As guitarist Trevor Peres said himself in a flash of genius not including his work in the band he was to slay us all with mere minutes later, having surveyed the small and dim wooden interior of the President’s Rock Club of Quincy, “This is punk rock as fuck”. Indeed, seeing one of the most legendary Florida Death Metal acts on a level floor where coming into contact with them was not only possible, but unavoidable if you even wanted to get your money’s worth, is fucking punk. How else would one describe the ability to mic-share with John Tardy if they so wished, as though they were a dingy basement street punk band unloading and reloading decrepit Uhauls from one rat’s nest to another in suburbs across America rather than the household name in dark and evil music that oft bellows warlike from the stage, an altar of outlets and grander designs befitting their fame? I’m not even a huge fan of Obituary (being a grateful appreciator is the least one should do if they consider themselves into heavy music), and I’d be damned if I didn’t walk out feeling like I had seen history.
thatblackmetaldude 