GWAR plays Montreal this weekend, evoking epic memories of fake-blood-soaked debauchery

Hey-o, warriors of the night.  Only hipping you L7’s to one gig this month, so shut the fuck up and buckle up. For those of you who think listening to actual music is overrated and need as much blood, sperm and pus streaming in your face while Neanderthals from the outer rim of space spew some reheated ’80s thrash metal riffs your way, then you already know that GWAR is playing at Théâtre Beanfield (please change your name — puhleeze!) on Saturday, March 9 with Cancer Bats and X-Cops (2490 Notre-Dame W., 6:30 p.m., $64).

Decades ago, GWAR was playing at Rialto and my friend Mike Banas and I made up a heap of spicy Bloody Caesars and threw the whole clammy mess into an emptied out two-litre bottle and snuck it into the show. How they let Gwar’s show into the Rialto is still beyond any reason at all as the fake blood started spraying into the crowd from the get-go, followed quickly by gallons of “pus” and “man goo.” By the end of the show, the entire sold-out room was completely covered from the blood bath. After swigging from a two-litre bottle of Bloody Caesars for an hour and a half, I was completely out of my mind drunk. In the drunken melee, I had lost my drinking partner Mike and while using my booze-addled deductive logic just figured he was probably holding up the bar at our favourite watering hole.

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I left the Rialto and while completely covered in sticky “blood” glistening under the Parc Avenue street lights while at least one litre of Bloody Caesars swished around in my bloodstream, I figured I should catch a cab and meet my drinking buddy. This would need to be done tout suite as being between drinks after that much vodka would surely mean a night of blacking out in an alley.  As the Rialto crowd spilled out into the street, I figured I would have to be as animated as possible in order to snag a cab before the rest of the crowd. Being an aggressive type when drinking clear alcohol, I stood in the middle of the street demanding that a cab stop for me while waving my hands frantically over my head. In my mind, this was, uh, “very emergency,” so being in the middle of the road with arms akimbo was a necessary action.

Of course I was utterly oblivious to the fact that I was covered head to toe in crimson liquid and white goo. When the cab stopped, I jumped quickly into the back seat and slurred “Bifteck! And step on it.” It was at this point that I noticed a young child beside me in the backseat, who met my sloppy grin with a face of terror. Once I turned my gaze into the two sets of saucer eyes in the front seat I realized that I was actually not in a cab at all, but in a station wagon with a mortified Asian family that spoke no English. They obviously thought I had escaped a horrifically violent event but the plan was already in motion, so who was I to put the brakes on.  

God love them. As they came to a screeching halt in front of the entrance of Hotel Dieu, I protested with a King Diamond-worthy scream that seemed to come directly from the bowels of my vodka-soaked soul, “NOOOOOO, Bifteck!!!” I then gave them the necessary directions to drop me off directly in front of the bar. I entered through the Western-style doors, sat down beside Mike and ordered a… Boréale Rousse. Ordering a Bloody Caesar at that point would’ve been downright barbaric. ■

Current Obsession: Various Artists, “Songs the Cramps Taught Us”

This article was originally published in the March 2024 issue of Cult MTL.

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