The Natty BROS of Baltimore

            From far away, the sirens sang. And pounded Natty Bohs. And shredded air guitar, on top of an ’88 Saab converted into a heavy metal death machine (The Bröthership), with the largest hood ornament ever bestowed in the hallowed name of rock and roll. On top of that Saab, the crowds wandering aimlessly through Artscape were beckoned to perform the most brain-melting solos known to Baltimore, their Excalibur a wooden shape vaguely resembling a guitar, but bearing more resemblance to an instrument framed from the bones of gluttons and thieves (or a Tony's supreme pizza).

            The BROS was holding court. Not Hopkins lax-bros, but rockin-ax BROS, the Baltimore Rock Opera Society. Instead of pastels and topsiders, these ladies and gentle-lords were adorned in shades of black darker than the most black, in medieval garb dug up from the graves of Norwegian Vikings, and spandex that had most likely been washed in hot water and dried on high heat for hours.

            I, a weakly passerby and mere human, was immediately drawn into this spectacle of awesomeness by a man shredding a metal song not only perfectly- but with a baby in his arm, the circle of life completed, the awing prowess of air guitar talent being passed on from one generation to the next. Next, a small boy who moved better than Mick Jagger, and much better than Bruce Springsteen when he tried to slide on his knees during that terrible attempt at harnessing rock during the half-time show of the Super Bowl. One by one, the crowds tested their skills at air guitar, taming the force of the dragon, getting out the Led, and turning the Sabbath black.

            Either my brain was mush (as the Archduke of Shredliness and Epicosity, John Decampos, postulated), or I was in a trance. Probably both.

            After each air guitar performance, the various members of the BROS would assemble in a most judicial manner, and the tabulated score of the jesters was announced. When one wailed hard on the sharpened blade of the axe, they were most certainly rewarded, with a score that sometimes couldn’t even be calculated by mere Newtonian mathematics.

            Then came the main attraction, the rock opera of Monster World. The setting- some cages with monsters on top of a cargo container.  (True rock thrives in even the lowliest of places). From the depths of the abyss to the heights of Brewer’s Hill, the plotline rang up one fist-pumping moment after another. It combined the eternal wisdom of the Grimm-era tales with the wretched tragedies of the Greeks, with appearances from the nefarious beasts known as Mother Nog and the Grundel, as well as a well-choreographed sea serpent, a better version of Aquaman, and a two-faced evil Natty Boh that might’ve been the best costume ever created (the only way I can describe its epic-ness is that the Great Gatsby costume designer might as well not even expect an Oscar invite). Evil was captured, then released into the world, then captured again, then released, then captured, then…basically it was a snapshot of good versus evil that could only be compared to maybe a match between The Ultimate Warrior and The Undertaker circa 1991.

In the end, the evil Natty Boh was defeated, much like Smaug the Magnificent in the most righteous tale of the Hobbit. A weakness in his teeth proved lethal, as one by one, they were pulled, and revealed to have the damning elixir of National Bohemian in their cavities. Once entrusted in the hands of the loyal followers of rock, the elixir flowed freely into their mouths as confetti blasted from cannons, and a dance party ensued for all the inhabitants of the Land of Pleasant Living. If only for a moment, the heavy metal became a shade lighter, and order was restored to the universe.

Above the ashen sky, the rock gods looked upon the scene on the overpass of I-83, and saw that it was good—nay—legendary.

For more info, and to help keep Baltimore safe by keeping gut-busting rock alive for the next 7,000 years, check out the BROS website here.