I have this layer of filth on me that won't wash off. Seriously, Megan and I started scrubbing our hands and underneath our nails in the bathroom of a Denny's in either Claremont or Ontario (thanks for the directions, Balth, we wish you could have seen us!) and yet my hands are still grimy in that dry, dusty outdoor concert in San Bernadino fashion. My hair feels like it has been doused with Aquanet and I didn't put anything in it. I assume it's some sort of concoction involving dirt, sweat and sunscreen. It might be a few days before I begin to look human again.
The weird thing about attending major concerts as press is that it doesn't feel like you are just going to a concert. It's definitely work, albeit much more fun than sitting at a desk. For example, as Strapping Young Lad played, sometime before 10 a.m. (I think), Megan and I were in the midst of getting our press credentials and finding someone to escort her to the photo pit. Megan took the brunt of the summer concert ugliness. She was in the pit from 10 a.m. until close to 4 p.m. and no amount of SPF 50 waterproof sunscreen could keep her from burning. I didn't get to see that much performance-wise, mostly because I was running around interviewing people. I got some good stories, the best of which you will see alongside Megan's photos sometime in August.
I finished the interviews at around the same time Megan finished shooting, so we both saw Ozzy for the first time from opposit ends of the second stage. Ozzy played an Early Bird Special set, so it was still blistering hot as I tried to find some shade to enjoy "Crazy Train," "Mama I'm Comin' Home," and "Paranoid." We eventually met up on the grass, seemingly miles away from the main stage, and caught Dragonforce and Lacuna Coil. We think we might have been the only people who enjoyed the latter's cover of "Enjoy the Silence." Somebody should have told the Italians that more than half the crowd at Ozzfest consists of the sort of guys who beat up Depeche Mode fans in high school.
Metal shows tend to draw the most degenerate music fans you will ever find. You probably already know this. Let's put it this way, they had a tit-painting booth on the grounds. There were tons of women walking around shirtless with sunbeams protruding from their taped-down nipples. Megan said she saw one with a Confederate flag. Wait, it's California and Skynard isn't on the bill. Am I missing something?
Our favorite was the guy in the cowboy hat made out of Coors 12-pack boxes and shorts held up by a belt with his frat's letters on the buckle. Random people were pouring beer down his throat and he was stumbling around towards us when he started spewing clear goo and we backed up and tried to ward him away with our psychic powers. It worked.