Name that tune

When I was in high school I discovered punk rock. Real punk rock. Well, as real as the Pacific Northwest could offer. Good old venom-spitting, nihilistic, tear everything down for no good reason punk rock. Once a month, or thereabouts, there would be a show at the Community Center for the Performing Arts, better known as the W.O.W. Hall. Three, four, five bands would play. The Foamlords, Tender Chunx, J. Gallows and the Executioners were regulars. A couple of the drummers were friends of mine from school. Sado-Nation from up north, either Portland or Seattle (I forget which) was a great show. The Young Canadians. Stiph Noyds. The Imperialist Pigs. Theatre of Sheep. It was all good. The Dead Kennedys was the highlight of the W.O.W. Hall shows I saw. Simply breathtaking. That was then. Now I have a son who is in high school. He doesn't really have a notion of what punk was really about. He cannot. He's seen a few documentary movies and ripped some of my CDs. But the really good stuff is only available on vinyl and he doesn't have the patience to listen to the Peace War compilation, or Burning Ambitions, or even the Punk and Disorderly series. Paul was here for a visit this past weekend and there was a show at the W.O.W. Hall. Not a punk rock show mind you. That would be wrong. Very wrong. No, Dear Reader, this was a speed metal show. An annual benefit event. We went last year, which was enough to lure me back this year. The local band Tormentium was playing again this year. Their sound was described as "Swedish black metal with traditional death metal progressions." Now who in their right mind could pass that up? If even just to gawk. Necryptic was there again as well. The chainsaw guitars, the unintelligible, growling vocals, and the hair. For a few hours I felt on the brink of a seizure. In the best sense of the word. It really was a lot of fun. No one got hurt in the mosh pit, unlike my old slam-dancing days. (When did this all become so safe?) My son acknowledged that this was the loudest, hardest, and fastest music he has ever heard. He was wide-eyed last year. He was rapt this year. And then, in between songs, I leaned toward him and said "F*** this limp hippy s***! When are these guys gonna rock?" He looked at me, utterly dumbfounded. I'll confess that the songs all sound the same to me. The names are, as far as I can tell, indiscernable and irrelevant. If you keep guessing "Suffer and Die," sooner or later you'll be right.