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Live 1/5/89 at The Stone; San Francisco, CA
---Review by Steffan Chirazi

The iron guts of rock 'n' roll spew out in a viriolic mess. Heaven 
really is red and black and Danzig are tearing away the fleshy, 
flaccid walls of club rock to leave a stark, shiny and cliniaclly 
brilliant new model in it's place.

Beneath the fingernails of Danzig lie the putrid remains of stale and 
bored old rock whores, too cliched to know, too stupid to care, too 
plagiaristic to understand how beautiful an element can be glorified 
to create something so big, so large and so disgustingly mighty that 
people throw themselves off walls like lemmings savagely looking for 
their death.

I was part of a sold-out pack of wild happy dogs (believe me, we were 
all dogs), baying and snarling, frothing like the rabid, sinking 
teeth into every juicy morsel of sound that was flung our way. Grade 
A, USDA-approved real red meat. They don't make incisors sharp enough 
to tear at that stuff. You have to file your own.

In the way that only a great rock 'n' roll show can, Danzig make you 
feel nihilistic, masochistic even. And the sound was so fucking great 
I didn't miss a thing.

Christ's guitar stood toe to toe with every fucker in the building; 
nose to nose, spitting into the face, whacking you around the head 
with savage rhythm and picking your brain with clean splintered lead 

Von psychoed his way through the show, a human tapped into the power 
outlet, a charge sending him into convulsive fits of action and 
electric four-string chewing. Biscuits is a remarkable drummer, not 
only in style, but in the way he loses himself inside his 
single-mounted tom and various floor drums. And Danzig?

If God gave anyone a voice since Presley and Orbison, it was Glenn 
Danzig. It is a voice of melting qualities, its pure and unashamed 
soulfulness enough to break you down into pieces. The man himself is 
a stomach knot of muscles, all twisting and writhing against each 
other to propel Danzig into the ugly face of his followers. He jumps 
like strewn up tension and anger, he screams with pure chilling 
killer, he flexes with the type of aggression that only the finest 
rock 'n' roll can give you.

'Possession', 'Not of this World', 'Twist of Cain', 'Mother'- all 
propellers into the land of immortality, all maggots into the brain, 
all defiant of everything and anything. If Alex of 'A Clockwork 
Orange' had been into Danzig instead of Beethoven, those bastards 
wouldn't have got within miles of him. Because however hard you try 
to escape him (sadly some do) you can't once you've heard it.

Danzig jammed with Hetfield and Hammett, but as great as that was it 
didn't add to the show any, merely another part of it. Indeed, it 
served to illustrate that both are as magnetised by him as we are 
(and if you're not, catch the drift).

Yes, Danzig played Misfits tunes, and yes, they were good. But I 
wouldn't have cared if they didn't, because Danzig now is Danzig 
strong. Stronger than most you can throw at me. In my heart I bled 
for this show, I bled with pure and utter pleasure. It felt religeous 
in its own way, because Danzig stirred a feeling inside that I 
haven't felt at a club for years. Definitely one of the gigs of the