The metal community, out in force for this show, is oblivious to outside change or the implacable march of time. In fact it’s impervious to anything except the proliferating mutation of metal itself. Saskatchewan's Into Eternity finds itself at the point of commercial breakthrough, possibly because it embraces so many of those mutant metal strains, usually in the space of a single song. The entire show was a demonstration of the band's schizoid chops, and as such it felt like a Ritalin comedown as a raft of influences jockeyed to be heard in dizzying succession. "Elysium Dream" is the perfect example. Placed early in the set, it ignited the circle pit but also got the ladies moving, largely because of a strong backbeat more akin to Iron Maiden's power metal than any polyrhythmic nightmare prefixed with the words grind or death. Starting with a southern-flavoured, boogified guitar throwdown, the song then proceeded at lightning pace through a history of the genre. Vocalist Stu Block, newly recruited thanks to his work with Vancouver's Omega Crom, effortlessly switched between operatic highs and Cookie Monster lows. His stadium vogueing did seem a little ludicrous at the Brickyard—it would be ludicrous anywhere except a stadium, or possibly in front of the bathroom mirror with the door locked—but since metal is defined by a strong fantasy component, why not? The bottom line is that Into Eternity made the right choice with this guy, and his parents, who were in attendance, oughta be proud. Damn, Stuie B even seemed in command of the very elements, since a supernatural jet stream of righteous metal wind whipped up his magnificent mane of Norse-god hair whenever he put down the mike and fixed his gaze on some distant vision of metal Valhalla, or possibly Regina. Any band that brings its own weather is going places, for sure.

Crackwhore was in a playful mood for its plum role prior to the headliners. Vancouver's most brutal grindcore abortion technicians naturally got the brick shithouses in attendance to throw all modesty to the wind and aim their flat heads at each other in an approximation of the ritual of dance—its demographic is largely people who eat glass and play with their stool—but the real scandal at the heart of such a determinedly offensive act is how pretty guitarist Violator is under that hair. Yes, he may be evil, but he looks like Ted Neeley in Jesus Christ Superstar. Beyond that, the band is further dignified by a spastic rhythmic sensibility that would suit, of all things, John Zorn's manic forays into cartoon-soundtrack music. Its opening number, "The Right to an Attorney", served up a tapestry of squawks, grunts, and electronic farts that somehow slotted into the double-kick mayhem with jaw-dropping precision. With such virtuosity at its disposal, Crackwhore by no means should be required to act like pigs, or notorious pig farmers, for its whole career. But that would be like asking Slipknot to take off the masks, wouldn't it?

Georgia Straight, April 2005