Sunday, July 4th, 2010

Waking up in the morning wouldn’t have been a bitch had I gotten much sleep. I didn’t. When I visit Helsinki, I tend to utilize friends and family members for bed and breakfast. Unfortunately, for my satin ass, most of the city’s downtown housings were built before or around the 1950s. Come summer, the air doesn’t move, it’s hot and moist like in a sauna. The buildings weren’t designed with modern comfort in mind. Finland wasn’t supposed to be this hot. When it comes down to everyday air conditioning, we live in a third world country. No wonder all the Helsinkians are irritatingly active and outgoing. Assholes!

—“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Too bad the joke was on me. Nevermore had made my life h-a-r-d; like those tribeswomen with overstretched necks, it became apparent that trying to keep my head up was a consuming task. Adrenaline had left my body ages ago and the punishment of muscles I never knew existed had finally caught up on me—I was in pain. For being stiff like a corpse, I sure ached a lot.

The ice gel I had bought the day earlier was depleting fast. I was a dopefiend—couldn’t get enough of it—painting my whole upper body with the roll-on stick like it was part of some New Age finger paint mating ritual: Overexcited. It looked like I was about to get laid for the first time.

Unfortunately, I had set myself up for a failure. The sun had done a mighty fine job the past two days by painting my neck and critical parts of my shoulders red. Once the cold bitch made skin contact with me, the cool, menthol icy freshness transformed into a burning sensation. I took it like Ned Beatty in Deliverance.

After morning chow at some overpriced Germanized boutique, I grabbed all my shit—lugging the camera gear had officially become a pain in the ass—and prepared for the final day. I almost didn’t want to go. Sunday’s line-up was no match for Friday’s and Saturday’s pummeling parades. I felt as if I had pretty much gotten everything that I ever wanted from Tuska Festival, but I persevered, even though the sun was stalking me like a school bully in need of lunch money.

Call me blasphemous, but there were a lot of similarities between W.A.S.P at Tuska and Kiss at Sauna Open Air: old bands doing old things. Looking old and not in a respectable way, like Motörhead—just plain old. Certainly, history has to be revered to a certain degree, but if that’s the only thing going for you, well, let’s just say it doesn’t necessarily transform into an overexciting gig. I’d say it’s okay to quit when things turn stale, but I suppose each and every one of us needs to make a living. Songs off the debut seemed to sink in well with the audience, with “I wanna Be Somebody” taking the cake and making sweet love to it.

The performance wasn’t that bad. There was some energy on stage. Especially guitarist Doug Blair—who happens to be in a better shape than I’ll ever be—gets two thumbs up for being a good sport. Smiling throughout the show, not only did he fall on his ass during the set, but supposedly he also tripped whilst getting off the stage, hitting his head so that he needed a stitch or two. Or perhaps they were band-aids. The stories always grow. I’ll even raise my big toes for the guy for sporting the festival’s most awesome guitars (aside from Ziltoid’s pink Hello Kitty one).

Speaking of ass, it seems that old performers sure love to ravage my youthful existence by traumatizing me with their perverted antics. First, Kiss’ Paul Stanley did it at Sauna Festival by squirming like a stripper on stage, overly in love with his own body. On Sunday, that questionable accomplishment was coldly served by our very own 53-year old Blackie Lawless. Let’s just say that the guy has an ass most fashion models would vomit their foods for in a blink of an eye. And yes. I just admitted at looking at another dude’s ass, but holy shit, I’m not to be blamed when they’re generally rubbed in your face. Figuratively speaking! SAFE WORD! SAFE WORD!

QUIZ TIME!

When a band is named Trigger the Bloodshed, what kind of music do they play? Tic toc, tic toc, wake up in the morning looking like P. Diddy…fuck that. BZZZZ! Correct! Deathcore (metalcore’s close enough).

Granted, the Englishmen were far better and entertaining than August Burns Red at Sauna Open Air, but that doesn’t necessarily take too big of an effort. However, there’s a problem when I could have left after the first song, come back for the last and not know if they were still rocking the same old song. Musical state of whatever aside, for what it’s worth, at least TtB seemed more ‘metal’ than ABR, who in turn were more like members of the Hot Topic! Hipster Society. I might also have to give the band a nod for their somewhat physical stage antics: The singer moshed like a divebomber. Still, you don’t see me rushing to get a hold of their CD anytime soon even if the music didn’t cause any negative feelings. Portions of the audience seemed to be anxiously waiting for the new Karate Kid movie. Never knew Daniel-san had such a strong following, especially when he’s not the main guy in the movie anymore. I didn’t have the heart to tell them.

Even though Cannibal Corpse (with Tomb of the Mutilated) was one of the first bands to get me into ‘extreme’ metal back in the day, I’ve never felt as if something was amiss in my life for not seeing the band live. On Sunday, I saw them and aside from getting a kick out of “Hammer Smashed Face”, I was untouched like a new choirboy at church. It’s not that they didn’t perform admirably, but for some reason or another, the frenzy just didn’t get my juices flowing. I need cuddling. On that note, I don’t think I’ve seen as big of a name be as static. The guys were moshing their heads off, but that’s it. They rarely moved—if at all—from their dedicated spots on the stage. Yet, thanks to all that moshing, it’s no wonder George Fischer looks like gigantic Hammer Smashed Thumb.

There was a decent audience rocking to the death metal beats, but Corpsegrinder wanted more. You hear! MORE! Before “Make Them Suffer”, he went onto a short tirade full of bro-tastic fist pumping machismo about how the pussies not partaking in the fun should be beaten. I get the context. I get the joke. Had I been 15-years old, it still would have been somewhat cringe-worthy. Why so serious, Georgey Boy?

Speaking of serious things, during the first two festival days, there were Dr. Pepper bicycle messengers prowling the grounds. These saints lugged coolers behind them, offering cold nourishment to those in need. Considering the weather, it was a gesture I couldn’t allow to be poisoned by thinking of capitalism. The sugary essence became a lifeline to many. Even me. Yet, come Sunday and the messengers were nowhere to be seen or heard. Like proper drug dealers, they gave comfort and understanding at first—a shoulder to rest your head upon after a weary experience—only to ask money for their compassion and medical therapy later on. Cold. Stone cold. I was in desperate need of a detox.

The food stands weren’t able to provide me with a thing. This year and the last, the price just hasn’t met even the laxest of quality requirements. Aside from the grilled sausages being offered on the cheap—in a true Finnish summer fashion. There was also a truck, sponsored by a convenience store chain, where you could buy this and that, but I didn’t find out if they had inflated prices. I was also surprised by the lack of the Heavy Burger van that had appeared at Sauna Open Air. It would have fitted the festival ground nicely, as they offer wide variety of treats named after household bands: Alice in Cheese, Dimmu Burger, etc.

Easing the cold sweat by drinking water, Sunday’s Death Metal Mass continued. Nile landed upon the Sue Stage to greet open-armed throngs of long- and short-hairs. First time seeing the band, I had my doubts about how the band’s Egyptian-tinged death metal would translate into a live setting, but Nile performed tightly, visibly grateful to the headbanging audience.

With the summoning complete, god himself was about to take stage.

As the clock marked 7.30 p.m., Megadeth hopped on stage and fired up their set that nearly comprised of the whole Rust in Peace album, with apparently “Take No Prisoners”, “Lucretia” and “Rust in Peace…Polaris” left out and replaced with unsurprising cuts like “A Tout Le Monde” and “Symphony of Destruction”.

Rumors had it that Mr. Dave Mustaine himself had pushed Finntroll’s day opening cut away from the main stage to one of the tents. I dare not speculate whether there’s any truth to that and I don’t think Dave’s going to disclose anything about it in his upcoming bible…er, autobiography. Thus, I’m merely being sensational by repeating ‘what I heard’.

Dave wasn’t too talkative during the initial stages of the show, but opened up a bit towards the end. Me, I wasn’t there to see it as I got my fix after the first handful of songs. This was the second time I’ve seen Megadeth live and the second time I’ve felt bored out of my mind. The band plays tight—especially Chris Broderick and Dave Ellefson were in command—but the show just never seemed to takeoff. It’s like the band has a limiter that allows the musical vehicle to reach speeds of only 24 miles per hour. Or less.

Dave’s partly to blame for sure, for his vocals are weak and horrible. Nothing new on the Eastern Front. On the other hand, I’m inclined to believe that the reason might be the fact that Megadeth’s songs just aren’t all that exciting. There. I said it. Surely, Rust in Peace has its moments and, oh-my-fucking-god, I also don’t mind Youthanasia, but overall, aside from a riff here and there, I’ve never really cared for the band and still don’t. And the two live shows I’ve seen (well, one and a half) haven’t been able to actually remedy the situation. Instead, they’ve made it worse. I kind of feel bad for Broderick, as the guy’s a powerhouse. Not only does he look like the long lost identical twin of Lorenzo Lamas—Renegade—he also shreds on guitar.

“Raise your hand if you’re bored!” cheered Chris Broderick (not really)

“Hangar 18” became the soundtrack for my departure. I took a one last look at the festival ground before heading towards the train station. Collecting my belongings from the station’s stowage, I bought a ticket and went to sit on the platform to wait. Festival goers spewing out of the gates and in their black t-shirts, they formed a stream—a black swarm—that carried the mind-corrupting youth music in their hearts. The sun was still hot as ever; yet, we all wore black like a uniform. No, a conviction.

And that was that. Tuska Festival 2010 in a nutshell. A lot was left unsaid and there were almost too many great bands for comfort; a constant hurry to witness one great show and then another. Next year, the festival will move to a new area which will no doubt bring winds of change. Following the festival, one of the organizers basically hinted at some sort of a nip/tuck to widen the audience demographic, make it younger. Whatever that means, it remains to be seen.

Providing me with great summer memories and experiences, 2010’s sold-out Tuska prepared its visitors well for the upcoming dark winter. Many great bands. Many great shows. Even if some did disappoint. But most of all, the festival was true to its name (tuska = agony, pain), as recovering would take a week or two. See you next year. Dave forbid.

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