Metal Nights

The Brass Mug is a classic establishment for the hard drunk, hard smoked, hard of hearing, and hard for any Floridian jock of the upper middle class to understand or appreciate. Only positive violence is allowed within its black plywood walls. Bloated feedback, pagan growling, and pits every Friday. Several regular the joint. The others show up with Marlboros and the occasional blunt. Each corner is filled with a fresh haze by midnight between the cigs and smoke machines. Within the cancer miasma is a swirling mass of bodies. Most pack sardine tight at the stage while a dozen others sprint in circles around its periphery. Anyone standing outside of this dance of flailing arms and body slams must be wary of the unexpected limp torso being flung at them, possibly ramming their tail bone into one of the small wooden beer tables bolted to the floor. For those who can look past the chaos will notice an old stripper pole on a platform of rotted black and white tiles. This is where the geezers, soaked moshers, and gassed bodies over three hundred pounds make their narrow retreat to sit. From afternoon till one am, the lights never come on in the venue. Only two small bulbs on the porch provide enough to see the sweat beads on the black shirted figures. The crowd flocks there between sets for more smokes. Outside, they are provided with a view of North Tampa, pits of wetlands stirred with Wendy's bags, hot cars rushing past moldy strip malls and car dealerships. By night it all melts into the humid black and conversational puffs.

Without the banging inside, the venue would seem moderately abandoned with its lack of signage and tinted windows. Once in, anyone with sensitive ears is bombarded between roaring amps and a yelling man with a clipboard. He always asks what band the person came to see, a question most have no clear answer for. After an hour of beers, they may meander to the incoherent bathrooms, each with a black door and their gender labels covered in stickers. Within them are white stalls showing each pen and marker stroke in its full glory; butt fucks, regular fucks, tongue, cocaine. Drunk screeds slashed on the damp plastic. For the bathroom, purple portable fans are the antidote to its stagnancy. They sit on the bar for anyone rejoining the tight crowd. There newcomers will stand. Their hair will blow into their nose as they try to avoid being drenched in nicotine. But it's to no avail. Standing at the mercy of the haze, more motely caravans will peel into the parking lot. Each faded section is filled with yellowed Winnebagos from the 80's, sputtering pickup trucks, and roached minivans. Monster energy cans bounce to the pavement before tipsy feet leave the front car doors. It's a comical scene that borderlines on stereotype. They all amble to the door in their patched vests and dark shirts. Blood of Angels, Promethean Horde, Scorch, The Convalescence, Athiest, Obituary; just a few of the names that sticker the windows and splatter the clothing of these buzzed wanderers. All are there for one simple thing, to roll their heads to the undulating rhythm of the strings and bust sixty dollars on patches, tapestries, cup holders, and more shirts.