I have quite a few musical loves. In fact, the number grows every year. I’m always learning something new, diving deep, and fixating on some scene or microgenre. Curiously, I seldom discard my old favorites. It seems that I am not only obsessive but also stubbornly loyal. My love of metal, for example, began in 1975 when my parents introduced me to Black Sabbath. I didn’t understand the metaphors in “Iron Man” or “War Pigs,” but the ominous theatricality of the band hooked me. Fifty years later, black metal thrills me in the same way. My beige flag is that I can’t understand why everyone else isn’t just as enthralled by my fixations, or why fans of a particular genre aren’t at every tangential gig on the calendar.

Farewell was basically empty at 8pm. The opening act delayed its start in hopes that a stream of fashionably late heathens would burst through the door at any minute. They did not. Ten minutes later frontman Jordan Bywaters-Mpwo relented, announcing, “We’re going to start in 5 minutes…I guess.” True to his word, Nephilim (often N3philim) took the stage at 8:15 to open the night. Like many black metal projects, Nephilim started as a solo effort, and its live lineup always seems to be in flux. For this show vocalist/guitarist Bywaters-Mpwo was joined by bassist Robert Johnson and drummer Tony Fresia. All three members wore corpse paint, but the act doesn’t adhere entirely to the black metal aesthetic – after all, Johnson paired his paint with a Slipknot-styled jumpsuit. Throughout the set, Bywaters-Mpwo played both lead and rhythm parts simultaneously using some sort of inverted version of the Carter scratch. Johnson was similarly interesting, blending rhythm guitar-styled tremolo picking with adventurous runs up and down the fretboard. Fresia, however, played it old school. There were no triggers or click tracks, but there was plenty of double bass. The result was raw. This sometimes worked to the trio’s advantage, adding some bite and elements of death to the group’s sound. Sometimes it did not, leaving the three players out of sync as each blitzed independently. The audience got a taste of each in a short twenty-minute set that included new single “Deus Inversvs.” Sadly, this outing contained fewer theatrics than previous gigs – there were no goat skulls or candelabras this time, and the upside-down crucifix that Johnson produced quickly snapped its chain and fell to the club floor. Bywater-Mpwo tells me the live band is currently in the process of rebuilding after taking the summer off to record its upcoming EP. Audiences should look forward to a spate of release shows in the fall where the full-strength Nephilim should have its evil turned back up to 11.

The visualized demonic horde never showed up for Nephilim, nor did they arrive in the half-hour break that followed. This left the next act standing on the stage staring at the other musicians on the bill and not a handful more. This confused me. I had seen the band twice opening large concerts where hundreds of metalheads pushed forward, threw devil horns, and lost themselves in the music. Why didn’t they come out for this show?

Donning a grim look apropos of reality, Aprilmist began its set at 9:15 with 2006’s “A Terrible Day for Rain.” Like most of the group’s songs, it stretches out past the six-minute mark, providing movements of oppressive volume that flow organically into tender reprieves. After the song, someone in the crowd shouted, “That was a journey!” Well shouted. I’ll use that. For the sake of brevity, the quartet’s blackgaze combines the tremolo-heavy rhythm guitar and cathartic vocals of Jon Houst, the screams and melodic leads and solos of guitarist Dustin Albright, and the tight rhythmic foundation of bassist Ben Chipman and drummer Jeff Wymer. The foursome was loud – probably too loud for the room. The clean vocals of Albright in “A Moment’s Ghost” were lost, as was much of the thoughtful nuance normally found in act’s quieter passages. It did however push the aggressive nature of its songs pleasingly. Albright’s solos sounded amazing, and the entirety of “Fragments” stood out, revealing elements of black & roll that I hadn’t noticed at previous gigs. Every time that I see Aprilmist there’s something new for me. Those dudes that only show up for big touring bands from Europe need to ditch their long-distance relationships and fall in love with some locals. It’s so much better.

Photographing bands in dark rooms is never easy, but metal and bright fluorescent lights are uniquely incompatible, and so I’ve made my piece with fuzzy photos. As I zagged around the rapt audience, snapping hopeful pics, I caught glimpses of several new faces. Specifically, new faces adorned in corpse paint. I’m certainly not hip enough to recognize everyone in the KC black metal scene by their makeup, but I knew they stood out. Soon I’d come to realize that these were the transformed members of the headliner, newly adorned, and ready to rock.

Spectral Decay hails from Albuquerque. The project is new, but its members are rumored to have a long history and closets full of skeletons – and not just the spooky kind, but also the skanking kind – but that might just be a gossip. Aside from that bit of tea, I came to the show knowing only three things about the band: First, that it consisted of Rosin (vocals/synth), Helminth and Araña Cansada (guitars), Ga'ath (bass) and Rey Tigre Profano (drums). Second, that it was proudly anti-fascist. And third, that it played lo-fi first wave black metal. After witnessing the group’s 35-minute set, I can add a few more things to that list.

Things like: The quintet is heavy on atmosphere. Fog filled the room. The lights stayed dim and red. Rosin played deep and simple dungeon synth lines between most songs rather than talking to the crowd, but when he did address the room, it was in a small and evil croak. He shouted props to their merch person, Noland, adding an ominous, “You know what you did,” at the end. He praised LC’s Bar-B-Q where they had eaten earlier in the day. Both made me laugh and I decided then that I liked this band. When “singing” Rosin’s screech was bigger, otherworldly, and appropriately unintelligible. He swung a flail around during several songs, presumably vanquishing unseen medieval Nazis. He stalked the area around the stage without ever setting boot on it. He moved like Abbath. You know, in that sort of squatting, low center of gravity, ready to wrestle, but fingers all tensed like claws position? Sorta corny, but also just want you wanted to see? Helminth stationed himself out in the audience as well. He wore the tiny half-shirt that was (inexplicably) part of black metal’s first phase. I mean, seriously – Mayhem, Bathory, Venom – they all did it. While the wardrobe was easy to classify, the band’s songs turned out to be more complicated. Tempos slowed to a doom crawl at several points in the set. Cansada slipped metalcore licks into songs. Ga'ath’s fingered bass was full of punk carnality. And the drumkit of Profano was immense. Were there seven cymbals? Nine? Somehow, he hit them all, varied his playing constantly, and did it without ever approaching the ostentation of progressive or technical death. The result was a set that blended campy fun, an honest celebration of black metal’s early waves, and an enthralling reimagining of the genre. I think I've found a new love.

The band ended its set just before 11:00. Once the fog cleared, I thanked Rosin and confirmed that he did actually have a human voice. Jona visited Noland at the merch table and bought a bumper sticker that said, “Satan is real and tried to suck my dick.” How was the room not packed?! As I walked back to my car, I decided I needed to amp up my evangelism before the next gig. Excuse me, do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior black metal?