We spent some time backstage face-timing the Waste and some more time on the fringes of the circlepit, dodging inflatable lilos and screaming, “Watch the face!” at the ankles of crowdsurfers.
Municipal Waste in person are every bit as sharp, funny and hungover as their brutally-awesome crossover discography dared us to dream. And maybe their mostly male fans don’t want to hear this: singer Tony Foresta has the sexiest voice ever committed to dictaphone. But even though you hardly ever get to meet a band who want to talk about everything that was ever cool – D.R.I. reunions, girls, Scorpions, crepes, amateur studio exorcisms (sage sticks), nature, art, Norway, a punk festival Tony does in a waterpark back in Richmond, cats (“He’s got like a million cats that one. He’s like Catwoman, but…. he’s a man”) and touring with freaking GWAR, we’re sure someone’s done that interview. Hello? They’ve been in the Guardian like a million times.
Sometimes we wake up, freaking out that we lied when we said thrash metal was alive and well and stinking of unbridled bro-ness (and brewski-tinged B.O.-ness) here in funky London. So here are some pictures of the Waste with a puppy we stole – and everywhere else are the epic stylings of a bunch of fans united in their mission: to be fifteen year-old knuckleheads for one more precious night. Are Municipal Waste gigs the new poker night for guys who work in video stores? We sure hope so.
And maybe we’ll leave you with one choice nugget from the interview, courtesy of founding member and guitarist Ryan Waste: “I relapse every night at about 5 ‘o clock”.
By Lucy Stehlik
Photos Alex de Mora
For JUKE Vol.01