1 day, 2 festivals, 3 music legends

Damian Abraham
 
So then back over to the Apocalypse stage, where the sun was down and Links-levels are high. Ninety per cent of Heavy Montreal had now congregated for Lamb of God’s ritual brutality over at the main altar of slaughter, and it’s just us, Fucked Up, barf puddles, and…a double-rosary?

(This is the part where I found rosary beads on the stage barrier at Fucked Up and slipped them over head for the rest of the night. It’s been a while since we checked in on my attire: my Docs were now mud- (and possibly blood-) encrusted from Body Count. My shorts were stain-lashed from having just been thrown head-first into a jerky sludge puddle. Luckily, I’d had the pin-up girl dome-wrap courteously hosed down earlier in the BC pit, so I had a rag to wash myself with. My GrimSkunk tank was now a spaghetti-strapped, side-boob mess.)

Fucked Up’s players structured a sanctified, solemn, bricks-up barricade of sound from movement to movement, bridge to chorus, and chord stroke for bottom-note on every groove. The subtle force of Fucked Up’s rhythms propelled lead vocalist Damian Abraham’s instinctive cadence straight over the stage, past the barrier and onto the floor, which bid him welcome in interactive appreciation with all of us fans united until the last note. Finding a current, coup-de-coeur punk rock band in your 30s seems like finding the impossible. Fucked Up find the impossible, much in the way I found and wore a Jesus piece at their show.

Another sweaty hug and kiss or three later, I again faced a serious choice. Should I call it a night on hip hop and go see Fucked Up rip it again at their Katacombes afterparty? I was hella tempted. But Under Pressure is also fam.

The griminess of the whole day stood before me. I headed for the metro, crashed on the floor amidst the filthy, rocked out crowd, sang “Disorder” with some freaks and waltzed one stop away from Berri to St-Lo, over to Foufs and onto the back patio for a quiet moment of…for another beer. Blending with the average Sunday night clientele, peppered with Heavy bracelets, I laughed at the thought that I was the only crust-punk there to see Bam.

It occurred to me to take a walk around back and check on the Doctor. I found the straggling remnants of !?! and friends admiring this new landmark in the dark and joined rank. The day before I had stopped in my tracks when I saw the Raoul Duke mural as a work in progress. Its completion made me feel I hadn’t missed a single moment.

So upstairs now and on to the show — a freebie, filled to a comfortable capacity with the balcony open. Openers Heart Streets and City Fidelia got the crowd hyped as Bambaataa’s hour drew near.

The Godfather of Hip Hop’s support talent took over the job nicely from there, and like magic, the Amen Ra was on stage at the Foufs, holding down the 19th annual Under Pressure fest and giving redemption to a sinner like me.

Break after break, sample after sample, loop into loop, cut after cut after cut after cut, Bam stayed on until the houselights came. The remaining crowd, soldiers to the core, basked in the afterglow of a hip hop party for the books. It had been a loud, intense day and at the end of it my church shoes had found the perfect beat, their planet rock.

Voiceless, torn up and barely able to believe I was still standing, I approached Bam, gave him a silent pound and a nod, kissed my Fucked Up rosary beads, said a Hail Mary, returning to my house, undivided. ■
 
See our report on Heavy Montreal day one (Metallica!) here.

Read our interview with Afrika Bambaataa here.