Slashing, Swimming and Flying. A Night (of Metal) To Remember.

The Sword, American Sharks and Gypsy Hawk
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The Independent, San Francisco, Ca 

The Sword	Gypsy Hawk	American Sharks

I like to rock out in a variety of ways. Air guitar? Pff, don’t dare me. Metal-leap hang-time? Gimme a fuckin stopwatch. Pretending I’m in The Outsiders brawl scene in my bedroom while blasting some power-ass soundtrack? Quite guilty. All of the above considered, I can’t hold a candle to Candice when she’s in the living room blasting The Sword. She’s jumping off the coffee table, whipping her locks around like a rampant wildfire and definitely making me cower for fear of physical harm yet unable to look away. So when she asked me to accompany her to see them live at The Independent, I was nervously and excitedly game. Candice had been in the middle of her weeklong birthday celebration, so we obviously had a couple drinks and pizza before the show. Then, upon arriving at the venue we got birthday shots from a friend who we happened upon at the bar. Yep, our night was off to a swimming start. We snagged a choice spot next to the stage just before the lights dimmed and the openers pushed us right in without so much as a toe-check.

So, Candice and I have a record lately with seeing openers that are thoroughly tits, therefore we wanted to be sure and not miss the first two bands, American Sharks and Gypsy Hawk. I’ll tell you what, the first of said duo, American Sharks, immediately justified our punctuality. By the time their first song was halfway through Candice had already turned to me and mouthed the words ‘Fucking Raaaad!’ I vigorously nodded in agreement.

American Sharks is a three-piece number from the town of Austin, the soils of which seem musically fruitful. One thing I could see right away was how much fun these dudes were having and that vibe quickly transcended onto the audience. You never saw so many smiles and guffaws amongst all that fist-pumping, head-banging and overall tumultuous body-language. Between each song the lead-singer/bass player, a big and jolly guy with a good dark mane on his shoulders, would joke around with us. At one point he took a picture of the audience and promised to put it on their facebook page. He would preface many of the songs with anecdotes, including writing a song for San Francisco ten minutes before going on. The song was aptly called San Francisco Fucking Rules as the song itself fucking totally ruled. In addition to all these lovable attributes, American Sharks shredded the plank musically. Their drummer was mind-boggling as he demolished a set that consisted of three drums, a high-hat and a crash. Out of this relatively puny set-up came an orchestra of demonic servitude.

At some point the singer told us he wished he had arms big enough to give the whole audience a hug. After their set, Candice saw him on his way outside and wrapped her arms around him. She sang him a song we saw Big Business play a few months back: “Hugs are better than anything else!” He was clearly familiar with this tune as he immediately belted out: “Hugs! Hugs! Hugs! Hugs!” I officially love the shit out of American Sharks.

We held down our spot as the over-sold show began to get snug at the seams. I watched the roadies setting up Gypsy Hawk and saw that one of them had a sweet Thin Lizzy tattoo on his shoulder. ‘Ruling,’ I thought to myself. Then the band took the stage and I quickly learned that this roadie was also the bass player. Then, as the song glided into the vocal segment, I was baited to the realization that he was also the lead singer. Gypsy Hawk was getting radder by the movement. These guys were definitely practicing what that tattoo preached. Each member, with their long hair, tight jeans, boots and so on looked like they’d pole vaulted from that era to this. Their music had clearly done the same. These guys gave us some quality metal, with triumphant guitar solos and choreographed guitar neck dances that rivaled the legs of Olympic swimmers.

At one point during their set there was bit of a to-do right beside the stage below us. I saw some non-descript man make his way backstage before Candice turned back and said in my ear “That was James Hetfield!” My mind went blank. The concert momentarily blurred to the backdrop. Despite the varying opinions of current Metallica, their recordings from before they cut their hair remain some of my all-time favorites. Sadly, the rest of Gypsy Hawk’s set was a bit clouded by this onset…and by the beers that I vigorously continued to consume. You might say my recollection of them Faded to Black. Uh har har.

After Gypsy Hawk came what all had been anticipating with abated breath. The Sword took the stage and it was suddenly time to get serious. Goddamn, if you’ve never seen them live, do whatever is necessary to change that. Anyone who’s ever listened to one of their albums can attest to the sheer weight of their sound, but then to see them play in person is…well it’s like the difference between watching Fight Club and getting knocked the fuck out. Their set began with such a charge that you could feel their effect on everything from the clouded air to the marrow in your bones. We found out that not only Hetfield but Lars Ulrich had attended the show a well; think about that shit for a second. Two of Metallica’s founding members endured the inevitable fandome of a shitload of metalheads to see this band. Does their live show need much more verification of its amazingness than that? All I can say is that if you’ve in any medium felt the pulse of this band, then you can at least fathom the fact that The Sword is a band to see. If you ever get the opportunity, do yourself a rock-solid. Rock-solid. Get it?

After their encore of insanity, the music stopped, the lights slowly raised, everyone had the buzzed stun of drugged and happy cattle, making their way out of the slaughterhouse. All were drunk and gleeful for another entry in their own personal Bible of Awesomeness. Candice and I saw James Hetfield making his quick and ghostly exit and sprinted after him. We saw him hastily approaching an idling secret agent-esque black car outside and Candice, like a breath of wind, gained on him just before he ducked into the car’s open door. She put a hand on his shoulder. He turned and she told him all she wanted was to shake his hand. He gave her a smile and obliged. I looked at him and said, “Amazing, dude,” or something completely idiotic like that as I too shook the Leper Messiah’s paw. He quickly slipped inside the car and sped off into the night, most of those around not even aware that they had been in the midst of historical greatness. They were too busy reeling from the raw power of The Sword, history being written before our very eyes.