Anticipation is a dangerous thing. The last time I saw Negative Approach I had to scramble to safety. With that night in mind, I readied myself as I walked toward Record Bar. Was I prepared? Should I have worn steel toes? A helmet? Should I just shoot from the back? Will my will stand up in probate court? That night the band was vicious and the crowd unstoppable; however, when I walked into the club this time, things were different. This wasn't the same audience – it was a pricey show, one without any local openers, one with musicians well into middle age, and the crowd reflected this. Someone in the second row was wearing sandals. Realizing the anarchy of the previous show was both a lifetime and thirteen years ago, I exhaled. And then frontman John Brannon walked onto the stage. He wore the same scowl and sociopathic rage still oozed from his pores. Suddenly nervous, I zipped up my camera bag in case I needed to make a quick exit.

When Negative Approach broke up in the early '80s, no one outside of its native Detroit knew or cared. Today the band is universally celebrated as pioneers of the hardcore genre. The Midwest is finally getting its due. One side of the story says that Negative Approach was always the project of John Brannon. He has continued the project (through intermittent live performances) with the help of original drummer Chris "Opie" Moore, guitarist Harold Richardson, and bassist Ron Sakowski. By now, the two new guys have been in the band decades longer than the original players. This foursome faithfully executes Negative Approach's legacy – not by reproducing the songs as they happened to have been recorded in 1981, but rather carrying forth its spirit. Many songs are now faster, looser, and more chaotic than when the twenty-year-old Brannon originally performed them. Today Brannon's vocals were shouted in a burning rasp. He spat bile (and saliva) as he wandered about the stage. He jerked the microphone up to his face when it was time to sing. I couldn't imagine how many times he must have bloodied his own mouth with that risky move. He talked more between songs than at the last show. It humanized him and I liked it. But I suspect that at 63 he just needs more time to catch his breath – after all, the band ripped through over twenty songs during its set. Some of them were only 30-second blasts of power, while others stretched out to include breakdowns and smart half-time drumming from Moore. He rode the waves of the act's music well, but there was no attempt at precision. Instead, there was an unrestrained swagger to Negative Approach that has been there from the start, but continued to grow as Brannon morphed the group into the bluesy rock & roll of Laughing Hyenas and Easy Action. That makes sense as he always idolized hometown heroes The Stooges. Sakowski's rattling picking also rode that sloppy roller coaster. In many songs he stepped forward to deliver backing vocals as well. Richardson never came forward. He spent the entire set with his back to the audience. In some songs he moved quickly through simple power chords, while in others he played leads so abrasive that I longed to see how he could coax them out of a guitar. He made the act's cover of "Borstal Breakout" (Sham 69) so scuzzy that I wasn't sure if the audience recognized it. How could I have been the only one punching my fist into the air through the chorus otherwise? The band's love of early '80s Oi! is also integral to its DNA. The quartet mostly stuck the old stuff. Brannon introduced "Lead Song" saying, "This is an old one," then caught himself and added, "They're all old ones, but this one is from my first thing." They are all old ones, but they always deserve another victory lap.

How Negative Approach, with its quick blasts of caveman id, came to open for the High on Fire and its superego, is a mystery. Maybe they share a management company or a guitar tech or someone's sister married someone's parent's landscaper. In the long hour between acts, I pondered the possibilities while those around me grew understandably restless. The room was packed and hot. Anyone who left to get a drink or go to the bathroom was not going to get back to the stage. So, photographers and superfans alike, we all held our ground in uncomfortable anticipation. For the fans, the payoff would be worth it. This is what they had come for. I, however, expected less. My passing familiarity with the headliner told me this wasn't going to be my thing. Still, during my prep for the show, I did read on Wiki that the trio contained a member of Sleep and a member of Zeke, and that made me hopeful. But then I saw the double-necked guitarbass with microtonal frets was carried onto the stage and I lost all hope.

It turns out High on Fire is not a band you can grok by reading a Wikipedia article. Sure, you can learn that Mike Pike sings and plays guitar, that Jeff Matz plays bass, and that Coady Willis drums, but it can't explain how the threesome combined power and precision on stage. Or how one song could recall the raw venom of early '80s LA thrash, and the next could bury you in the heady excesses of sludge. Volume may have been the only unifying element of the set. It was very loud. Pike offered guitar solos throughout. Most were technical and bizarre. He was evidently absent the week the instructor stressed major pentatonic scales. In other songs he dropped the riffs and instead sculpted abstract sounds from his guitar. The band never drifted into post-rock (or post-metal) territory, but the stoner rock of Kyuss (or maybe just Sleep) colored several of its songs. Pike shouted his vocals in a tight-lipped mumble. Sound engineers ensured they echoed each time he stepped away from the microphone. Matz played the aforementioned microtonal beast as well as a traditional four-string bass. In both cases his playing was full of fat chords that provided cover for the marauding Pike and his sonic side quests. Coady Willis was a busy player. He was equally at home bashing thrashy gallops on his snare as he was pounding slow tribal rhythms on his toms. The trio were metal polyglots able to summon every shredder, noise artist, and d-beat punk in town.

High on Fire's set was a no-nonsense 65 minutes. Online sources tell me the same ten-song set often lasts ten or more minutes longer in other cities. There wasn't much banter, to be sure, but evidently Kansas City warranted less avant-garde noodling than other audiences. We do have a reputation as a "don't bore us, get to the chorus" sort of town. While the set focused on material from this year's Cometh the Storm, it sampled the majority of the act's catalog and its 25-year career. For the curious, I did grab my camera bag and vacate my spot next to the stage after a few songs. Not because my life was in danger, but because High on Fire is not my sort of band. My musical tastes are prosaic, and I apply an aural purity test to most groups. This act made my head spin, so I watched (or even just listened) from the club's mezzanine, leaving the floor to the audience who knew the songs, the crazy riff that was coming, and just when to pump their fists in the air. This show was for them, and I anticipated that.