Dude. So the length of my exposure to metal is System of a Down. And even then it was just as much for their political awareness as it was for their music. It was abrasive, but I felt comfortable enough to blast it in my room if I was in the right mood. The Northern Liberties, though, were a totally different animal for me: probably a large, shadowy animal lurking just out of eyesight waiting tear a hole in my head and suck my soul through a straw. It was a simple trio: a {Bass}guitar, full drum set and a lead vocalist on a snare. The set started on loud, aggressive chords and drums much too fast for dancing. The lead banged out a drum solo reminiscent of African dance troupes. The lights turned red and a smoke rose from behind the stage as the lead stopped abruptly, snatched a microphone and barreled out into the audience, screaming incomprehensible lyrics and swaying wildly, eyes rolled back, half falling backwards, just gone. He avoided the light afterwards, holding his head. Ripped out the mic cord and threw it aside as if it were a snake getting ready to bite him. The guitarist asked if he needed help. He said something about the colors. I stayed for another song but soon enough I headed back to the bar to get some air. My companion for the evening remarked on the darkness in the Millcreek’s front half. “It’s perfect,” she laughed, “it’s like this half is heaven and the other is hell.” “Ya, “I said. “Perfect.”