Jab! Hook! Uppercut! Bob and weave! Hands up! Move your head! Finish him!

Round one. Kansas quartet Digester has been around since 2010. I'd never seen them. I'd never even heard of them. That's no indictment of the band – or really of me – it's more of a testament to how big the regional metal scene is. And the act is metal. Lots of different metals. Most of them extreme. Lead guitarist Skylar Rexwinkle exemplified that. Some '70s stoner leads. Some '80s metal solos. His bellbottoms, leopard print boots, and Dean Z guitar confirmed that split, but I couldn't hear the crust punk of his Napalm Raid shirt. Doom came from bassist TJ Kennard. Vocalist/rhythm guitarist Brandon Sprague blackened it a bit with scratchy vocals that bordered on shrieks. Drummer Travis Baker carried the foursome through the short twenty-five-minute set, dropping his fellow musicians off at the final number's oversized finale built on feedback sculpted by twisted knobs on a bevy of guitar pedals. The audience was still feeling good.

Round two. Hooded Grave only plays the biggest shows. It's got connections. It's got chops. It's gotten a lot of love from Too Much Rock. The quintet is made up of usual suspects in the stoner metal scene. Only the pseudonyms are new. Drummer Saint Thraknar walked on stage with a cane, threw it aside, announced he was healed by the power of metal. Cheers erupted. The band is a lot. Maybe too much for a set this short. Three guitarists (A.E. Archbishop, N. Krieg, J. Hayte) all provide leads. Sometimes they're twinned. Bassist Seasnake is a barbarian. Probably literally. Yoked, shirtless and with that leather brow band that Arnold wore in the Conan movies. That's sort of like wearing white to a wedding, but I'm not man enough to tell Seasnake to take it off. Another short set. Maybe only four songs. All of them sounded like weed smells. The audience was in the zone, headbanging throughout.

Round three. The stage darkened. The six members of The Watch Us From The Moon entered wearing futurist costumes adorned with colored lights. They're interplanetary freedom fighters if the lore can be believed. It's a whole thing. There were samples. Special lighting. Lots of fog. Most members lost their helmets after a number or two. The act's doom is slow and heavy with plenty of keyboard adornment. Guitar tones were luxuriously rich – especially in the churning finale, "Mother of All Bastards." Throughout the five-song set, the vocals were high and controlled. During the unnamed vocalist's first performance with the band, she eased into notes. This time she hit them confidently. She allowed herself a well-deserved smirk after nailing a particularly high one. Bandleader and guitarist "The General Shane" didn't smile. He delivered minimal banter and scowled at every technical difficulty. His precision strobe lights beat on the audience for thirty-five minutes, leaving the crowd woozy and impressed.

Round four: the final round. Liverpool's Conan have been at it for twenty years. A veteran of the game. Some fighters are nimble and light on their feet. Conan is a slugger. The band calls it "Caveman battle doom." Yep. Jon Davis leads the project. His vocals are screamed and shredded. More Bon Scott than the Big Four's traditional doom vocals. He didn't play leads. Or solos. He barely played riffs. Drummer Johnny King, to quote Vyvyan, played with a very special blend of psychology and extreme violence, pummeling his kit yet still producing grooves. Bassist David Ryley played low. The combination of a long strap and bent stance meant his bass nearly scraped the stage. He also played in the outfit's signature drop F. Like I said, low.

The threesome had no interest in showmanship. The lights held steady. Fog never rolled across the stage even once during the twelve-song set. And Davis didn't address the crowd until midway through, when he introduced "Desolation Hexx" and made his call for a mosh pit. The crowd responded and I was soon covered in flotsam beer. He doubled down before the final number, shouting "I want to see everybody fighting for their lives in the pit. Let's go!" What followed was the shortest song of the night – a brutal death metal blast called "Anger Mask" that had the audience circling one last time as Conan delivered the knockout punch.