Saturday, August 12, I was at a Van Halen—themed party—named after their album OU812—and it was lovely: There were delicious bratwursts, good beer, and interesting conversations. It was a great party, but the theme sort of fell flat, for a simple reason: Van Halen sucks. The hostess bought three of their CDs especially for the party, but, due to the suckitude of the band, people just spontaneously decided to have a themeless good time instead.
A week later, and I’m at a heavy-metal party, and these are people married to a theme—it’s a sea of big hair, fuck-me hair, and just plain bad hair. My Plus Ones and I are not in skintight denim, and we get assailed the minute we enter: “You people from the future are going to have to find another party!” screams a man with a flowing, golden mane, and the birthday boy threatens me with nunchucks. But headbangers are a forgiving, forgetful lot, and soon I’m cheering on the keg stands, which are being done with true leave-a-pretty-corpse spirit—someone breaks the tap with his face when his friends drop him mid-stand.
DJ Fishlure keeps everyone’s devil horns lubed and at the ready—everyone rocks out with their (metaphorical) cocks out for “Shout at the Devil” and “Rocka Rolla.” It’s like high school all over again: Everyone’s horny, high on hair spray, and either screaming at the top of their lungs or sucking on a can of Easy Cheese. It’s a blast from the past—even a motherfucking Van Halen song can’t kill the good times.
Want The Stranger to agree that Slayer is “when metal met varsity football” at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.