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.
