Posted in Whathaveyou on February 13th, 2023 by JJ Koczan
Tickets were bought, rides were taken, and now it seems that what had become over the last several years a staple of the US festivalscape — Psycho Las Vegas, held each August in the city of the same name and mental state — has been called off. At least for this year. The news came down the PR wire Friday night at 11:06PM Eastern, so clearly it’s not something they want to make a big deal about, and they’re calling it a postponement, presumably until 2024, and offering refunds to those who’d already made the investment in the fest for this year.
You probably recall fest postponements were all the rage a couple years back, but as the world has returned post-covid to live performances and gatherings like this — though to be fair, there isn’t really another gathering like this that I know of — it’s become far less ubiquitous. Losing Psycho, even if it’s just for one summer, will be tough for those who attended regularly, and the festival’s impact can’t be ignored or denied. If this is it for them, Psycho will go out having fostered a generation of heavy and metal acts and put on a show like nothing before it, turning the self-important white dude baby boomer musings of Hunter S. Thompson as interpreted through Terry Gilliam into an aesthetic with a burn-through-today-because-tomorrow-we-die mindset and operating at a scale nothing in the US underground could come close to touching. It will be missed.
I mean that. This leaves a void and if Psycho doesn’t come back I’m not sure how or if it will be filled. Who’ll be Coachella-for-actual-weirdos now?
Their announcement was short and to the point:
Official PSYCHO LAS VEGAS Announcement
With a heavy heart, we must announce the postponement of Psycho X. Despite our love for Las Vegas and all of our devoted fans, the desired lineup could not be achieved given external factors outside of our control. We wanted to provide you with an unforgettable weekend of genre-bending music, but rushing to fill in the gaps would have taken away from this vision. This pause allows us to start fresh and come back stronger. Ticket holders will receive an email with instructions on how to receive a full refund. We understand how disappointing this is, and we thank you for your continued support.
Posted in Features on August 22nd, 2022 by JJ Koczan
Las Vegas Airport — 8:58AM
Some processing.
There’s a flight that’s going to Newark like four minutes before mine, is four gates away from where I’m sitting, and is canceled.
Two ways to look at this. One, my flight is never going to happen. If they run two and one doesn’t, no way the other does. Or two, my flight, as the younger and more agile of the two, fought victoriously in honorable combat for use of the runway at that time. If it gets canceled they tell you that shit on the app now. Heck of a thing.
That pit stop last night before Monolord. I was testing myself there a bit. It had been kind of an up and down night, owing to circumstances that had nothing to do with music or anyone playing it, and there was a second when I was standing about to put my shoes on and head out where I was thinking I could just call it quits, get the extra hour of sleep, be that much more ready to shower, pack, go in the morning. But I didn’t do that. I was tired, feeling old and sunk a bit, but I went back out anyway. And Monolord turned the night around again and I felt like they were a great end to the fest, so I guess the upshot is something about believing in your own bullshit.
Thank you to The Patient Mrs., through whom all things are possible, and to The Pecan, through whom an impressively growing list of things are also possible, for the time. And everything.
Thank you to Evan and Remy from Psycho for having me out, putting me up, and for being continually kind and generous.
Thank you to my mother, my sister, my wife’s mother, my wife’s sister.
Thank you to Steve Murphy, an ever grounding presence.
Thanks to Amy Johnson for the Isotopes shirts — which rule — and the chat.
Thanks to Esben Willems for hanging out. Ready to start our rock-dad parenting podcast whenever you are, buddy.
Thank you to everyone who said hi, a lot of friends and folks you know from the internet who are cool and everybody was very nice even though I mostly kept to myself. Tim Bugbee was there though. He’s the best. He’s the kind of guy whose smile makes you smile and it’s humbling to be in a photo pit with him. Incredible talent, pure spirit. You can tell him I said that. That’s fine. I’m pretty sure he knows the regard in which I hold him. Or at least I would hope so.
There’s more. Daniel Hall, the Kings Destroy guys, John Gist, Church of the Cosmic Skull, Elder. On and on.
This was a pretty wild trip, you know? Seeing Kings Destroy on Saturday really got to me emotionally. I feel like something’s been lost in me since the pandemic and I’m trying to figure out which way the balance is going. So I’m alive, in other words. But still.
As regards Psycho, it is a beazt — that was a typo but I’m leaving it — unto itself, and it has become a worldwide touchstone among metal festivals. I didn’t avail myself of the complete experience in the poker, golf, chess, pool, etc. aspect much, but it’s all that stuff that builds the personality of the event, and Psycho has style to spare. I can see desert and mountains from here. And there goes another airplane. Not mine yet.
The invading-barbarian-horde aspect of this festival is fascinating. Because that’s what it is, right? Visigoth party weekend in Rome. But there’s so much there. And sometimes Psycho delights in crossing the line between adapting microculture to pop ideals in event making and simply owning the ground on which you’re standing, if just for a time.
You gotta understand, writing is all I have. It’s all I’ve ever had. I’ve never been smart, sociable or good-looking, any single one of which would be enough to be a NPC in either life or fiction. Writing, and writing about music, is the only thing in my life that makes me feel special as just me.
Am I wrong to seek that out? I’m sorry.
My plane takes off in a couple hours, unless it doesn’t, but I’m gonna chase down some coffee and read. I thank you for reading and following along if you have been. Catch you at the next one.
Posted in Features on August 22nd, 2022 by JJ Koczan
Early
Ah, the last day. If last night had been the end, I wouldn’t have been able to complain, but if you’re going to do a thing, do it, so Psycho ends on Sunday. And tonight is Mercyful Fate after High on Fire and Paradise Lost, then Monolord closing out the proceedings. And Witch Mountain with Uta Plotkin and Billy Anderson before that. That would be enough, but that’s not it either. Mothership play Famous Foods later. And I can’t help but imagine them leading the entire room in an Animal House-style food fight. Not saying I think it will happen — they’re a smarter band than that — but it would make sense.
This fest is social-ready in a way that things weren’t a few years ago. There’s stuff just strewn about to take your picture next for TikTok or Instagramming, and from the pool mosh to the black metal up in that airplane hangar of an Event Center, the crowd participation in hype before and during and after is very much factored in. Various algorithms will bring up these pictures in ‘memories’ for years to come. I know this because all my old memories are band photos. Kid stuff too now, which I’ll admit gets me sometimes.
But it goes to show the depth of consideration put into something like this. Someone had to design, render and manufacture that big playing card cartoon character by the Poker Tournament, and it’s not a cheap cardboard cutout, either. Shit lights up. Where’s it gonna go until next year? Would they even reuse it, or is it one and done because next year will need a new design?
A video chat with the kid proves restorative. His grandmother brought him home from Connecticut and he looked pretty wiped out from his weekend. I get that. I won’t see him tomorrow, but will be there Tuesday when he wakes up at some maddeningly early time. My flight leaves Vegas at noon tomorrow, gets into Newark at 8:30. Remember I said I’d get through half the day today without fretting about getting to the airport? Seems that was a bit of wishful thinking. So it goes.
Head upstairs as I finish coffee, just to sit in quiet for a minute. I could go back to bed. Don’t. Instead go back downstairs to where Famous Foods is doing Chessboxing with the Gza. No sign of the Genius, but it’s Mike from Elder and Buddy from Greenbeard right now and it seems like a good game, at least going by the overhead camera on the side. This is one of those things that makes sense because it’s Psycho.
I’m sorry, I think that picture is the funniest shit I’ve seen since I got here. Crazy rock and roll bacchanal, right? And I find the chess tournament. Welcome to the story of me at a party.
Not so terribly later
Man, Psychlona know how to ride a groove. This was the last show of their West Coast tour. Gotta be an interesting thing, coming over to play this fest for multiple sets in the heels of your best album yet. Tomorrow they fly back to the UK. That’s gotta feel like an accomplishment, right?
They finished their set with “Warped” from that new album, one more all-lined-up-and-go outbound groove, not just tight but all even in a way that makes it that much easier to get on board whenever. Like they took off a long time ago and you just walked in but it’s still cool and no worries on catching up, they’re still ready for you. I feel like I saw that happen a couple times during their set, folks wandering in and whatnot, though Psychlona, first band of the day in here, noon start, pulled a good crowd. They’re heavy rock for heavy rockers but I feel like there’s more identity starting to come out in their sound over the last two albums. I’ve seen them twice this summer now, here and Germany, so I’m a total fucking expert, mind you. Totally have every clue what I’m talking about.
Does it count as a confession or complaint that I’m exhausted? Either way, I know it’s not rock and roll. But I got chased off the floor spot I was sitting at in Dawg House, and that felt like a spiritual wound I didn’t need, so I apologize.
I saw the tail end of Mint Field’s set, kind of mellow atmospheric indie but they had a little space-kraut psych thing going at the end, a little bit of fuzz worked in with the programmed backbeat and fluid instrumentation between the duo. Lots of melody, kind of breezy but not checked out mentally. Vibe, in other words. Lord Buffalo are also a vibe band, spacious, heavy Americana, brooding rock and an underlying swell of blues doom — not doom the genre, but more like the apocalypse. I’d never seen them before, and I hope to again. Heavy Western is a hard sell at a Vegas sports bar, but the sound in Dawg House has been really good, and that goes for Lord Buffalo as well.
Today isn’t quite the same crunch for me as yesterday.
This is a good thing, however you want to look at it. More time to appreciate a set, offset by that last-day restlessness, knowing that each show is another step back toward real life. Tonight’s sleep is going to be the worst, because in my heart of hearts I’m ready to be home. That’s nothing against Psycho Las Vegas or any of the bands I’ve seen or will see before my night is up, I’m just good to go. I was tired when I came here. So yeah, give me a relaxed Psycho adventure. In a bit I’ll watch Witch Mountain and then head to the Event Center for Paradise Lost. Won’t be iced tea on the patio, but it’s not three bands in an hour either.
Not that I would expect any of them to ever see it, but shout to the door crew at Dawg House anyway, who’ve been nothing but kind and welcoming in a way that has been appreciated. I told them as much before I came in for what I think will be this last time.
Later. Who cares?
We have perhaps arrived at a moment of spiritual rejuvenation sought. I find myself low stress, sitting in back, not in VIP but around there, having just watched Witch Mountain and Katatonia in succession, a one-two brought on more by happenstance than anything. Witch Mountain finished on time, but Katatonia had started late and went late, so for leaving Dawg House on the quick after Witch Mountain were done, I got to catch at least a decent enough portion of Katatonia’s set to make me feel like I saw them.
That’s a win, damnit.
Not the least because Witch Mountain were incredible. I took pictures, very grateful to have the little barricade there for a photo pit, then moved to a good spot in the middle and just kind of dug in. I have fond memories of seeing Witch Mountain live. Having Uta Plotkin on vocals, who shouted out current singer Kayla Dixon, and Billy Anderson on bass didn’t hurt — it was a 25th bandiversary special celebration; and it indeed was pretty fucking special. Save perhaps for the universal exception that is Stinking Lizaveta, I’d say it was my set of the trip at least to this point. Kings Destroy doing “Smokey Robinson” belongs on that list too, if we’re making a list. But Rob Wrong is an unsung hero of doom riffs, and Nate Carson revels in the plod of his drums with an enjoyment that’s infectious. This was clearly something that meant more to the band than just being on stage in front of people at a cool festival, though sometimes that works too, I guess.
Alas, my magic email’s magic would seem to have worn out; I was denied access to the photo pit for the main stage. Said to the guy I wasn’t trying to make his day harder, I was just there to do what the fest brought me here to do, dude went back and checked and that was that. Okay. I took some pictures from the crowd then went up to sit on a real chair in the VIP section and soothe my unduly battered ego.
For what it’s worth, and I know it’s not much, I’ve shot Paradise Lost before. And High on Fire twice this summer on soil foreign and domestic, not to mention last time I was at this fest and shot them. Mercyful Fate I’ll probably never get the chance to shoot again, but I’ve lived this long without I’m sure I can keep going. The world has enough mediocre photos of King Diamond that I do not worry about mine being missed. I know I’m not like a pro photographer out there taking pictures of bands for the festival and I’m not trying to tell anyone otherwise. But I thought this was what I was brought here to do.
The fleeing nature of joy is what makes it worth trying to hold onto. That’s my last word on it. I’ll try again for Monolord at Rose Ballroom.
Earth spins.
It’s 8:34PM. Bet you thought I was going to say “later.”
Paradise Lost got cut short, maybe, but they played a Paradise Lost show before that, so fair enough. I spent most of their set up and in the back and that was fine if for some weird vocal echoey stuff, but if I’d wanted perfect sound I’d have stood by the soundboard. Most of all I wanted a chair.
I have consistently dug Paradise Lost’s work over the last 15 years solid, minimum, and had an appreciation for their early stuff before that, so I am not about to complain about watching them play. They and Katatonia both put in what seemed like a festival set by practitioners of the form. It’s engaging the room for its size, meeting the whole crowd and not just the people 10 feet in front of the stage. Pro shop, in other words.
High on Fire, on the other hand, do not care where you stand. They are happy to run you over regardless. Kind of surprised they’ve never done a live album here, since they’re pretty much the house band. And they’re playing right before Mercyful Fate, so clearly there’s love there in both sides. High on Fire Live at Psycho Las Vegas would make sense. I mean, it does, pretty much every year.
This was my third time seeing them this summer. Coady Willis wasn’t even a question in drums. Completely took for granted that all parts were going to be well and thoroughly nailed, and they were. I know High on Fire has had a few thinkpieces written about them because, whoa-oa, Nutty Matt Pike is nutty!, but this band dominates heavy like no one else I’ve ever seen. And that’s nothing against the thinkpieces, either. Those are conversations that need to be happening if heavy music is ever going to grow outside its very white, very dude optics. I’m sure Matt Pike reads some fucked up shit. Fine. I’m not cold-calling voters for a senate campaign. I’m trying to enjoy being pummeled by riffs. If I thought dude was a nazi I’d say so.
Later
High on Fire delivered what was promised, and there was an hour break before Mercyful Fate at the Event Center. I didn’t move. I had a chair, a little table, up in back. I put my head down, didn’t quite sleep, but rested my eyes for a while. When I looked back up, the room was fuller than I’ve seen it, though admittedly I haven’t spent a ton of time in there. And the King held court, first wearing a kind of ram’s horns headress to climb up the stairs to his own riser on the bi-level stage, topped as it was by a neon upside down cross. You would not call it subtle. Classic, yes. They played a new song too.
I knew I wanted the closing chapter of my adventure to be Monolord at the Rose Ballroom. I left myself enough time en route for a pitstop upstairs — bathroom, drink water, eat bar, shoes back on, go — on the way, and it occurred to me that I was actually sure of where I was going for perhaps the first time in the last four days. I finally got it. I turned left coming out of the hotel hallway into the casino, then hung a right into the not-mall, and made my way down to the end then up the elevator to the third floor. Monolord were pretty much set up by the time I got there.
And you know, in the end, I’m a simple creature. I’ve never been a huge Mercyful Fate fan — nothing against them; that’s an important band I’m lucky to have seen — but I sure was happy to hear Monolord break into “I’ll Be Damned.” The crowd got a big boost I guess as Mercyful Fate wrapped up, but I was largely oblivious, completely exhausted, taking lousy pictures with the wrong ISO and getting ready to call it a night. No, I didn’t stay the whole time. I’m only one person. But I was glad to have gone, and as I look around the hotel room at all the shit I need to throw in my suitcase upon waking up in about six hours, showering and getting the hell out of town (hopefully; I feel like you never know with flying these days), I’m glad I came. Psycho very obviously didn’t need to let me be here, but I appreciate that they did anyway.
And again, thank you for reading. I’m going to bed.
Posted in Features on August 21st, 2022 by JJ Koczan
Early
It’s a kind of radical self-determinism. There is no rescue or guiding hand coming. The whole time I’ve been in Vegas, and really since Psycho got rolling here in 2016, I think I’m not the only one who’s been trying to understand just what the hell it’s all supposed to be about. I won’t lie, getting my head around it and seeing what Psycho has become as it’s gotten bigger and more encompassing is part of why I’m here. I acknowledge that for a good many people that’s just the wrong approach, but that’s the idea too.
You know how Americans think we don’t have a culture and that’s our culture? Well, consider a festival as a “we” experience. There is a collective of people all in the same place for a similar basic reason — this is the foundation of community. Psycho isn’t about the “we.” Certainly there are people here with fest-friends and all that, but it’s more the individualized experience. The ‘you’ in it is singular. You choose your adventure.
For the most part you can move around freely as you do so — local statutes and constabulary permitting — and what you see, who you’re with and why is up to you. Psycho isn’t about bringing everybody together in a lump and presenting a vision. It’s letting attendees handle their own curation. Between that and the brass-coated male-gaze consumerism happening all around the music, this becomes a distinctly American idea. The narrative becomes one of searching out your own way through the huge tangle of lineups, discovering where you need to be and when as you go. It’s thrilling in a way. Pioneer spirit. You’re here, you figure it out.
That is not an experience for everyone, nor is it everyone’s experience of America, but that too is a part of the culture of this country and a part of the story Psycho Las Vegas is telling about it. I don’t know if I feel like I’ve figured it out, but everybody who for years has been comparing Psycho to other fests, in Europe or not, is doing it wrong. That giant chrome ball in the middle of the mall space at Resorts World? That’s your answer. It doesn’t have to justify itself. You are here. Now go get wrecked. Psycho Las Vegas is a different animal. Use its teeth to carve out your own good time.
For many, I expect the ‘mad musical odyssey’ aspect means last night’s, or Thursday’s, party is still going. So be it. It’s eight in the morning. My alarm was set for this time, but I got up and out early. I might sit outside Starbucks in this chair until someone either shoos me away or I actually finish both these coffees, which are what they are. I imagine there are people’s whose chosen adventures lead to places outside this billions-and-billions-of-dollars hotel complex. I’m not so brave, apart from that one trip the first night to the dispensary.
Later, after coffee
Maybe I got up too early. I feel like there’s a lot of very famous hair around right now. I wonder how many other festivals are going on?
Seeing Kings Destroy was a trip. Every time I’m anywhere those guys are, it’s a good day. A bit sentimental, but let’s be honest, I don’t have a lot of friends. That’s my own fault more than anything. They played “Green Diamonds” though, which is loved, and “Old Yeller.” “I know your people they hang out at this club.”
There is no place to sit in the Dawg House, save for $25-minimum tables. I’ve got a leaning spot and might just have to stay here for the duration, since this is where most of what I want to see is happening. Choose your adventure and I stand still and complain about no chairs. That sounds about right.
But about Kings Destroy. I’ve written a ton of shit on the subject over the last 12 years. A lot. And I feel pretty comfortable in saying that I’ve barely scratched the surface in what’s going on in that band. The two-guitar dynamic, the different personalities of the players coming through on stage. There’s a ton there, influence-wise, pulling from classic rock more than I ever have them credit for, and it’s been a minute since I put on those records, but hearing songs from Fantasma Nera had almost nostalgic vibes, even though they’re not actually that old. Oh yeah, seeing Kings Destroy. That’s a thing I used to do before the world fell apart.
And goodness gracious Greenbeard rock. That’s kind of their thing, right? Well it holds up. Even after what I’ll call an excess of coffee, I feel a bit like I’m dragging ass, but neither Kings Destroy — C-wolf and Carl in sunglasses like the Blues Brothers on either side of the stage — nor Greenbeard were in similar straits. For the best. I stayed up front for Kings Destroy, like you do, and moved back for Greenbeard, but man, the groove is statistically significant. I don’t want to say it’s a surprise, since I saw them like two and a half months ago, but it is hitting the spot vibe-wise. Belzebong after this is going to be crusty fun.
Later again
I feel guilty as shit for being here. You know what my wife did today? She painted the ceiling of our fucking kitchen. After driving back from dropping the kid off in Connecticut to stay with his aunt for an overnight. God damn I’m selfish. Painted the ceiling. And what was I doing? Daring to see Blood Incantation instead of Rifflord, who I saw two days ago? Yes, look at my bold and unpredictable action. Surely worthy of my apparent station in life.
As Tom G. Warrior tells us, “Ough.”
But I did go see Blood Incantation after Belzebong’s ultra-stoner riff onslaught, because sometimes a bit of kicking around is good for the ol’ soul, and I needed it. Nothing against Rifflord, mind you. I just needed to be where I was.
And Blood Incantation provided the shove I needed as well, that ur-groove that only death metal has. Technical but fun to watch in a look-at-what-people-can-do-with-noise kind of way. You’ll pardon me if I try and push back on the imaginary obligations I invent for myself. Occasionally.
Duel, Blackwater Holylight, and Stinking Lizaveta (yes, again), in quick succession. It wound up I checked out Duel — ripper, duh — and went up to the Event Center to get in the photo pit for Blackwater Holylight, didn’t get my requisite email out soon enough and so didn’t get in. I took pictures from the crowd. Who cares? Like I gotta make deadline for The Daily Bugle or some shit. Heads up though, Blackwater Holylight are a prog band. And I’m pretty sure they know it. They had a violinist on stage and I guess that’s part of the impression, but what was psych bliss in their sound has evaporated and left behind a much darker exploratory ambience. Don’t let me get all critic, because I’m pretty sure that’s not in the spirit of the thing, but the turn in their sound on their last record isn’t over yet.
I left there to get back to Dawg House — the security know me here now and make fun of me because I keep coming and going — and Duel were still on, so I got to watch more of their set as well as their Warriors of the World-worthy big rock finish, which, again, duh.
Stinking Lizaveta as revival music. I don’t know how many people were there to see them because I didn’t turn around but holy crap can that band play. They’re the heavy jazz of everything. Absolutely on fire, yesterday and today, and and suited to the kind of box effect of the Dawg House stage in a way not everyone has been. Interesting to think of both them and Blood Incantation as restorative in a way, but they have been, as kind of mirror set up to the anxiousness, pushing ahead if not breaking through. I don’t know. I had a couple decent conversations today with people who I have no idea why they’d want to talk to me. Amy Johnson brought me presents. Stinking Lizaveta played. Clearly things for a moment were their most perfect selves.
I’ve been trying to avoid reviewing. Did you notice? Did you notice me failing? Doesn’t that strike you as kind of sad? Or maybe it’s what I’m here for? A not-really-all-that-druggy journey of self-discovery in the desert? Could even I be so mild and cliché? I mean, yeah, probably. Easily. Twice today, and that’s my review of the review. Shit sandwich.
Later, getting late
Ruby the Hatchet could’ve played any stage of this festival. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen them all at this point. And they’d have killed everywhere they went. Just a rock band locked in, that’s all. Seems to happen a lot today.
I hung around for a few songs, lack of water had me feeling kind of stuck; I’d lost my bottle and had yet to replace it. This would be rectified in due time, but I was in no rush whatsoever to leave Ruby the Hatchet’s set, some new, some old, delivered by a band in a continuing process of finding their sound but with veteran confidence and professionalism. It still feels like shows are a thing that used to happen, but last time I saw Ruby the Hatchet was 2019, and on the warped scale of time the last few years have wrought, that’s not all that long ago. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.
Was talking with a friend today (not namedropping) about our children, about trying to raise them to be aware of the world around them, their place in it, the changing planet and all of these generally awful things that human beings have done and continue to do to this world in which right now we’re complicit right here every day all the time, and while I agreed with him that this was the proper course of bringing up a human being to not be a complete tool, there was also a part of me that would be okay if my kid skipped the baggage that seems to come tacked onto consciousness of self, floated through life unconcerned. The trouble is you can’t do it. How’s the kid gonna know who the fascists are if he doesn’t know it used to snow in December? These things are all interconnected, and I want little more out of parenting than to not raise a fucking fascist.
But thinking about time up and down had me in a good frame of mind for Ruby the Hatchet, improbably. I walked past Psychlona on my way to get another hamburger salad — no pickle, no onion, no cherry tomatoes — and they were right on, had shenanigans afoot in front of the stage. Spaceface played after them in the same spot and were on when I got back from dinner. I knew nothing about them but sat and watched about half their set ahead of Church of the Cosmic Skull and parts reminded me of spacier, young Ween, but it was the melodies that took me. They had a multicolored parachute out the crowd was playing with when I rolled in, people came and went, dancing all the while. They pre-closed with a cover of “You Sexy Thing” by Hot Chocolate, and they were pretty loyal to the original, which is a song I happen to know fairly well because that’s just who I am. Didn’t see that one coming.
Dinner was eaten, by the way, sitting in a giant egg at the breakfast place and that was a thing I didn’t expect to say when I signed on for this trip. I take back whatever I said before, eating a sans-onion salad in a cracked-egg chair is exactly the kind of adventure I would choose. Have chosen.
Church of the Cosmic Skull have a new record out. I haven’t reviewed it yet, but I will, hopefully before the adjacent-project Dystopian Future Movies put out their next album and I’m even further behind. I’d say it was guilt that kept me watching them in Famous Foods for the entirety of their set, but really it was just another extension of being where I needed to be. The tradeoff was missing Mondo Drag, who are fantastic, but Church of the Cosmic Skull got going late anyway owing to persistent technical issues and what seemed to be a general lack of mics. And when you’re a seven-piece band and just about everybody sings, that really makes a difference.
They got it going though. All was well. Couple hiccups, some feedback, but whatever. Even with all that, the room was on their side from before they even started playing, myself included, and once they were able to dig in, it was a perfect end to my night. They played “Everybody’s Going to Die” and the only thing that kept me from singing along was I was so choked up. They didn’t close with that, but they could have. “Evil in Your Eye” did just fine though. I eventually wound up in back with a couple of the Kings Destroy guys — not Aaron, who made his feelings known earlier in the photo above — and that brought the day to reasonable bit of full circle. At least I knew I’d been on the right path.
Tomorrow is the last day of the festival. I know that means I’ll spend at least half of it thinking about getting to the airport on Monday, because that’s my kind of neurotic, but like I’ve been rolling without a real, written-out plan, I’m gonna do my best to live in Psycho Sunday while it’s happening, because airlines permitting I’m going to be back in New Jersey on Monday evening and I’m going to have to stand under that newly painted kitchen ceiling and hold my head up to look at it. I feel like that might be easier if I’ve actually let myself have the good time I came here to have. Crazy, I know.
Posted in Features on August 20th, 2022 by JJ Koczan
Early
You never have to wait long when you’re on the strip to see the next plane fly overhead. That’s part of the image of the whole thing. Movers and shakers, people going places. I don’t see myself that way. I’m more the wiggly type.
The Starbucks — there might be two — wasn’t crowded and tastes a bit like burning but I don’t care. I found some THC tablet things up at the dispensary the other night and because I’m 40 years old and someone who thinks and operates in precisely this manner, I budgeted them out for the next few days and will accordingly be mildly stoned from here on out. My original plan had been to come here, get ahold of a bunch of mushrooms and blow my brains out for the weekend, writing all the while in what I’m sure would be a fit on too-damn-long sentences that I’d think were brilliant until I read them later and realized they were all about dragons and tearing down the capitalist uberstructure that allows shit like this to exist in the first place, let alone me to get away with being here to see it. The singer from Uniform yesterday, between one pissed off song and the next, started talking between songs and then shut it down. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear what I have to say.” I kind of did.
Curious at least where the commentary might start. Making thongs and heels the apparently-mandatory pool attire for waitstaff? The $15 water bottle? This is a party town. Party don’t come cheap, and in terms of vibe I’ve never experienced anything else like where I am now. Divorcing the fest from the inherently predatory aspects of any casino experience for a moment — which I don’t think you’re supposed to do, but I have neither the cash nor inclination to gamble, so there it is; and there goes another airplane — because it’s all a fucking trap and we’re dancing around the edge of it, addled with drink and chemical reactions in reckless checked out bliss. Heard Cancer Christ ripped up a Bible in the Redtail last night after I went to bed. Somebody had to sweep that up.
I think I’d like another tattoo. Any ideas?
But again, to remove the fest from its surroundings, to try and separate ‘sub-‘ from culture, is nearly impossible. And the true innovation Psycho had made isn’t so much in getting GZA to come play chess — though that’s awesome too — but in taking the aesthetics of underground culture, mostly based around metal even when it’s not metal specifically, and using them as a means to infiltrate a broader cross-section of institutions. I heard “Lady in Red” on my way to Starbucks to get coffee. In about half an hour, Sanguisugabogg are going to take stage in what I’m pretty sure is a seated ballroom. Guess I’ll find out. That achievement, as well as the procuring of the significant financial backing to make it happen, isn’t to be understated. An accomplishment of scale and scope the results for which will manifest over the next three days.
Thankfully, that will mostly happen inside.
Later
The death growls of Sanguisugabogg are blending with the mall tunes, distortion underlying safe ’80s-ish synthpop, and I almost hate to say it, but it’s kind of working for me, sound-wise. I’m pretty sure this is what my nightmares sound like.
Watched enough of them — the ones with all the esses and gees, please don’t make me type it again — to know that they’re a good time musically. And that there are no seats up there. One way or the other, 11AM death mosh is perfect for Psycho Las Vegas. It should be a tradition if it already isn’t. More coffee called and I made my way out, but no regrets for having seen the Rose Ballroom, which is kind of just up in the corner of the third floor. I’ve come to understand this might just be what casino hotel resorts are, but I promise you I have no idea in that regard. Also watched enough of them to know that every dude in that band could and just might on a given day beat my ass. I’m sure they’re sweethearts though. They had Mike Gitter out at 11AM, which is all the endorsement you’ll ever need as far as I’m concerned.
I’ve lost just about all sense of time now. If not for my phone giving me minute-by-minute updates on the matter I’m pretty sure I’d be a goner. There’s a horn being played somewhere. It’s cutting through the echoing distorted noise from Sanguisugabogg and the bassy muzak and goodness gracious maybe I’m a goner anyway. Gotta hydrate.
Sitting outside the pizza place, where I’ve been a good portion of the morning by now. It’s almost a chair and it’s definitely free, so it gets the prize. Festival types are up and about by now, either getting food, outside smoking, whatever it is. I feel like I’m from another planet. Maybe everyone does? I look at people going about their business though, just living, and that’s not how I operate. Even in this weirdo microculture, in my most honest moments I never quite feel like I belong. Anywhere. There goes another plane.
In other words, it’s not the world with the problem, it’s me.
I wish that was new information.
Later again
Dreadnought and Stinking Lizaveta present dueling and likewise accurate visions of what constitutes salvation. Hippie Death Cult back this with unexpectedly metallic progressions; a bit of march from that expansive drum kit. This allows me to rediscover the antidote to that feeling, that so-in-my-own-head isolation, which of course is the fucking music. Granted, being unworthy is kind of my running theme of Psycho so far — underscored by various security personnel who’ve all been polite enough in telling me I can or can’t bring this or that to stages, or go here or there or take pictures or whathaveyou; my ‘I’ve got an email that says I can be here’ is getting a workout — but watching Dreadnought is pretty goddamned special. Even compared to seeing them here in 2018 — well, not here, but at Psycho — they played like a band who know they’re on fire, and they are. Don’t let me get all hyped up, but after missing them in NYC, to see them here is a boon.
Same goes for Hippie Death Cult, and Stinking Lizaveta I’ll watch any day of any week and call it a good day. The music radiates joy.
That one-two-three was my must-stuff for the day, which means that everything else is gravy. I sat for a while after Hippie Death Cult finished, found a chair in back of the Dawg House, then decided I’d pop up to the Event Center and see if I could shoot Wolves in the Throne Room. Somewhere along the way someone sent an edict about backpacks I guess.
There was some back and forth — got that email out again — and yeah, turns out I could shoot Wolves in the Throne Room, and they went on about 15 minutes late but that was still plenty of time to pretend I was in a forest for the second time of the day, pit stop back in my room, and make it to Great Electric Quest’s party back at at Dawg House. In addition to rocking, they did just about everything possible to engage the crowd short of handing out ice cream. Seemed to work for them though and they absolutely brought it. They played like there were 400 people in the room, which there weren’t, and played one more song when demanded by the crowd to do so. Rock and roll show. Pretty sure it’s my first time seeing them. And they used that space on the stage. Up on amps, waving a big green flag, turning classic heavy vibes into epics. They were easy to dig, so I did.
Later even than that was
A little disorienting? Good. That’s the idea. Time has passed, that’s all you need to know. If you want to know exactly what time it is, you should probably have a different pass. Or not. I’m not really clear on it.
I’m probably the wrong person to be discussing Emperor’s legacy, influence or anything like that, but hell’s bells, I own those records and I can appreciate it. My final three bands of the day were Sasquatch, Mothership and Emperor. So, you know, another night in Anytown USA. Sasquatch came through New York recently but I couldn’t go because let’s face it, my life is way more set up for leaving for a few days once every couple months than it is for going out on a given Friday night, and that’s just where it’s at right now. But to see them any night, anyplace, is a win. Band would seem to have spent the entirety of lockdown on absolute fire, since the second venues opened back up they hit it.
Their US tour is almost done, then Australia/New Zealand, then five weeks in Europe. That’s a working fucking band. They played like one. Keith Gibbs on guitar/vocals, Jason Casanova on bass and backing vocals that every time I hear them live I feel like should be used more, and Craig Goshdarn Riggs on drums and a bit more vocals, and they’re just electric. Even in the years since Riggs joined — what, five years ago now? — they’ve gotten tighter in a way that apparently two years without gigs hasn’t dulled so far as I can tell. Or maybe I’m just saying that because Riggs threw a drum stick and hit me with it and I’m worried if I don’t say nice things about the band he might do it again next show. He’s a madman, you know. They all are, those Sasquatch types.
Both they and Mothership brought people into the Dawg House, and fair enough. Neither is an unknown quantity, here or otherwise, but honestly they both killed it dead. Took Mothership about 30 seconds to warm up and they were gone after that. I’d say good luck keeping up, but their grooves make it easy enough to follow where they’re headed, and Kelley and Kyle Juett out front while Judge Smith holds it all together behind. I suppose the kicker there is there’s no real danger of it coming apart, right? These guys are pro-shop heavy rock and roll. They know their sound and their songs inside out, and for all the fucking around, there’s not much actual fucking around, even in jams and introducing the band, saying hi to the members of Rifflord in the crowd and so on. Fuck else do you want to know? They’re a great live act and they played like one. It was not a surprise, but it was a blast.
That’s it. Put Ihsahn from Emperor looking like a black metal Robert Fripp on top — not intended at all as an insult; Fripp just about anything and you’re doing it right — and that’s my evening. I don’t know when the last time Emperor played in the States was, but I’m reasonably sure it was more than a decade ago. And if you’ve ever seen them, they’re basically the reason why black metal both rips and thinks it’s smarter than you. The Event Center/main stage tent is huge. You go outside and then back inside and there’s like a hangar and a massive thankfully air conditioned space that I’m not sure is permanent and I’m not sure isn’t. But I’d been there for Wolves in the Throne Room so knew at least what to expect in that regard.
I won’t say I stayed the entire time for Emperor; it’s just not where I’m at. But I did stay longer than I intended to, and I probably could’ve stuck around for more, but dinner and sleep and that’s-enough-of-that were calling, and I am nothing if not attuned to all of those things.
Kind of terrifying to think this is just day one. Not only is there a whole other day tomorrow, there’s one after that too. Holy shit. It’s not even really the weekend yet.
I’ve been waiting weeks to say that. It is, however, a place for imposter syndrome, and I’ll admit to having already filled my quota of wondering how the hell I managed to get here. Considering I can barely get up to get myself a cup of water — I brought my pink water-drinking cup from home — let alone ice from somewhere down the hall, it feels pretty odd to not be at home right now. I am lucid, mostly. A little while ago I got back from seeing Kadabra at the Redtail and I guess that was the end of my night. I picked up a hamburger salad on the way back and that was dinner and I keep expecting it to kick in and have a surge of energy, but yeah, probably not.
Never had coffee today. There’s a Starbucks downstairs that I’ll hit in the AM. Desperate times, if I didn’t say that before.
What I learned throughout the course of today is that Resorts World is fucking huge. It’s three or four or seven plus-size hotels all interconnected. I don’t even know where one casino ends and another begins, or what’s where or whose is anything and there are a lot of flashing lights and a kind of mall attached with a big chrome watery-looking ball in it that’s like the mall art you remember but on steroids or maybe given a grim alien reboot. Finding the check-in to get my wristband this morning was a hoot, and from there I had my work even more cut out for me finding the pool. I was back and forth a few times throughout the day — there was one point during Early Moods where, righteous and doomed as they were, I just needed air conditioning. That’s poolside.
No, I didn’t go in. A lot of people did. My bathing suit is in the wash, or at least it was when I left the house yesterday to go to the airport. Clouds rolled in as the afternoon went on and Rifflord begat Early Moods begat Uniform and so forth, but it wouldn’t rain until during Elder’s set, which even though it was dark already still felt something like a godsend. I had been headed inside anyway. I’m getting ahead of myself.
The day was two days, how it worked out. I wound up splitting the schedule into two parts. Taking a break in the middle meant missing Deathchant, about whose set I’ve already heard good things, but made the rest of the day doable. Sometimes in life we have to make sacrifices. I’d rolled up early for Rifflord, got my bag searched for the first of three times today — the second time I was told to throw out my water bottle, which seems a little counterintuitive for an outdoor event in Las Vegas in August; I kind of felt like there should be refilling stations every two meters along the wall — and was asked about the camera gear but I said I was media (hence that whole imposter thing noted above) and they let it go. After I shot Rifflord and the head of Psycho’s team of 10 photographers came up to me and with a very West Coast manner, introduced himself and proceeded to tell me he didn’t know there was any outside media allowed to shoot the festival. The implication, of course, that I shouldn’t be there.
Well, there I was. One band, who rocked by the way, into a four-day festival, 100 degrees minimum with the sun trying to cleave my skull, and Photo Dude coming ’round to put me in my place. Yessir. Well sir, you see. And so on. He said his piece and even knowing I was right — which, yes, I was — it was still a kind of shitty way to start the thing. Fortunately, Rifflord had played “Tumbleweed” so I felt like I could take on anything the planet might put in my way, and it was too hot to be really bummed out. The trick is finding somewhere to be. Staking out a spot and putting yourself in it. I found a little shade toward the back and sat down. I’d been in one of the cabanas, but the people who’d staked it out came back and it was pretty clearly time to move on. I’d watch Early Moods, abscond for a few minutes to cool off by walking around the big, empty, fenced-off dirt lot that I assume is going to be eventually turned into some kind of ‘experience’, and then return for the finish of their set.
Classic heavy rock and doomer vibes. The morose aspects of Early Moods were a good setup for Uniform in that if Early Moods was bumming out about the world, Uniform were judging and finding it wanting. It made sense in a stages-of-grief kind of way. Rifflord and Early Moods were both bands I pointedly wanted to see, and Uniform’s harsher take — some industrial elements, mostly dark, aggro noise — was a shift in atmosphere that was welcome despite the groove the first two acts had established. By the time Uniform were finished, I felt like I was ready to die. I’d been hydrating and saying hello to the people kind enough to say hello to me, and I just plunked myself down at one point and did the math on eating and sleeping and found that their increasing my likelihood to last the full day made it worth a journey back to the room.
I did find my way back, eventually, but I’m still not sure that, say, if I was going to Dawg House to watch Elder at 1AM finish their rained-out set, I’d know how to get there. I’ll be asleep before then anyhow — already writing with one eye closed, which is never a good sign for continued consciousness. I ate a protein bar and then settled myself onto the bed, still not really having decided I was going to sleep. Then I turned off the light and was out in about five seconds. I’d set an alarm to be up in time for me to get back to the pool for Elder with flex enough that I got to see some of Bridge City Sinners’ goth-bluegrass, which was a good time, even if the singer seemed let down by the audience response. It was just starting to ‘cool off,’ so I got where both she and the crowd in front of the stage were coming from. Even having slept, I would hardly call myself up to full speed. And maybe it was a bad time to go off my meds after all. I don’t know.
Elder were next, and I’ll do you the favor of sparing you the music-as-magic-because-they-made-it-rain thing. I mean, yes, obviously that’s what happened, I just feel stupid writing about it. They weren’t through “Compendium” before it started coming down. As noted, they’ll be at the Dawg House — one of the many venue-type places nestled into the mall-ish area; I stumbled on it earlier — but yeah. I was on my way to catch Salem’s Bend who were on before Kadabra at the Redtail. I’d thought about hitting Eyehategod back at the pool and Midnight are Midnight, but there was no way I was going to make it. Death would occur. I got to see two bands I’d never seen before in Salem’s Bend and Kadabra, and that felt like a win, which I also kind of feel obligated to point out because some of the comments I got yesterday or whenever that was were a little off-putting, like I’m not enjoying myself. Well, I was getting on a fucking airplane. What’s enjoyable about that? Even if you’re looking forward to where you’re going, you have to get there first.
Psycho Las Vegas is really, really, really big. Yeah, there’s your pullquote — you’re welcome. I’m media! But even compared to when I was out here in 2018 and it was at the Hard Rock, it’s mammoth. Today there were four stages that had stuff going at various points. Tomorrow is six, and it starts at noon and it ends at 2:45AM and you could never see it all — they rightly call it a ‘choose your adventure’ festival — but it’s fun to try if completely overwhelming. I think that’s the idea. I think maybe it’s supposed to be fun. Sounds weird, I know.
But you have to understand the scale of the thing. This morning, looking at the schedule for the next four days, it was like I was staring down a tidal wave or maybe more appropriately a sandstorm since we’re in the desert, and I hardly feel any different about that now that the day is over. However big you’re thinking it is, it’s bigger. It’s more on the scale of SXSW Music than a regular one- or two-stage fest. More like getting around a city.
I was ready for Kadabra when they went on, following the heavy boogie of Salem’s Bend, whose guitarist had a very proud aunt in the crowd and whose bassist opted to go without pants, presumably being fresh out of the pool. Good fun all around, and Kadabra followed it well, with a more drawn out, fuzzier take that still reminds me of the first Mars Red Sky record. Their Ultra album came out last year on Heavy Psych Sounds and was a gem that I thought didn’t get enough love. Having seen them live, now I know that’s the case. First smiling drummer I saw all day, and maybe a win on tone as well, but it was the melody, depth of tone and the swinging groove that had me locked in. All of that coming together in a languid nodder psychedelia given just enough push to keep rolling downhill? Sign me up forever. Or at least for the next album.
Between the pizza joint, the Mexican place, the vegan place and the breakfast place, the nearest I got to a caesar salad was the hamburger-with-chipotle-dressing thing I ate a bit ago. Not something I’d likely order on a normal day — I have increasing trouble trusting red meat when I don’t know where it comes from — but glorious and quickly consumed for all that. My head has already started thinking about the long day that tomorrow will be, and that’s a good thing, but today was an interesting one. The heat, the sun and fatigue, disorientation, dreadful sobriety, and so on, were a drag at various points, but the music sounds good and it’s… fun. Still feels kind of strange to say that.
Tomorrow is the first day of the festival proper. I’m lonely but holding up. I’ve got Dreadnought, Stinking Lizaveta and Hippie Death Cult as one-two-three first thing in the afternoon, and coffee to find before that. First sleep.
Posted in Features on August 17th, 2022 by JJ Koczan
08.17.22 – Weds. – 6:16PM Eastern – EWR Airport
What’s the matter, New Jersey? Too soon to put a dispensary in the airport terminal? I should think not, you bunch of squares.
I think a plane just landed at my gate. Watching the people come off, dude in the Rick and Morty shirt a must — is that still a thing? — families, the odd old lady, etc., I’m trying to properly discern if any of them have sabotaged the craft, which may or may not actually be the one I’ll fly on. Doesn’t matter. Shifty bastards in from somewhere.
Maybe you haven’t flown since the pandemic entered our lives, but it’s provided airlines a usable excuse for continuing to pay their workers shit while demanding more from them, cut services, cancel flights with less notice — they tell you to download the app, because I’m really sure United sending me “marketing updates” is going to help anything; I downloaded the app — and generally provide a product that’s inferior to the chicken-coup-in-the-sky experience of flying economy in the Before Times, while also reaping record setting profits and pleading poverty for government subsidies. The US should nationalize every airline operating in its borders. At least if someone shits all over you in government, you can vote them out — enjoy that while it lasts, by the way. Can’t even do that with middle management, let alone a CEO or the entire structure of a corporatocracy.
My flight leaves at 8:30 to Psycho Las Vegas. Newark Airport is packed. Ton of people in Terminal C. Some kid somewhere is singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” Every time I hear a child call out “daddy!,” which has happened a few times in the 20 minutes I’ve been planted in this spot, I flinch. My own son, four and a half, I left home with my wife, and I leave home knowing that my doing so was a mistake. Yeah, I’m sure Psycho will be cool, some good music, lots of good people in a big, weird and, yes, hyper-corporate setting. This festival has both a golf tournament and Church of the Cosmic Skull playing; I’ll be honest, part of why I wanted to go back to it in the first place was to see if I could make sense of what it’s become since the last time I was there in 2018. Eons ago.
In the ensuing years, in addition to the plague, the fest has moved casinos twice. It’s at Resorts World now, which is fine I guess? I have no idea one vs. the other and I sincerely doubt it matters in anything beyond finding where I’m going — a challenge, I’m expecting — but I’ve seen the schedule and I’ll mostly be holed up in the smaller spaces, so whatever. Tomorrow is the pool party. Pool party? Uh, excuse me, sir? I like heavy music. Are you sure I’m allowed at the pool? At the hotel more generally?
Oh sure, boss. The Strip takes all kinds. Bring in the working and middle classes with the promise of the highbrow ritz, a chance at a big life, a dream of some cash, head in the shower, whatever it is. Pump pheromones into the air conditioning; they can’t hold their breath forever. Hey you, you wanna be human? You gotta spend money to make money bro. Last time I was in Las Vegas, the sun beat down hard north of 105 degrees, and no different is expected this week. It’s cloudy in Jersey. There are birds flying in the terminal. A plane to Paris, a plane to San Fransisco, and me. A plane to the playground.
But yeah, it’ll be cool. It’ll go till Sunday, I’ll fly home Monday, blah blah. Last time I traveled for something music-related was in June, and my kid was almost over it. This will be a setback there, as well as a strain on my marriage, and as these are the two most important relationships in my life — the rest of my family, up to and including my wife’s mother and sister, are a support system not to be trivialized — I am not looking forward to landing, deboarding or de-planing or getting-off-the-fucking-aircraft or whatever they call it now, and finding myself directly in the shitter. I didn’t even make it out of the airport last time I got home before being bit by my son. Hard.
It must be worth going though, right? If it wasn’t, presumably I wouldn’t, but nobody rides for free. And while the weekend will no doubt be a lengthy celebration of gonzo ideology — I prefer Gonzo the Muppet; leave it to the Baby Boomers to ‘invent a journalism’ that happens to place themselves front and center; points for consistency, and hey, how ’bout that white privilege? — a kind of Fear and Loathing at a Luxury Hotel, but I guess that was true anyhow. I never read that book. I got Hell’s Angels as a gift and read that out of curiosity. Turns out if I want self-indulgent, self-aggrandizing, druggy-alt-culture posturing, I can just read my own shit. I’m more interested in myself anyhow that some dude who did drugs when the stakes were… nil… and plus that way I get to find all the infuriating typos, sometimes years later. I am a lucky man.
But I’m going. Thank you to Psycho Las Vegas for having me back. Suppose I shouldn’t talk too much shit, lest I wear out my seemingly tenuous welcome, but I have to wonder how long a festival that books the likes of Mercyful Fate for an exclusive show and has pop-up tattoo parlors and a mascot who’s a chimp in a Hawaiian shirt with a joint in his mouth and tinted glasses and their own beer and their own golf, really well crafted marketing language in their email updates about nothing, and their own VIP weekend passes is going to need me around to start with, especially considering they never did. But fuck yeah, I’ll go. Be a little stoner rock curio footnote on one of the US festival season’s most stacked bills — certainly the biggest fest in America for heavy; Maryland Death Fest is/was a different animal; this is more like Coachellapalooza, but righteously blitzed — and sneak my way through in nowhere-near-cool-or-relevant-enough-to-be-here-but-am-anyway style. Hell’s bells. I’m not even an influncer to my kid, let alone whichever social media is relevant this year for people who like making money.
My flight gets in late tonight. It’ll be past midnight by the time I get to the hotel. Tonight I stay on the cheap side; my bill. Tomorrow the fest puts me up in what I’m imagining is full-on swank, but we’ll have to see how it goes. I brought my favorite water cup. I brought my over-the-head pillow. I brought protein bars and a new camera lens and two laptops, neither of which I put in my checked bag because fuck you I’m never doing that again. I need to get up and get some water because the family sitting across from me has just gotten Wendy’s and I can smell the sugar in the bread and it smells fucking disgusting. I had a salmon caesar salad, cheesy as hell, before leaving the house. It will hold me at least until tomorrow. Then it will be all about coffee, iced tea (which I can be confident at finding because I’m in America and iced tea is a thing we do), and the odd bit of whatever it takes to survive. Maybe I’ll check in before, maybe not. You’ll live either way.
I’m winging it on coverage. I might not even talk about music. Whatever. I’m gonna see what I wanna see, take pictures when I want to do that, and try my best to make it worth the fuckstorm I’ll be returning to early next week. Maybe more travel writing less list-of-bands-who-were-good? I don’t know yet, but I’ll keep you posted.
Hour-plus till I take off. Should be an interesting time.
Posted in Whathaveyou on May 3rd, 2022 by JJ Koczan
Gadzooks! It’s like Coachella, but interesting. It’s like Lollapalooza, but instead of pretending to have a soul, it already knows it, you and I are all doomed anyway so we might as well throw down when we can. It is, in other words, Psycho Las Vegas, the far and away premier American festival for the varied forms of heavy and beyond.
They’ve been trickling out bands one at a time with blurbs that a couple years ago I might’ve been cool enough to write, and it was assumed that sooner or later the full thing would be unveiled. Here we are.
To call the lineup insane is to understand precisely what Psycho Las Vegas is all about.
It’s hot in the desert. Bring shorts.
From the PR wire:
PSYCHO LAS VEGAS 2022 // Full Lineup Announcement
PSYCHO LAS VEGAS ANNOUNCES FULL ARTIST LINEUP FOR 2022 EDITION OF AMERICA’S ROCK N’ ROLL BACCHANAL
Festival To Be Hosted at Resorts World Las Vegas – The Strip’s Newest Casino-Resort and the Historic Site of the Iconic Stardust Hotel
Brave new world, brave new Psycho Las Vegas. With a whole new set of rules to live by, we provide fertile ground for your evolution. Landing at Resorts World Las Vegas August 19th-21st, Psycho expands its vision and crosses unforeseen boundaries in the Strip’s latest 88-acre futuristic pleasure palace. For three days and nights, the desert transforms into an alternative reality where rock and roll outlaws and journeyman trippers lead our casino-wide takeover to brilliant and euphoric psychosis. With six stages, no curfews, hedonistic leisure and cuisine, tournament-level gambling, and bands from undergrounds around the world performing between beach club bacchanals and pinnacle Las Vegas grandiosity, Resorts World is an adult amusement park for the senses. Suspend your ability to overload and override every instinct to hold back.
Forty food and beverage options from internationally acclaimed chefs offer decadence around every turn, spas make for relaxing getaways inside your getaway. Texas Hold ‘Em tournaments pitting fans and artists crown new winners all day. Psycho dance parties transform the casino floor into a late-night bat cave. The proximity of the strip makes cheap booze and food only a stoned throw away.
An other-worldly lineup is led by performances by Emperor, Suicidal Tendencies and Mercyful Fate. Whether you like it heavy, thrashed, blackened, doomed, or dead, every flavor of metal descends upon Psycho weekend with Satyricon, Paradise Lost, Vio-lence, Tribulation, MGLA, Wolves in the Throne Room, and more planning to pulverize your eardrums. Hip-hop’s finest are in the house with GZA, Raekwon, Ghostface Killah, and Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. Mind expansion via alternative sounds by Warpaint, Beats Antique, The Black Angels and She Past Away make Psycho Las Vegas 2022’s lineup more eclectic than any other festival around the world.
Buy the ticket and take the ride. Go all-in for one weekend with no reservations. All bets are off August 19-21st. Let the chips fall where they may.
The complete artist lineup for Psycho Las Vegas 2022:
Mercyful Fate Emperor Suicidal Tendencies Bone Thugs-N-Harmony Mayhem Warpaint Carcass Raekwon & Ghostface Killah The Black Angels Gza & Inspectah Deck Carpenter Brut At the Gates Allah-Las Satyricon Show Me The Body High on Fire The Gaslamp Killer Monster Magnet She Past Away Beats Antique Paradise Lost Boris Vio-lence Nitzer Ebb Liars Katatonia Wolves In The Throne Room Nothing Samael Ulver Amenra Tribulation Twin Tribes William Basinski Crobot Elder The Juliana Theory …And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead Sugar Candy Mountain Anika King Woman Monolord The Night Beats Holy Wave MGLA Marissa Nadler Cirith Ungol Primitive Man The KVB The Dwarves Soft Kill Health DJ Set Dance with the Dead Blackwater Holylight The Accüsed A.D. Gatecreeper Liturgy Intronaut Whores Blood Incantation Death Valley Girls WAND Golden Dawn Arkestra The Body Drain Gost Geneva Jacuzzi Mizmor Devil Master Wiegedood Mareux New Candys Akhlys Creeping Death Danava The Goddamn Gallows Bömbers N8NOFACE Warthog Portrayal of Guilt Sanguisugabogg Mothership 200 Stab Wounds Black Box Revelation Undeath Mondo Drag Ruby the Hatchet Duel ASG Year of No Light Indian Witch Mountain Frozen Soul Yakuza Succumb Elizabeth Colour Wheel Sasquatch Psychlona Lord Buffalo Mint Field Spaceface Moonily Belzebong Church of the Cosmic Skull Early Moods Spiritworld Hippie Death Cult Stinking Lizaveta Rifflord Dreadnought Forever Grey L.O.T.I.O.N. Multinational Corporation Leather Lung Kids N Love DJ Set Great Electric Quest Crematory Stench Lovelorn Cancer Christ Greenbeard Kadabra Kings Destroy Old Fashion Assassin Human Weight of the Sun Worship
Chessboxing with Gza – Blitz Chess Battles with Fans and Friends Last Podcast on the Left – Performing Live The High Way with Kyle Shutt – Live Podcast
