Outside, the weather is brisk with a slight moisture in the atmosphere.
Noisy confusion persists on the paved black asphalt as the automobiles
slowly inch forward in the continually jamming traffic. On the concrete
walkways, below the glitter of flashing lights, stands a restless crowd
of enthusiastic individuals. They are talking amongst themsleves, creating
havoc with the tourists who walk by in hair-raising panic, weaving in and
out of the crowd, wildly skating mayhem madness and occasionally screaming
at the tops of their lungs to the pandemonium in the streets. After much
delay a grovelling man, looking half asleep and smelling of pungent alcohol,
slowly opens the dark, poster pasted doors to the low ceiling of this run-down
musical club. The crowd hesitantly ventures into a dimly lit area, stretched
out in its small size. Directly in the forefront sits a low-standing stage
about two feet above the ground, where musical instruments have been
appropriately placed.
Five unusual characters clumsily stumble about the stage in the faint
illumination that exists, picking up their pieces for tonight's performance.
Furthest on stage left, a short young man in ripped jeans, a plaid shirt
hanging from his waistline and two different colored shirts hanging from
his shoulders, reaches down and picks up a guitar. A rather waxed mohawk
protrudes off of his head, starting at his left eye and inching its way
across the side of his scalp. Checking to see if the guitar is in tune,
frenzied distortion echoes across the club. He is called Noah. Another
member, again in ripped jeans with an ammo belt wrapped along his waist,
sits behind the drums and starts to beat on the skins. He is called Todd.
Two others appear at stage right, both clad in torn, dyed jeans and silk
screened t-shirts. The one with the long, dyed hair of orange, who picks
up the bass, is called Malcolm but is sometimes refered to as "Milky" for
his personality. The other, a normal looking fellow with the sides of his
head shaved picks up the guitar and plucks a few cacophonous notes. He is Mike,
when he music begins, he is a madman, literally all over the stage in crazed
aggression. Slowly walking to the center of the stage is a tall, lanky guy
with a blond center mohawk that is fuschia in a few front strands. Taking
the microphone out of the stand he croons a few tests for mixing purposes.
Limbering up, he is ready for the gig, he is called Barrie, and his voice
hammers down to the eyeful crowd."We're Christ on Parade."
Like a whirlwind just appearing out of thin air, guitars light up with
ferocious speed, throwing all combustion into sheer power as the drum
beats are rapid and consistent, forcing an exhilirating appeal to the
wild audience; already taken to throwing themselves barbarically in ritual dance.
The intensity is unique, a blast of 1,000 mph chaos, churning noise into
melody with changing rhythms and dynamic quickness. Vocals sound the alarm with
rough edges as sputing lyrics prance with the blend of harmonies so suddenly
attacking the senses. Twin guitar power adds the assaultive punches that flail
with occasional whining leads and zooming chord changes. A continual barrage
of thrash mayhem bewitches the bellicose crowd who dive amongst the stage in
fleeting fury, as this young outfit delivers a high performance set of
strength and energy.excitable in every sense of the word. There are no
boundaries here, both types of musical fanatics froth for this sound, the
leering jabs of Christ on Parade. "Just because I'm 18, doesn't mean I'm gonna
fight, Won't register for your fucking draft, Won't give up my only life,
Don't wanna go, Don't wanna fight, Don't wanna lose my only life, Don't draft me,
I won't go, Don't draft me." As the crowd takes over the microphone and sings along.
