent I slugged out a marital-arts dummy that someone brought on wheels to the show, and jumped back into some guys swinging arms. Once more backslide proved that Metalcore isn’t all overproduced garbage but instead a brutal mix of some of the best hard genres out there. It was a perfect end to a night of utter brutality, screaming, and swinging. I watched my buddy Reya go all in on the moshing, breaking away from her post to give the crowds that night absolute hell– it was a sight to behold. I think (but I’m not sure) I got slugged in the skull one last time– and if I did it was all worth it. I couldn’t believe it when the song ended and the crowd slowed, we all stared at each other, a mass of camo and black T-shirts, covered in bruises, some blood, all dazed, coated in sweat, hair fried from pulling, sweating and headbanging– pain fell general all cross the crowd, and we looked to each other with warm smiles and fist-bumps. One fellow commented to me that he “didn’t know what the hell you were doing, but it was hard!” as Reya had put it, my lack of coordination and rhythm, whether applied to two-stepping, swinging arms, or spin-kicking had resulted in me going “ignorant in the pit,” nothing but pure motion as I tried to estimate how to use my limbs like great bludgeons against myself and others. We were all out of sorts, and even walking to my car I felt pain along my entire body that I knew, though intense now, would be so, so much worse come morning. I looked at my prescription strength Ibuprofen that night, knowing good well it wouldn’t be enough for the pain I was gonna grapple with. There was still some night-work to be done; I had to drop off a friend, and grab burgers for another who was letting me stay the night at his apartment as compensation for staying up so late on my account (Fat Shack is very good for late night burgers, if any of you were wondering), and in general just make sure I didn’t pass out from exhaustion on the road. All three I accomplished magnificently, though the late-night UCF frats at Fat Shack looked at my beaten, homemade Jean shorts wearing self with an odd sort of eye– but to hell with the squares, I had fun.
All in all, the sensational and explosive violence of the Hardcore scene hangs over Orlando like some vengeful phantom– at the crossroads of every band heading south to Miami and Tampa, and all the talent from Miami and Tampa heading north to Atlanta and beyond, Orlando is like a trading post in an apocalyptic world thats grown into a thriving, rough and tumble sort of city, coated in gritty shades of pitblood and denim. The moshers there fight hard and without the kind of restraint you’ll find in any pit around Jax, and frankly, that made my trip down there all the better. Should you ever get the chance, and you’ve got a mug that can take a hit, I can’t recommend going down to S.P.O.T enough– I enjoyed my trip down there for sure.
