After the experience of seeing Entombed at Championship Bar and Grill in scenic Trenton, New Jersey, I knew I had to go back for Crowbar. It’s about a two-hour ride from where I live, but that room is too small to miss it. The difference is, instead of foolishly putting myself right up front for Jersey hardcore’s finest to punch at and spill my beer, I hung back and actually got to enjoy the set.

Crowbar‘s first tour in however many years, blah blah blah. More important as far as I’m concerned is how rusty is the band behind guitarist, vocalist and recent Obelisk interviewee Kirk Windstein, and how rusty is the man himself? Crowbar‘s been playing shows for a couple months now, and I was ultra-glad to have the chance to see them. The sound at Championship’s wasn’t ideal, but they made the best of it, and the crowd ate it up, moshing, chanting the band’s name, throwing fists, etc. For me, it was just such a relief to see Crowbar again. I couldn’t help but smile.

They played the hits: “Planets Collide,” “I Have Failed,” “Thru the Ashes,” “New Dawn,” “Conquering.” “Lasting Dose” from 2001’s Sonic Excess in its Purest Form was especially well-received, and the title cut from the upcoming Sever the Wicked Hand — Crowbar‘s first album for E1 Music, due out in February — was welcomed like an old friend. The guitars sounded low, which was a bummer, and that pushed Windstein‘s vocals way to the front. Both he and guitarist Matthew Brunson (who also contributed some unfortunate backing vocals to “Planets Collide”) were playing through Dime amps, apparently named by Dean Guitars in tribute to Dimebag Darrell, and they looked brand new. I hope they didn’t have to pay for them.

But the lack of guitar oomph aside, there was zero to complain about in terms of the setlist, the Yuengling special at the bar or anything else. I didn’t see any of Black Tusk‘s set, but heard a bit from outside, and they sounded meh, for whatever that’s worth. Crowbar played an hour and did no encore, ending with “All I Had I Gave,” and it was a professional if distant set. I noted the O’Douls on Windstein‘s amps, and his eyes looked like they were seeing the show a new way. I think everyone’s pulling for him for doing what he needs to do, and if there was a problem with the show, it wasn’t that the singer was drunk. Actually, as his voice was pumped high through the Championship’s P.A., he sounded better than I’ve ever heard him.

Getting to split out of there at about 11:30 was a bonus, and since it was Trenton and I’ve never been down there without seeing flashing lights, the cops showed up to tend to some dude on the ground outside. I don’t know what the deal was there, but at this point it’s just part of the experience. Might as well list it on the website: “Tonight: Crowbar, Black Tusk, A Life Once Lost, seven other bands… and the cops.” Good fun all around.

Kirk Windstein live photos by Lorenzo Ferraro (website here).

When I pulled up to the Championship Bar and Grill in Trenton, the street outside was taped off and cop cars had their lights flashing. The whole trip down, I had been feeling and saying, “There’s no way this show’s going to happen,” and that seemed to confirm it. But no. Someone got hit by a car, probably killed. The show must go on.

Trenton, for anyone who might not be aware, is the capital of my beloved New Jersey and an utter shithole. Not as bad as Camden, but probably on the level of Paterson, where corrupt officials have raped the budgets that might otherwise help these working class people not live in fear of gang violence or police violence or drugs or whatever else I wouldn’t know about because of my pampered northern existence. Not a nice place even to drive through in most neighborhoods. The kind of place whites send sociologists to study black people and Mexicans like they were tribes in the Amazon.

Good fun. On the bill with Swedish masters of death Entombed was a plethora of pay-to-play NJ hardcore bands. Way to go, whoever booked the show. Don’t actually put together a killer bill or anything so that people might show up and/or stick around. Jerks. I didn’t see any of the openers, got there just two beers before Entombed went on. There were maybe 35 people there.

Championship‘s changed the stage layout since last I was there, which was the smart move. Now, about four inches high, the stage resides in the corner of the room (much better than where it was), and as Entombed made ready to start up, guitarist Alex Hellid was having some trouble with equipment. He ran his guitar through four different heads into Emperor cabinets, so I’d imagine amp troubles happen not infrequently. He got it all sorted in good time though.

I was right up front. Now, when I say that, I mean it. Right. Fucking. There. L-G Petrov was about as far away from me last night as my computer monitor is now. Maybe two feet. This, however, is a boundary I respect. That’s a big two feet. The difference is between stage and audience. That’s not to be fucked with. We shook hands once or twice, headbanged together in a deathly metallic tradition, and all was well throughout their set, which was heavy as fuck and given, in no small part by the surroundings, a punk-ish feel that the band just ate up.

It’s been a while since I was at a show with any moshing, and there wasn’t much of it, but as Little Guy with Glasses decided he was gonna fuck shit up NJHC-style, I couldn’t help but be annoyed. South Jersey is a completely different animal from North Jersey. It’s the difference between New York and Philadelphia, essentially, and while I love Philly like I love no other city on this earth and would make a home there in a second if I could afford it, South Jersey has more than its fair share of human trainwrecks, some of whom listen to hardcore, and some of whom who stuck around for Entombed.

I took a swing at one big dude that went wide after being knocked over, grabbed the guy and wrestled around, getting a decent shot in his side as I did. Crowd gathered to split us up. Fucking hell. I don’t care if you mosh, but if I don’t want to be involved in it, leave me to my beer, my headbanging and the fucking show. Otherwise it’s rape. There. I said it. I was mosh-raped.

Dickheads aside (isn’t that life?), the set was fantastic. I’ll probably never have the chance again to catch Entombed in that kind of setting, in so small a venue, with so few people around, so up close and intense, that I was bound to come out on top either way. They played about a sampling of their catalog highlights — I don’t even know how long the set was, but I was out of there by midnight and I got there at 10PM — from “Left Hand Path” to “Chief Rebel Angel” and closing with “When in Sodom.” No encore, but a great time. I hope they got paid well, or, since it’s Jersey, at all.

Obviously I have no idea how Entombed felt about playing such a minuscule show after the Maryland Deathfest, whether they were into it or not — I would think it would be kind of a letdown, but who knows — but I certainly enjoyed it. Seeing them easily justified the total three-hours road time, and even with the douche-factor, it’s a definite win. Quite a way to kick off the summer.