Type O Negative – at Avalon – Review

Type O Negative

at Avalon
by Scott Hefflon
photo by Elizabeth Curren

Despite being one of those early shows (sound check at 5:30, first band at 7:00, over 9-10:00. How much were these tickets?), the place was half full at 6 pm when we arrived. Sure, we were 30 minutes late for the interview, but if I can get to a show on the right day, I consider that an accomplishment. Unfortunately, the band had sound checked, signed autographs (Peter Steele surrounded by flapping issues of his Playgirl centerfold musta been a sight, anyone get photos?), and adjourned to some nearby beer dive to “warm up” for the show. My interview with the band manager/tour manager/guy-that-can-tell-you-to-fuck-off-with-a-heartwarming-smile amounted to two words: “No” and “Unauthorized.” So we went to the Rat where the food is good, the drinks are larger and cheaper, and the staff not nearly so stuck on themselves.

One hour and seven Jägermeister shots later, Life of Agony had hopefully finished performing second-rate Type O songs, so we went back to Avalon to view the masters of heavy Goth big cock schlock rock. Special thanks to the bartender who let me sit on the edge of the bar so I could see, so I wouldn’t fall over, so I wouldn’t have to wait in line to get my drinks, and so I would tip heavily.

The smoke poured across the stage, the lights whirled and bathed everything and everywhere in disconcerting, rapid-fire color, blinding flashes, and deep purple retinal aftershocks. Kinda like that time I staggered home and they were filming an episode of Cops up the street from my apartment in the deep South End. The sound, as expected from Avalon (and their inflated ticket prices), was immense. Steele’s throbbing instrument, in this case his bass, boomed like an action/adventure movie on the big screen. The fact that it was heavily distorted gave the sound a big-toothed snarl, more ferocious than any but Lemmy’s bass roar. The switchblade-ripping canvas sound of the guitar meshed with the hi-tech drum production which alternated between double-barrel shotgun blasts and quick-fingered firings of a silenced pistol. And thus I spent the first song trying to recover equilibrium, all senses overloaded with larger-than-life images and sound, and yes, the booze was kicking in.

When the screams of the crowd died down a bit, Mr. Steele, decked out in a silly biker cap, dramatic ponytail, and a white undershirt that showed it’s not only his love muscle that’s beefy, stepped to the mic and said, “It’s an honor and a privilege to be here.” He could’ve been ordering a ham and swiss on rye for all it really mattered. It was THE VOICE. It is a voice that moistens many lips, and causes a stirring in the lower abdominal region of all who hear it. Even straight guys can’t avoid its tingling effect, though it may be chalked up to the envious understanding that no matter how much bourbon we drink and how many packs we smoke a day, we ain’t never gonna have a voice like that.

They ran through their Goth dirge classics in a blur of lights, smoke, and low, seductive vocals. “Love U to Death,” the three parts of “Christian Woman” (my favorite being the rock-solid rendition of “Jesus Christ Looks Like Me”), and, of course, the crowd-pleasing “Black No. 1.” By now, the Jäger-elves were taking notes for me (and boy, is their writing sloppy), so the rest of this review is conjecture and should be taken with a grain of salt, a slice of lemon, and a shot of Tequila. My attention was wandering amidst the many nubile Goth gals who made that chick with the black shit under her eyes in The Breakfast Club look conservative.

When the slaughter of Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” began, I returned to my senses (and an upright position) and quickly ordered a round of drinks for myself. From there, things got downright weird. I realized no one on stage was moving, with the exception of when Steele, Peter Steele, removed the silly cap and whipped his hair around like the thrash bands of yore. “Your” embarrassing metal memories, that is – bands that would’ve made more money chasing hair care endorsements than releasing records, all whirling their great manes in perfect synchronicity, obscuring their butt-ugly mugs from their butt-ugly fans who were all too busy nodding fiercely or running around in a circle to notice. Shiver. All the movement on stage has now been attributed to the excessive use of a strobe and the fact that I swayed an awful lot, but at least it had nothing to do with those ridiculous trees someone, somewhere thought would look swell on the outskirts of the stage.

The N.A.A.C.P.’s favorite song, “Kill All the White People,” added a much-needed zip to the set (anybody remember the good ol’ Carnivore days? Hello?), but then it was back to the same dreary ploddings and rumblings of a guy with a really deep voice. At least Leonard Cohen and Lee Hazlewood had the sense to offset their crooning with occasional backup bimbettes (no slur intended to Grandma Sinatra, of course). Steele’s voice, while soothing and tranquil, was now making me sleepy. Coulda been the NyQuil, ahem, Jäg, but the point is that once the affects of “Wow! That big dude sure has a deep voice” wore off, the show was rather dull. I usually like their cover of “Summer Breeze,” especially the ending (actually a different song called “Summer Girl”) that drones on and on in a ’70s jam kinda way while repeating and overlapping “set me on fire, Summer Girl” (which sounds like “So Good”), and “La-La-La,” but tonight I was paying the drink tab as its refrain lingered. Some diatribe about being compared to the Doors failed to catch my attention, and I covered my ears as they covered “Smoke on the Water.” By then I was hailing a cab, trying to ignore the clinging stench of cheap nostalgia, and getting the hell outta there.

P.S. Later, I found out Manhole played instead of Life of Agony. I like their CD (think Rage ATM and Downset with a balls-out female singer), but heard the highlight of their set was a Cro-mags cover. But then again, whose isn’t?