Amon Amarth, Cannibal Corpse riff forth rousing revelry in metal’s ‘tour of the year’

Sunday night’s death metal assault in Grand Rapids earned several thumbs — and devil horns — up from Local Spins reviewer John Serba, from Amon Amarth’s ‘row pit’ to Obituary’s ‘slime-ridden’ genius.

 

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Amon Amarth plays a brand of Viking-themed, epic death metal that translates so perfectly live, nothing, and I mean nothing, could rune your concertgoing evening.

I apologize.

But where some bands of the metal persuasion take themselves too seriously (often to the point where they end up being unintentionally funny), this particular group of burly Swedes truly stands out. Amon Amarth dropped in at GLC Live at 20 Monroe on Sunday as wily vets, having churned out a steady stream of bulldozer riffs for a dozen albums for nigh-on 30 years now — deep-lung growling hoary odes to ale and Odin and battle.

They’ve truly emerged in the last decade or so, proving to be one of the great uniters of an increasingly fractured and subgenre-fied metal scene. How? Well, they write hail-worthy anthems that burst with energy on stage: “The Pursuit of Vikings,” “Guardians of Asgard,” “Raise Your Horns.”

And just as importantly, they’re loads of fun, leaning wayyyyyyy into the Viking thing, concocting entertaining means to present those anthems, channeling the spirit of heavy metal godfathers Iron Maiden.

Aptly, Amon Amarth’s intro tape is Maiden’s “Run to the Hills,” which prepped the audience of beverage-lubricated ’bangers for a rousing, amusing and sometimes very silly evening.

Ancient Scandinavian runes were projected on a curtain, which dropped to reveal a massive Viking helmet with glowing LED-screen eyes that functioned as both drum riser and focal point for the spectacle – a spectacle that included helmeted and chainmailed Viking warriors clashing swords and shields, massive plumes of smoke, an appearance by Loki himself (OK, it was a reasonable facsimile of the Norse god, more convincing than Spirit Halloween garb, but only just) and a giant inflatable sea serpent that grinning, affable frontman Johan Hegg clobbered with a big plastic Mjolnir.

The topper, though? As the band played its tribute to Viking sea-crossing toil, a chugging ditty dubbed “Put Your Back Into the Oar,” Hegg urged the crowd to sit on the floor and mime rowing like the dogs they are, slaves to amazing heavy metal ridiculousness.

Now, I’ve seen some loony moshes and out-of-control pogo pits and the good old–fashioned wall of death, but this? It’s called a “row pit,” people. Who says there’s no room for innovation in this business?

At this point, Amon Amarth has eclipsed in crossover-popularity every death metal band worth its weight in pointy, unreadable logos. But that doesn’t mean they don’t acknowledge their forebears and successors, because for this tour, they slotted elder statesmen Cannibal Corpse and Obituary, and newcomers Frozen Soul, as openers.

I realize I’m burying the lede here – this stacked lineup is easily the death metal – if not any metal, period – tour of the year, and if you were wise and (cough) refined enough in your musical tastes to attend, you were treated to four or so hours of extraordinary arglebargle. (If that sounds like a slight, I assure you, it is not.)

OBITUARY DELIVERS BRUTAL, ‘DELIGHTFULLY PUTRID OGRE VOMIT’

For my nickel, Obituary is the greatest, ugliest, most slime-ridden band the genre ever urped up. Back in the mid-to-late-’80s, Obituary “Weekend at Bernie’s”-ed Celtic Frost’s hollowed-out guitar sound and spewed forth some of the most hideous sounds known to man – and it was good.

In a just world, the Obies wouldn’t be opening for goofs like Amon Amarth; no, they’d be dropping their brand of delightfully putrid ogre vomit on football stadiums full of aging, balding, sweatpantsed headbangers losing their shit to this distinctive brand of ultra-thicc, sputum-clogged bottom-end death metal.

But here we are, watching them sandwiched on a bill of good-but-lessers. So it goes. Be thankful they’re still around to rip into “Buried Alive,” frontman John Tardy proving he’s still a hall-of-fame worthy vocalist, unleashing ungodly howls from his mutant lungs – and lo, the dead shall awaken from their slumber. Unlike other deathsters, Obituary isn’t a riff factory, preferring to let drummer Donald Tardy dig an elephantine furrow so the riffs can breathe their putrid stench into the room within relatively stripped-down arrangements.

And so cuts like “Redneck Stomp” and “Dying of Everything” are toe-tappers instead of slice-and-dicers, and prompt one to nod hypnotically to their brutal, simple rhythms. (One of John Tardy’s lyrics, if I’m translating from troll-speak accurately, was simply a long, drawn-out “Sloooooooowwwwwwwwwww.” Or maybe he was just moaning in agony. Hard to tell.)

Obituary stuck to mostly newer cuts for their 30-minute set, which was a slight disappointment. I’d have loved to hear them play “Stinkupuss,” but you can’t ask for the world.

Many, many weirdos worship Cannibal Corpse. They’re another deathless death metal entity, and they rummage around in some far-beyond-gross snuff-flick aesthetics and lyrical content. I’ve never loved them, but as of late have warmed to their blatantly offensive aesthetic; I must be getting soft in my old age.

On record, they play with precision, but live, their solid-state sound is overdriven until it’s a bloody stinking mess. In a good way of course. The best way, maybe!

Cannibal’s focal point is frontman George “Corpsegrinder” Fisher, who – yes, Corpsegrinder. What, did you stumble into this thinking it was a Chuck Mangione tribute or something? Anyway, Corpsegrinder is a giant man who looks like he bicep-curls a couple dozen Taco Bellgrande gorditas daily, and he stands center stage helicopter-headbanging in between breathless bouts of indecipherable grunting that is almost certainly about doing not-nice things with weapons, probably sharp ones.

Jesus, he’s amazing. A specimen. I’m being serious! (I also wish I was his chiropractor. I’d own a second mansion just for my cats by now.) Between blurry riff salads that pass for songs, he told the crowd, “Try to keep up with me and you’ll fail miserably!” Note: I didn’t bother to try, and I’m fine with that!

Cannibal played for 40 minutes, and congratulations to whoever could make sense of it. I caught a couple of song titles from Corpsegrinder’s intros: One was “Inhumane (something something),” another was , and one that I actually deciphered is unprintable among decent company.

They wrapped with their biggest hit, “Hammer Smashed Face,” an impressive collection of chaotic guitar noises and drum thumps that made me want to visit a petting zoo just to step on the animals. This, my friends, is highly entertaining concertgoing. Cannibal’s far-beyond-extreme moshy-bloshy monotony is exactly the point. You have to admire it for taking the word “compromise” and feeding it to the pigs.

As for Frozen Soul, they sometimes came off as a younger, energetic amalgam of the other three bands on the bill. Hair helicoptered, Slayer guitar solos burst from the din, and slow and sludgy parts shifted to speedy passages and back.

The band’s rolling-tank drums and hardcore-ish breakdowns recall another all-timer of a band, Bolt Thrower, maybe a bit too much at times. But with Bolt Thrower retired for good, Frozen Soul offers an agreeable, if slightly dumbed-down facsimile – just don’t call ’em Dolt Thrower. That would be mean.

PHOTO GALLERY: Amon Amarth, Cannibal Corpse, Obituary, Frozen Soul
GLC Live at 20 Monroe
Photos by Anthony Norkus

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