EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind 2009's End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger would be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Since its inception, we've changed the rules some (no more gambling, all End Hits writers must attend a show against their will) but the concept remains the same.

To God, the Devil, or whomever else this may concern; please forgive me for my musical racism. We can chalk it up to my woefully-untrained ears, disgustingly-blatant ignorance, or maybe even the fact that I was hugged too much as a child—but all black metal sounds the same to me.

And you know what. I'll take it even further (with some trepidation...) and say that maybe, it's because I'm a girl. Because it has been loosely suggested in the past that women generally latch onto words in music, while men gravitate towards the instrumentals. Which is why a metal show is one of the few places you will ever see a snaking line for the men's bathroom, while the women's stalls gape open and empty with barely a trace of toilet paper on the ground. And you know why? Because through the muck of that harsh, guttural growl and the onslaught of double bass drum kicks, you can't understand a single word those dudes are saying. Nope, not one.

And so it quickly became clear that my attendance at the Rotting Christ show Saturday night was to be more about the aesthetic, sensuous experience, as opposed to a direct relationship with the music; I can't confidently say that I liked what I was hearing, though it wasn't the worst thing. I'd even go insofar as to say—hopefully without sounding totally fucking pretentious—that observing human behavior in that showroom was somewhat of a cultural study. I would've never previously considered attending a five-band metal bill at the Hawthorne Theater if I wasn't forced to; it was raining. I wanted to make vegan corn chowder and listen to Ladies of the Canyon. I wanted a mellow evening after a long road trip back from SXSW. I wanted comfort and familiarity. But that wasn't happening, so I was to grab myself by the bootstraps and venture into the dark night...

I enlisted my good great best friend for life's company for the show, mostly because no one likes going to shows by themselves, but also because I needed a witness in case I was randomly selected for sacrificial rights on stage. The two of us stood out like sore thumbs—and by that, I mean we were not long-haired men wearing boots with gratuitous (and might I add, superfluous) buckles and a black band t-shirt with a post-apocalyptic gremlin flying over a field of bones, pictured below drippy scroll. We could have easily gone shopping at the show—the entire left wall was filled with shirts of aforementioned style, each band having at least three variations to choose from, some with snappy catchphrases written on the back, like "DEATH ONLY HURTS THE LIVING"—but we opted to stay as is: more Tipper Gore than gore girl. I tried to keep my notebook low and guarded, so not to be sniffed out (though, I was pretty sure they had caught a big whiff of my fresh blood before I even walked in the door).

The first band was Lecherous Nocturne, but we missed them. SORRY. I didn't realize metal shows were sanctioned to begin as soon as the sun goes down.

Though, we arrived in time for the second band—and one that I was vaguely hopeful for—Los Angeles-based Abigail Williams. Forgetting that Abigail Williams was one of the lecherous (see! Lecherous Nocturne at least helped expand my vocabulary) girls involved in the Salem witch trials and thus a fantastic name for a death metal band, I had initially envisioned pigtails and a gingham dress hanging somewhere above the shark tank. However, it was just a growling front man and whole lot of ailing head-bangers, though I'm pretty sure they had a female keyboardist at one point. (Her name was Ashley, not Abigail and I do not know what they did with her). I think they were a good band? I honestly have no clue. My friend and I were mostly rapt by the novelty of it all, repeatedly mouthing "holyshitthisisloud!" to each other. In between sets, she ventured through the bloodthirsty crowd to the immaculate ladies room and came back with beer and little wads of toilet paper for our ears.

Next up, a band who'd rather you made no mistake of their motives: Hate. Yep, they were just called Hate. Except their name did not suffice because I LOVED THEM. They all wore matching leather pants, vests and bare chests with ample chest paint! Oh, and face paint! And they made funny faces! And the guitarist and bassist had choreographed an impressive head-banging dance routine! Sometimes, the bassist would swirl his sweaty head of hair clockwise, and the guitarist would go counter-clockwise (the Coriolis Effect!), and then they'd switch places on stage while continuing to swirl! And, they even played a soothing recording of an acoustic guitar while the lead growler preached about something completely indiscernible, shortly before beckoning the audience to show him our "horns."
"I SAID, SHOW ME YOUR HORNS, ACOLYTES!"

Acolytes? Okay, fine. BUT ONLY BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, HATE, so I will show you my goddamn horn hands. And so will all of the very serious dudes surrounding me, but they have a way better stance than I do. I only know what "horns" are from watching Wayne's World.

Anyways, after Hate stole the show, Melechesh took the stage. Now, Melechesh—meaning "King of Fire" in Hebrew—hails from Jerusalem and is apparently a really big deal in the Holy Land, mostly for their unholiness and their super cool nomenclature—Mesopotamian Metal. Though, they were not exactly the fertile crescent of the bill, in my opinion. The goateed frontman sounded like Daffy Duck 70% of the time, Grover 30%, and by this point, the music was really bleeding into one mushy pile of indistinguishable noise (and flesh? Ok, we'll stick with noise). However, the mosh pit was sufficiently-fueled, and I spent most of their set watching one squirrely instigator stand on the very edge of the bludgeoning crowd and push people in. No one ever caught on and pushed him back. It was awesome.

Last up, the acclaimed headliners: Rotting Christ. They were boring, guys. SO BORING. I was hoping to be somewhat inspired (is this the right word?) by their set, seeing as we both have similar ideology regarding the perils of Christianity. Or, at the very least, I thought they'd be unspeakably scary—their band website isn't even called a "website." It's the "Official Abyss."

Well, much to my dismay, they were essentially the Greek Creed of metal; they played anthemic cock rock that probably openly praises God, though you would never know it unless you speak Greek, Aramaic or whatever language they were singing in. Plus, they played Allman Brothers- style guitarmonies and the drummer of RC totally has the same drum kit as Carter Beauford from Dave Matthews Band. Where's your second kick drum, bro? I want a barrage of double bass. Booorrriiinngg.

As we walked out of the Hawthorne Theater and into the quietude of the bar next door—they were playing Van Morrison's "Tupelo Honey," and I still had toilet paper in my ears—we weren't sure if we had stumbled into a LARPing session in the park or if what we had just witnessed was a recurring reality. Does it even really matter what band was playing on which night to these showgoers, or is it more about the experience? Is a metal show revered as a safe place to let loose and exorcise your aggressions? Some of the more "metal" people I know are also some of the sweetest (do I still sound musically racist? Yes? Okay). Regardless, I don't think this will be the show of this nature that I'll ever attend; if nothing else, it's good to have your brain jarred open once and a while. Plus, I'm sure Hate comes back to town soon and by then, I'll probably be in the market for a t-shirt with "WHO NEEDS GOD WHEN YOU'VE GOT SATAN?" written on the back.