Spewing Riffs…
Gwar, Municipal Waste, Ghoul
Review + Photo Essay!

Gwar, Municipal Waste, Ghoul at Majestic Ventura Theatre

Drove up to the charming middle class beach town of Ventura to see this show. Photo pass came through the same day thanks to Sean CvltNation, Jim from Occultist (check out Occultist stream on this site), and Digestor himself. I was rather excited – my love for Ghoul is no secret to anyone, Municipal Waste are always a good time, and I had never in my thirty three long years seen Gwar live, even though my first sampling was at the tender age of 13 when my buddy showed me a live Gwar VHS, loaded to the gills with exploding heads and baby rape. Couldn’t tell ya why, but seeing them in person just never happened for me… UNTIL NOW.

I missed Legacy Of Disorder, which was unfortunate as I was very curious to have a gander, but what can you do? Upon entrance, there was just enough time to throw back one overpriced beer and head straight to the stage a minute before the creeps came out. Security tells me the theatre has a three song photo policy! Shit, in Ghoul terms that’s five minutes at the very most. Brief gear check and it’s on and crackin!! The gut-thirsty ragheads waste no time coming forth with the riffage. Ghoul riffs are infective, monstrously moshy, pukey punk party rippers. The Majestic Ventucky Theatre, a generously sized venue, was already quite crowded and the kids got right into it. For some young rowdies ready to get their scrog on, Ghoul was the answer. It turns out I was in perfect position to receive a direct faceful of blood spew from Baron Samedi’s chicken upon his entrance. I took it, didn’t have much choice but it made me smile. Got the first shellacking out of the way, the rest won’t matter, lay it on me.

Municipal Waste were fun and full of hijinks. Party thrash wasteoid deities doing what they know and do best. This band is perfect for Ventura. Their music is inflected with just the right amount of jäger, surfing (boogiemoshing?), party antics, beer bongs, and good old fashioned shredding. Highlights of Waste’s set include: Joel Grind from Toxicaust guesting with The Waste covering “Nuke The Cross”, Tony emerging post-Holocaust as Halford on a Vespa wearing a silly helmet. I snapped my snaps and headed back to the bar to put down more beer.

Read the rest review and peep the killer photo gallery after the jump!

After a long and appropriate wait, Gwar enter the stage. They give everyone what they want. The spews spewing forth, the slaves, freaks, riffs, worms, alien cocks, battle axes, spikes, more riffs, solos, Snookies, fetuses, Snooki’s fetuses, blood, slime, juice, thrusts, sacrifices, et al. Oderus commands the stage effortlessly (no duh), but I couldn’t help feeling him looking beyond the crowd, confronting the void. We’re all familiar with Gwar’s recent history. Something was missing from this performance, and it seemed (to me) to hang on our great leader throughout the evening. More than half the set (and the tour in general) was dedicated to his fallen comrade, the irreplaceable Flattus, Cory Smoot. Upon editing pictures later, I noticed that Oderus seemed a bit removed, searching for something else within the darkness, in the negative space that hangs over the surging crowd. Perhaps he is looking for a greater meaning beyond the nightly stage rituals, contemplating his own existence, missing his scumbrother with every note played. Maybe he’s just being Oderus, raising his hands, twiddling his fingers, bestowing the message, unleashing the transdimensional wrath.
Let it be known that the old days of “I heard the first four rows have tarps” are over. There are no tarps, and the reach of Gwar’s fluids doth reach far. Their slime is under high pressure. Oderus’ weiner goes long-range, not to mention the phallic plasm cannon. No one is safe from the interplanetary visceral besmirching. But there are times, little groups of seconds, as you’re being liberally doused with ropes of pinkish/red fluid from Oderus’ diseased mutant alien cock, that you feel a connection, as if he were deliberately squirting just you, making brief eye contact with that distant loving squint and singing his balls off straight to you from amidst all the beheading and the flatulation upon the big stage. And although you see the alien cock shoot far and wide, to and fro, showering down upon the quivering masses, for some reason, when it rains down on your own head, it just feels… different. You can’t tell for sure, but you might be pregnant with some sort of intergalactic parasite.
This is the sensation that the audience leaves with. They have, each and every one of them, been individually wrapped in a swath of loving fluid only a perverted alien mastermind could conjure. And they’re as cozy as pigs in a blanket.