In the eye of the metal storm

A man with a bra on his head lies sunburnt on the floor of the Black
Dahlia tent. At a glance you'd say he had forty seconds of consciousness left. A girl approaches his prostrate form, straddles him and lowers herself onto his crotch. It's a stunt, all for the benefit of her mates, there by the bar, lagging and having Labels to celebrate Haggis & Bong's killer set.
They haven't got all their Celtic war paint off yet, but they've put
away their bagpipes. You must, though. You must put away your
bagpipes. Those things can get destroyed at a Thornfest like this. And
they look expensive.
The mechanical horse claims another willing victim, as does the
brandy, and the skateboard ramp and the moshpit at Deity's Muse. Two for the halfpipe and a tattoo voucher for your troubles in the pit. And some Jägies merchandise if you make some noise at the Heroes Wear Red show.
The promo girls might kiss each other if the moment takes them, and everyone's sunburnt now. And upright, at least.
"Drink it or drive it," says the poster by the bar, "choose one". That choice has been made by the gallon. The Is That Blood show is empty. Twenty-odd die-hards face it on their own at the main stage, clinging to the front railing, where some shade has appeared. The first Wiccan whiffs of rain as they finish, coming to bless us and wash away the more obvious of our sins.
The camp sees action. The metal massive repair to there for a snooze or a whatever, till the big names come on. Probably from about five, when Chromium play. After that it's gonna be war. People are going to need their rest.
It's definitely rain, so muddy war. Trench warfare, to the screams and power chords of the apocalypse. Heavy metal till dawn, my friend.
You'll be lucky for some ska punk to catch your breath. And your neck
will never be the same.
Devil horns everywhere. Applause is almost non-existent. Who can clap when you’ve got a beer in your hand all weekend! Some whistles and a forest of raised metal-horn salutes is all the acknowledgement an ambitious young metal band craves, anyway.
Off the pool area, near where the bucking bronco is pitching punters into the cushions is an oasis.
Just in case the metal’s getting a bit much. Maybe twelve hours of non-stop death metal is just a little over your limit. Maybe no one told you you’re supposed to wear earplugs. If this is you, you wanna be on the funky disco floor.
In the corner, DJ J-P sits by his PC in baggies and slops. The dancefloor is exclusively women, screaming and squealing, alco-pops aloft and bumping hips with each other, play-play lesbian style.
J-P. has a sip of Amstel and looks at his screen as Get Down On It starts finishing. He puts his finger to his lips. We need a killer follow-up.
Here we go. Dan-Dan. Dan-Da-Deet! Boogie Wonderland by Earth Wind & Fire. That’s the metal antidote right there.