NORTHWEST TERROR FEST 2024: A REPORT ON DAY THREE

(We’ve been very fortunate to have two wonderful talents reporting on the 2024 edition of NCS-sponsored Northwest Terror Fest — writer Gonzo and photographer John Malley. Together they have made it possible for those who weren’t there to get a sense of the experience, and to remind those of us who were there how great it was. Here’s their report on the fest’s third and final day. Find the Day One report here and the Day Two report here.

Before I get too far into recapping the final day of this glorious weekend, a quick disclaimer:

Every year, it seems I can delve a little deeper into what powers this festival. On Saturday, I found myself going farther behind the curtain of NWTF than ever before. And why not?

I’ve been crawling around these pages for five years now, so the time felt right. What that meant for actual coverage of the band’s performances, though, was anyone’s guess at this point. I was rapidly ascending to another state of existence in which my body was being powered sheerly by caffeine, craft beer, pizza, and weed, so any attempt to cover the rest of this festival coherently was a complete fucking dice roll by now.

With all that being said, if there’s anything I can promise to deliver beneath the fold, it’s quality goddamn entertainment.

 

I walked into the Runaway bar, adjacent to Neumos, just before 6 p.m. on Sunday. There were some bleary-eyed festivalgoers at the bar; the multitude of back patches and battle jackets was enough to create its own separate festival lineup. It was muggy, too, and I remembered how air conditioning is almost a luxury in some bars on Capitol Hill.

Islander had sent me a text earlier in the day inviting me to meet up with him, Andy Synn, and DGR before the night would inevitably throw everything into a blur. Finally, I thought, some face time with these dudes I’ve been sharing digital space with for so long. Islander and I had been trying to wrangle this group together for some time, and the closing night of NWTF was ideal for everyone.

I spotted Islander from across the room and sat down with all three of them in a somewhat cramped booth. Before I knew it, the beers were flowing, and the conversation could’ve lasted all night, had none of us had any actual responsibilities that would soon beckon.

Andy and I went back and forth about our favorite Testament albums (The Gathering all the way) and how criminally overlooked Stampin’ Ground was. We both agreed we probably would’ve died in the pit for “Officer Down” in 2001 had we been given the opportunity. And as it turns out, DGR lives about 20 minutes from where I grew up. The metal community’s roots run deep, even for us small-town kids whose parents always insisted this “metal” thing was only a phase.

But I soon realized I was about to miss Mother of Graves if I didn’t get my shit together in a hurry, so I scampered up to the balcony at Neumos for a good vantage point.

 

The Indiana death-doom merchants were in top form, just as they were last December during Decibel Metal & Beer Fest in Denver. With only one full-length to their names, though, I’m still intrigued to hear whatever they come up with next. Their appearance on so many festival circuits is already a promising sign.

 

I came back to the table at Runaway to rally the guys for Diabolic Oath downstairs, but I was too late. Incredibly, the basement was already getting to its sweatiest point at 6:30 p.m. I found a good spot next to an enormous swamp cooler-style fan at the back, but I couldn’t see much.

What I can tell you about Diabolic Oath is they play evil-as-fuck black/death metal from Portland, featuring a sound that’s thicker than a molasses cocktail and twice as nasty. Their music is a chaotic smattering of guttural vocals and blast beats that would give any seasoned engineer all they could handle, but as usual here at NWTF, the mix came out sounding great.

 

I bumped into more old friends on the way back to the stairs. Catching up with them meant I’d miss most of Immortal Bird, but I still caught a song or two. They’re among the few bands to make more than one appearance at this festival, and in searching their discography, I was surprised only to find one album – 2019’s Thrive on Neglect. Vocalist Rae Amitay was in complete control of the stage yet again, barking out songs that were as angry and unpredictable as a bear with its head caught in a beehive.

I caught up with my fellow scribes at the Runaway yet again afterward. While comparing our various levels of exhaustion, I couldn’t believe these crazy bastards were gearing up to do it again at Maryland Death Fest only a couple of weeks after this.

Then I remembered one small but important detail – after recovering from NWTF last year, I was gearing up to spend two weeks in Belgium for Graspop. During those four days, I almost turned feral, but I survived.

Meanwhile, we were back sitting in our booth at the Runaway, planning our next move. The line for Oxygen Destroyer had now extended all the way up the stairs from Barboza to the back door of Neumos, so we ducked in through the labyrinthine bowels of the venue to circumvent that. When we popped our heads in to watch, I had no idea what I was about to see.

 

Seattle’s Oxygen Destroyer was unleashing total destruction. Furious tremolo picking, impossibly precise blast beats, and a flurry of songs about huge kaiju creatures wreaking havoc? Say no more. I was thoroughly sold even before I saw any of this in front of me.

The only downside was there were probably a lot of people stuck in line during the set. Looking to the back of the venue, I realized I’d never seen Barboza this packed. If this was any indication of how underrated Oxygen Destroyer is, I can’t see it being this way for much longer. NWTF has been a great springboard for bands ready to take the next leap – I’ve seen it with Gatecreeper, Wayfarer, Vitriol, and a slew of others over the years. Oxygen Destroyer seems primed to follow that path.

I had to take a minute and screw my head back on my shoulders after that set. And I would be given no respite upstairs – Denmark’s Undergang was taking the stage. There’s nothing quite like quality knuckle-dragging Scandinavian death metal while you’re trying to collect your thoughts.

 

Admittedly, I stood outside in the fresh air for most of the Danes’ set, albeit with a convenient view of the stage from where I was standing. Undergang hits hard. Their down-tuned cavernous death metal seemed to shake the building to its core, and I was endlessly amused at the horrified looks of people walking by. Yes, by all means, go clubbing, but you will not be spared from the blood-curdling roars of what lurks inside Neumos tonight.

It was time to refill my drink and find a good spot to watch Repulsion. I was quietly anticipating this set to be completely insane. Spoiler alert: It fucking was.

 

Repulsion has always amazed me for a few reasons –

1. They’ve only released one full-length since 1989
2. There’s been basically zero new material since then
3. And somehow, they still summon the biggest crowds at any gig they play

As I watched Scott Carlson, Matt Olivo, and Chris Moore pummel and pound their way through a set that could’ve just as easily featured 30 songs as it did 20, the energy and fervor of the crowd was hitting a new high. The unhinged mayhem that was filling up the building had to be experienced to be explained. Grindcore just does something to people – I’ve always likened it to old-school punk rock discovering death metal – and as unlikely as it may seem, I think there’s real reason to believe grind is making the most improbable comeback of its existence.

For proof of this thinking: Weekend Nachos would be closing us out right after this. Full of Hell just released their new album and are selling out tours. Pig Destroyer has still been going strong despite the tragic loss of Blake Harrison. And in today’s white-hot political climate, why the fuck can’t the biggest middle finger in music make its most epic resurgence?

“Ain’t no party like a grind party,” I said out loud to nobody in particular.

Repulsion finished us off with a Venom cover and nonchalantly hung up their instruments. With the end of the weekend now in sight, Weekend Nachos wasn’t about to let any of us off easy.

I linked up with DGR at stage left before the set started. We were both drinking cheap beer, and I probably looked as mangled as I felt. Time had begun to lose all meaning. The days were suddenly a blur, and every muscle in both my legs screamed at me in protest.

No, I thought – no time for that kind of thinking now. Get your head back in the game! You’re here to report on this festival, not go half-mad from exhaustion and drugs! You’re a feral beast, god dammit, and you are in your element here!

I couldn’t hold back a yawn. Any attempt of coherent reporting from here on out, as usual, is going to be littered with ramblings and inner monologue.

 

No sooner than I snapped myself out of that desperate internal pep talk, the lights dimmed. As soon as Weekend Nachos unceremoniously opened their set with two minutes of blistering fury, the raucous crowd at center stage barely had time to compose themselves.

“It’s the great thing about grind,” I said to DGR during a brief pause between songs. “Between these guys and Repulsion, we could get like…forty songs in two hours.”

He grinned and nodded. Or at least, I think he did.

Just then, the crowd whipped into a total frenzy for the next song (I couldn’t make out which). Before long, the biggest pit I’d ever seen at this venue opened like a vortex to some other dimension, threatening to pull anyone in who dared to wander too close.

Amid a flying mass of blurred limbs clad in Doc Martens, the contents of someone’s drink came flying in our direction. I almost saw it coming in slow motion, but it was too late. DGR and I were instantly bathed in someone’s beer.

“It’s not even good beer!” he roared over the music, audibly. He quickly scampered off, presumably to go wash it off or buy a new shirt.

“Ain’t no party like a grind party,” I said again, this time louder and with fewer fucks to give.

“Huh?” said someone next to me, blinking the beer out of his eyes.

“Nevermind!” I shouted.

The rest of this set from Weekend Nachos followed this script. The festival organizers were all united in very high opinions of the people in this band, and judging by the humble stage presence and demeanor of vocalist John Hoffman, they were right. Hoffman thanked everyone there – from the fans and crew to the staff and the organizers – and if I hadn’t been running on fumes, getting beers with these guys would’ve been the goal.

But that would be an experience for another time. The satisfied grins and beer-soaked floor of Neumos were all I needed that this night – and this festival as a whole – had gone swimmingly for everyone there.

 

Once again, everyone involved in bringing this small but mighty festival to life deserves a massive tip of the beer-soaked hat. The staff at the venue has consistently been amazing in every possible way. The people who spend days, weeks, and months managing all the logistics and everything behind the scenes couldn’t have done a better job. NWTF has established itself as a cornerstone for the metal underground, and every sign points to this wave only getting bigger next year. I’ll be there to ride it for as long as it’ll have me.

Like I said back in Day One, the metal scene in the American West is quietly becoming special. With each passing festival or event, this community grows into something bigger than what’s on the back of a battle jacket or listed on a marquee in big bold letters. It gives us the space and the freedom to enjoy the music we all love together, and in a world that seems so goddamn hellbent on taking things away from people, weekends like this become all the more meaningful.

Until next year, Northwest Terror Fest.