In metal, as in life, there is a hierarchy. At the top sit the so called Big Four of thrash, Anthrax, Megadeth, Slayer and, of course, Metallica, comfortably enthroned at the summit, gazing down from their metal pyramid. Just below come the strong second tier, Testament, Exodus, Overkill. And then there is everyone else. The plebs. The vulgum pecus. If you view music through the lens of class struggle, these are the working class lifers. Bands like Heathen, Sadus and, in this case, Whiplash. Musicians who gave their bodies and souls to metal not for money, there is precious little left after the giants take their share, and not for glory, but for the music itself.
The upside of playing to a smaller crowd is that every single person in front of you is there by choice and by conviction. If you were around to bang your head to "Power Thrashing Death" or "The Burning of Atlanta," you already know what Whiplash are capable of. No frills speed metal, delivered at full throttle by a stripped down trio, led by Tony Portaro on vocals and guitar. For forty minutes, they summoned the sights, sounds and even the smells of the eighties underground scene, sweat, denim, feedback and adrenaline, and unleashed it on a willing audience.
Some of those in attendance had come for Napalm Death and had no idea who Whiplash were. Others were there for the tattoo convention and had no interest in metal at all. It did not matter. Everyone in the room got their ass thoroughly kicked by one of the architects of the genre. This is what lifers look like.
