I’ve only been to the President’s Rock Club thrice, and I can already say this venue has seen a lot of hilarious shit go down between patrons who are too drunk to care that they’re too crazy to be allowed outside. And Quincy is such a sketchy (read: down-to-earth) place that one could (and did) spark up a fat blunt in front of the door. I met with Rob Williams, (in)famous for his drum talents in foundational Weymouth fastcore crew Siege (83-85), and will forever remain in my mind the guy who was swinging like an enraged welterweight during Fistula.
Now may be a great time to mention that aside from The Confrontation, there was no other band that I had heard anything from that I 
had enjoyed. Fistula were surprisingly okay, but since local sludge bands aren’t normally my bag (sorry, Grief), I just had to make do and bear, and also avoid being moshed upon. They were kind enough, however, to follow Buzzov*en’s example and throw in some fast hardcore sections, so it was like a calming salve on a festering heroin needle wound.
So the main reason why I showed up was Eyehategod, and understandably, just about the entire audience was zooted in some way shape or form. It was painfully apparent who wasn’t by a complex equation factoring in how close they were standing to the band and how bored they still managed to look even though they were knee deep in ignorance. Mike IX Williams‘ first words to the crowd were, and I quote: “I’m fuckin’ loaded”.
A.A. isn’t for everyone, see. So after making it plain that he hated the fact that there was “football on the thing” (a crowd member said Eyehatesports, ha), the band revved up the trademark ear-piercing feedback that whines miserably with the genre, and instantly a pit formed. Several minutes of this passed, and though pictures fail to capture how Williams truly appeared before the crowd, it was highly evocative of the image of a voodoo swamp priest on the outskirts of their hometown of NOLA, mixing up a foul concoction, awash in his own filth and spilled vodka, preparing for a ritual of bloodletting, sexual deviancy, and foul language. Joey LaCaze (RIP) should have been here to witness this spectacle of brutality and scoffed in the face of sobriety with a building full of people who reconstituted liquor for blood.
Oh, how beautiful the words ‘White Nigger’ sounded on Williams’ foul tongue, and how frighteningly evil the guitars crunched and trudged through murky breakdowns and soggy blues-made-metal riffs, as the bass intros for ‘Shop Lift’, the ‘Sister Fucker’ duology, ‘Dixie Whiskey’, and a lot of other steaming, similarly fetid and feral creations for people who hate music with an ear for music sometimes. If The Melvins were Satanic instead of silly, this would be them. All that separates us from becoming animals is a thin veil of strong, cheap alcohol, recreational drugs, boredom, and ‘Six Pack’ by Black Flag.
Josh from Anal Cunt, however, has no such boundaries to keep himself from punching people in the head on slight provocation by a fellow degenerate (this being Mike IX himself), and I was (un)lucky enough to see this. From the creeping slums of Revere to the sickened wastes of Quincy, hang yourself. Eyehategod doesn’t care about your birthday.
Fistula on Facebook
Words by Sean Pierre-Antoine
Photos by Chris Small of CWS Photography