The tale of Wacken has many authors, because one of the magic things
about the greatest metal festival on planet Earth is that no two of the
50,000 or so people who go there see the same show or have the same
experience. In many ways that's the daunting thing about writing about it:
I can't tell you the whole story. Who's to say that my account of those
three fantastic metal-filled days is going to be better or more
representative than anyone else's? This year, flying home after my fourth
Wacken Open Air festival, I was amazed at how the experience still seemed
fresh and new, and indeed uniquely memorable despite four years of great
moments, good friends, killer bands and epic heavy metal performances. In
thinking about how to cover the festival again this year I keep returning
to the same conclusion. I can't really cover it in a comprehensive way. I
can only tell you what happened to me, for whatever it might be worth. So
here we go again. Back to the sleepy hamlet in northern Germany, this year
baking under the hot sun, awaiting the yearly assault of tens of thousands
of metalheads from almost every continent on the globe. Stages are built,
camp sites are slowly erected, and the piles of empty beer cans begin to
grow. Even before the first band has gone onstage, Wacken is humming with
glorious tension. The worldwide congress of Heavy Metal is about to
commence.
This year we did it right. Ice Maiden and I, three-time Wacken
veterans, and our friend "Viking God," a relative metal newbie
who had never been to Wacken before, arrived in Itzehoe a day early, and
thankfully we were not nearly as rushed in our preparations as we usually
are. We drove to the press check-in area under a boiling sun. "I
thought it was supposed to rain all three days?" I commented, having
checked the weather on the web religiously in the days before our
departure from the United States. No matter--at least it wouldn't be a
repeat of last year's rain-soaked bogs of stinking mud! When the sun
shines on Wacken, all is good…usually.
With an afternoon to kill and little else to do, the three of us
wandered into the Itzehoe village. Somehow we wound up at an ancient bar
populated entirely by elderly Germans, most of whom did not speak much
English. "Sie kommen for metal festival?" said one nearly
toothless old man, pointing to our metal T-shirts. We nodded yes.
Conversations in broken English ensued, and oddly enough the locals began
to take an interest in the strange young Americans that had invaded their
town. A few more beers were served. We got comfortable. We had no idea
what we were in for. Five hours later the party at the Itzehoe bar was
still going on, and Ice Maiden, Viking God and I were quite blitzed from
the free beers that they kept shoving over the counter at us, with my own
Gamma Ray Powerplant CD blasting on the PA system. "Wacken, ja!"
cried a 65-year-old man named Wolfgang, who had never heard heavy metal
before in his life, hoisting a beer skyward. We were already the toast of
the town! With a sendoff like this, who would doubt we were in for a great
festival?
(Ice Maiden's Commentary: I can't say enough about how cool
the ancient Germans in this equally ancient bar were. Interested in the
repeat phenomenon of thousands of metalheads descending on their city
every year, they asked me to play some of our music. Choosing what I
thought would be the most palatable and accessible thing from Muertos' cd
case, we popped in "Powerplant." "You make it loud!,"
one of the three Wolfgangs said with a grin, while proceeding to crank the
stereo to ten. With smiles all around, they gave us dinner and endlessly
flowing beer and shots, for which they refused to allow us to pay. When I
mentioned that a friend was collecting beer steins, they gave us the
antique one off the bar! Hours later, I realized that I was in Germany
doing the "YMCA" Village People dance with half of the regulars
at the bar. Woohoo!)
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Friday, August 1, 2003
Saturday, August 2, 2003