High On Fire, Indian, It’s Casual
Adam Murray Photo Essay

High On Fire, Indian & It’s Casual at Viper Room 11/12/11
By Adam Murray

I received some disconcerting news at home just before leaving for this show. Took a cab and the driver was more than happy to share a few stories, observations and reflections on the world and his outlook and such. It was nice to hear from him.

When I got inside, It’s Casual was halfway through their set. Eddie Solis was stampeding through riffs and barking lyrics at the already dense crowd. Jimmy Sotelo (Bloodcum/Resistant Militia) was punishing the drums. They were playing mostly new songs, punching sociologically relevant L.A. hardcore anthems down everyone’s throats. Plus, Eddie’s in-between banter was keeping everyone drunk, excited, and generally psyched for the evening that they were already enjoying. Eddie’s banter can be very inspiring.

Drinks weren’t easy on the wallet, although the bar was mercifully offering a shot of Jack and a Bud for $10. What can ya do, it’s the Strip, we’re used to it. I had one combo and then stuck with tall Pabsts. The Viper Room is a roughly 200 person-maximum bar with a small stage three feet off the ground and fairly excellent sound. It’s also totally haunted!

Indian was up next, presenting their palpable platter of minimalist, tribal, wretched, soul-twisting doom. Vocalist/guitarist Dylan O’Toole punctuated the lyrics by licking the mic, curling his lips, flicking his tongue, not at all in a sexual way, but more as a means of necessity, much the way reptiles do. I don’t remember seeing a mic lick like that since Motörhead’s “Eat The Rich” video. Co-vocalist/guitarist Will Lindsay (Middian, Nachtmystium, etc.) chimed in with riffs and tortured screams, but no licking. Ron DeFries laid copious chugs into his bass. Meanwhile, drummer Bill perforated the skins slowly and succinctly, pausing, pounding, holding, drawing large breaths into his cheeks, and then more pounding, dragging sludge down the road like some overgrown, lumbering beast with a new pet, albeit a dead one.




Overall, the Indian sound is massive tar, yet still sharp and poignant. It stops and starts relentlessly. I think they like to hear their own tone, hanging on each note just long enough to let it slide into feedback before striking another chord, stabbing our frontal lobes with a tight nasty slice of mercurial juice, dumbfounding each and every stoner, joker, and boozer in the room. This band may have laid a heavy hollow blanket on the crowd, just enough to temporarily quell the party flame that had been stoked by Eddie Casual and anticipated by Pike On Fire, but it was all for the better.

Between sets, myself and Metal Derek stepped outside to take a onehintermission (I tried) around the corner to insure that High On Fire would resinate ;D appropriately. As we strode back down the block toward the venue, who else do we stumble upon, standing van-side in the sidewalk in all his shirtless beer-bellied, smirking, elven-prince-of-heavy glory than the Pikester (Sleep, Kalas) himself? A little com-bro-derie ensues (shoulder-grappling, general exclamations) and we say hi. I’d never met him before but he was fine to shoot the shit for a minute before going on stage. Des and Jeff were already gearing up a bit and starting to make a little noise inside. Pike was talking about how he had just woken up in the van, not exactly sure where he was, and no less than 2 minutes later he was on stage laying headlong into Furywhip, bending those monster chords only the way he can, grimacing, plodding and shredding faces in the small, dark bar. Jeff slugged and trundled on his bass, diddling it like the Harp of Goliath, while Des juggernauted all over his drums, somehow seeming to just hit fills while holding perfect rhythm and sounding like a damned mammoth locomotive of tumbling charcoal thunder. Still not sure how he does that. I could swear he doesn’t hold a beat, just nails one tom roll after another, yet still holds the songs together as tight as (you guessed it) a noose.



The crowd was responding lovingly, shouting, climbing, hoisting bottles and clutching oranges like torches in a Salem hunt. I was being more or less crushed in front against the stage, doing my best to take pictures but mainly just getting bent over the stage and ravaged from behind, no homo. At one point, I climbed up to safety and was sitting cross legged on the edge of the stage with my camcam, snapping shots here and there, but mostly just letting the music pound through me like the footstep of an elephant, my organs absorbing thunder in riffs and drums.

Eventually security told me to get off, so back I went into the pit, squished up against the stage, taking a beating. I couldn’t blame anyone nearby, it wasn’t their fault, the crowd was surging. Strange to think about – everyone participating in a single movement, yet no one is choosing to do so. Then who is choosing for us? Who commands the ebb and flow of the sea of bodies? What moon turns turns this tide of screaming fans, drunk dudes, stoned bros, and a few girls? Pike does, that’s who. We were at a High On Fire show in a 200 capacity bar. A haunted one, no less. And the drinks were not cheap, and no one gave a shit.