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Las Vegas Death Fest revels in the extreme

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Disavowed plays during Las Vegas Death Fest.
Photo: Spencer Burton
Jason Bracelin

When getting it on with the deceased, it’s best to do so for a good cause. “This song is about a chick who [makes sweet, sweet love to] a dead dude,” explained Weston Wylie, frontman for Lone Star State extremists Primordius, his Texas drawl thick as the whiskers sprouting from his chin as he introduced a tune whose name is unprintable here. “It’s because she doesn’t want to be the last of her species.”

There were plenty of happy endings—in a variety of ways—on Saturday as the marathon of misanthropy that is Las Vegas Death Fest came to a close, like a coffin lid slamming shut, after three days at the LVCS. Now in its eighth incarnation, LVDF has become an international draw for globe-spanning gutturalists, drawing bands and fans from around the world.

The fest specializes in brutal death metal—yeah, all death metal is brutal, but the subterranean strain that LVDF trades in is especially so. Just as in dying, there’s a difference between going quietly in your sleep or being devoured by “Cannibalistic Neanderthals of the Ice Age” (to quote another Primordius song title).

LVDF favors the latter, this particular brand of heaviness defined by deep, largely indecipherable vocals that double as another percussive instrument, slam rhythms, bone-abrading breakdowns, terminal velocity and a gallows humor as black as all the T-shirts. It’s an acquired taste—like doing shots of stomach bile—and delights in raising the hackles of non-converts, hence the “R.I.P. Ted Bundy” T-shirts among the plentiful serial killer gear available for purchase in the merch area. The subgenre frequently faces accusations of misogyny, but there was a large female contingent here that was certainly in on the joke, and some of them weren’t idle onlookers, but full-on, elbow-throwing participants.

Thrashin' away with Masacre at Las Vegas Death Fest.

Thrashin' away with Masacre at Las Vegas Death Fest.

During a particularly feisty showing from Boston’s Parasitic Extirpation, a tall lady in boots, fishnets and a “Clit Eater” shirt dominated the pit, then went to the side of stage and banged her head against the blaring monitors. When a blonde woman got slammed to the floor twice during a hair-whipping set from San Diego’s Condemned, she picked herself up and took matters into her own hands, charging her aggressors and pushing them back on their heels.

Mostly, though, this death fest was a love fest, a bunch of self-selected outsiders coming together for some good, friendly, violent fun in their intestines-churning in-club. “The music is secondary,” announced the guitarist for South Central LA death metallers SICK from the stage. “It’s a big-ass family reunion. It’s beautiful.”

Said beauty was in the eye of the beer-holder, as evidenced by the party grind of Tennessee’s Coathanger Abortion, who came hard with groove-heavy dirges about “gittin’ drunk off yo’ ass,” and the cheeky gutpunch of New Zealand’s Odiusembowel, led by guest frontman Blue Jensen from Vegas’ Guttural Secrete. They were followed by the smiley savagery of Colombia’s Masacre, who raged well past 1 a.m., with two more bands to go. Twelve hours in, the fest’s final day was like all the Pabst tall boys gripped by so many: No one wanted to let go.

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