By on 5 May 2010

Sorry I didn’t post day two of my Roadburn blog before this. That’s what happens after festivals. Life gets ya. It brings you down to the earth with an almighty punch in the lady garden. And blimey, I came down quicker than the BAA were predicting planes would, if they’d decided to actually keep flying rather than screw with my plans.

But here I am, two weeks later and I’m still not recovered, not mentally anyway. And I’ve been so manic I wish I was back at Yvonne’s with a glass of rum and coke talking about the days highlights and planning which bands I’d see the next day. Life would be so amazing if it were Roadburn everyday.

With all the Volcanic disruptions everyone seemed to congregate at the 013’s main arena as doors opened to hear, once and for all, who would and wouldn’t make it. The good news was that Trinicria and Sarke had jumped in a bus and were making the 20 hour journey from Oslo to Tilburg by road. And with a bit of juggling backstage the bands all rallied together to change their slots to make way for the Norse warriors. Church Of Misery were the first to jump at the chance to move from their later Midi Theatre slot into the opening main stage position and what a wake up call, is there any other band on the planet with that much energy? Yoshiakki Negishi is a man possessed onstage, a manic shaman luring you into his murderous cult while images of Charlie Manson flash before your eyes on the big screen.

The Japanese stoners left us all in good spirits, but not as good as the vibe felt when Roadburn organiser Walter stepped onstage to announce the changes to the bill. Having the shitty task of telling all that Candlemass wouldn’t be able to make it, he was first met with murmurs of disbelief and a rumble of disgust, but hearing the grief in his words the crowd soon started to chant his name, the whole room buzzing with the acceptance that he and his team had done their best and we loved him all the more for it. Go Walter!

Finally the Norwegians rocked up, weary from their overnight haul, but it didn’t faze them, straight onstage they went. Anyone watching would be none the wiser to Trinicria’s hassles of the previous day, we were set for an hour of full throttle blackened, industrial ceremony, with Enslaved’s Grutle acting as high priest, decked out like a tripped out half-man, half-moose and the ladies of Fe-Mail warping our already frazzled brains with dubby nightmares. I needed a breather. I didn’t get one as I stumbled into the Green Room to watch Irish doom discomfort courtesy of Altars Of Plague replacing Evoken with a full on rendition of their killer ‘White Tomb’ album.

Escaping toward the light I got to soak in the vitamin D13 on a short walk to the Midi to catch a glimpse of Victor G and Death Row before making it back to the Green Room in time to watch Witchfynde, as I’d get in trouble with friends back home if I didn’t see the NWOBHM legends. Sadly by the time I got there they were in full on AOR territory, still fucking ace though. They need more love, they were rocking the pentagram and goat waaaaay before Venom, for fucks sake!!!

The rest of the night was a blur of contradiction – do I watch Comus or Sarke? Pagan Altar or Triptykon? Are there any drugs on site that would enable my mind to melt so I can be in two places at once (to be honest, the answer to that is probably yes!)? I watched enough of Sarke to decide that as much as I love Ted (and I have seen Sarke play before!) I could do without his cheat sheet performance (lyrics on a music stand – c’mon dude) and decided to check out Comus, and I’m glad I did. It was a well-needed chill out after all that black metal/doom malarkey and I got to watch Rose from Season Of Mist get all blissed out while singing along. The two of us headed back to get prime positions to watch Triptykon (Celtic Frost in disguise) and destroy my neck muscles (they still hurt) during ‘Procreation Of The Wicked’. Just a quick sneak into Pagan Altar (so I could tell those same friends I ‘officially’ watched them) and back to get my perfect popcorn munching seat for horror fanatics Dream Of An Opium Eater. These guys blew my mind at Wacken a few years back so I was really excited to see Ivar, Ben and the guys (and gal) do their trippy best once again and get zoned out by the horror flicks on the big screen while they played. Fucking mind-blowing. What a day. I think it ended with me singing Lita Ford at the Orange Goblin DJs when they were told the club was closing and had to stop the music – but since no one has this on film there is no proof – so there.

(I promise day 3 will NOT take as long as this did to post!)

About Miranda Yardley

I'm Miranda. Bite me.

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