Doom Under the Glow of Empire
In the shadow of the Capitol, fans find meaning and community in the darkness of doom metal.
Masks are coming down, rents are going up, $20 cocktails are back and the interns are everywhere. That’s right DC, time to put away last year’s apocalypticism— Order is back in vogue and it’s time to return to Normal.
Easier said than done. Things weren’t all that great in the Before Times, but the strobe of unsettling events over the last two years has felt uniquely confounding. Rampant state violence, environmental collapse, mass death-by-plague, federal occupation and a neo-fascist insurgency are all what kids these days might cite as “major yikes.” And so it’s never been easier to fall into the doomloops that complicate the process of inching back to “normal.”
If you are struggling to mop up all that excess dread caked on your amygdala, why not try something a little different: Rather than fight the doom, embrace it.
On a brisk evening in early October, a local musical showcase convened along the Truxton stretch of North Capitol Street to do just that. In the rowhouse-turned-noise hub known as 7Drum City — less than two miles away from the Capitol Building — over forty people turned out to purge the burdens of existential anxiety through celebration of an intense and gloomy genre known as doom metal.
For the uninitiated, doom is a style of metal that operates on slower, groovier tempos that trace compositional roots back to Black Sabbath, though acts since Ozzy’s time have incorporated elements of jazz, psychedelic rock, and hardcore punk. Rather than harbor more pointed critiques of government or society, doom launders more ambiguous themes of dread and cosmic ennui through its compositions. But debates over the boundaries of genre are notoriously excruciating — don’t overthink it: if a fuzzy wall of sound is summoning lingering feels of, well, doom, you are likely listening to some variant of doom metal.
Though the District’s counterculture is more often associated with punk and hardcore, the region has also nurtured a latent doom scene. Like hardcore punk, these local roots have contributed to doom’s development as a genre; historical acts such as The Obsessed, Iron Man, and Asylum are well-regarded by doom aficionados as helping develop and clarify the sound. Local appetite for the style is so well-entrenched that a regional multi-day Maryland Doom Fest has been able to convene large crowds over the past six years.
The October 2nd showcase summoned four acts from this local circuit to offer up their takes on the genre. In turning up a healthy crowd, the showcase confirmed that there is still an audience in the District willing to confront and contemplate, rather than shove away, themes of darkness and chaos.
Though at times tight, the stage carved out of 7DrumCity’s second floor has a cavernous atmosphere which contributed to the level of intimacy and engagement with the audience during each set. Dynamic lighting — which defaulted to bathing the stage in hues of red and violet — reinforced the cosmic themes of the genre and set the mood for each act to fire off their sonic barrage.
The showcase was opened by “Screaming Mad” Dee Calhoun of Fredericksburg, MD. The solo act didn’t need a backing band to captivate the crowd. With just a guitar, steel lungs and a burning loathing, Dee was able to enrapture the crowd with songs about rage, betrayal and despair. A veteran of the scene with a practiced stage presence, Mad Dee incorporated call and response into his act in a way that put the crowd at ease and warmed the audience up for the performances to follow, like a doomsayer ushering an apocalypse.
Dirt Eater — a three man act from Falls Church — has deeper shades of the hardcore/punk/post-punk the DMV is known for. Describing themselves as “high-energy doom,” the act was harsh and frenetic — a dire change of pace from Mad Dee’s focused rage, and distinct from the cosmic musings invoked by following acts.
DC-based Sorge and Ocean City’s Dirt Woman both played a more distinct style known as stoner doom (an on-the-nose reference to the style’s favorable pairing with a fat blunt). This psychedelic variant is meant to be enjoyed in longer listening sessions which create sonic environments designed to trap its listeners in a realm of chaos. Big amps bellowing low-tempo guitars simulate cosmic rumblings. Crashing drums emulate a chaotic storm. Vocals — ranging from croons to screams — impress a ghastly spirit through the sound. Synthesizers and excessive reverb impart otherworldly strangeness. And a thick, prominent bass carries listeners through contemplations of eternal hopelessness, like a pallbearer dragging a coffin to the grave.
In the loud dark inside the venue, it was hard to get a read on who exactly these enthused doomers were. But between sets, attendees would shuffle outside to smoke and chat — a good opportunity to scope out the crowd: working-class tourists from Baltimore looking to blow a paycheck on a raucous night in DC; chirpy government workers clad in spikes and high -heels, visibly elated to let loose from the psychic shackles of bureaucratic monotony; a professor with pentagrams hanging from her ears corrected smokers outside on the pronunciation of “Sorge” (sor-guh); old punks with worn scowls sharing updates on cliques among the local scene; a group of socialists huddled on the periphery whispering their different schemes and projects being hatched against the capitalist state. The turnout was a good sample of the diverse group of people that find themselves drawn to the genre.
Crowds in DC sometimes have a reputation for being stilted and cold, but the audience here was willing to get lost in the adventure of the show together. At the start of each set these characters united into an enthused and responsive flock. As the crowd warmed up to both the setting and each other, it became more confident in its own reaction to the music.
Mad Dee’s raptures evolved the audience’s excited fidgets into a rhythmic shambling. Dirt Eater’s fast riffs sparked controlled thrashing. Sorge invited a range of chaotic responses which mimicked the ups and downs of their grooves. And Dirt Woman’s finale resurrected the visibly fatigued audience into the twisted sonic world invoked by their compositions.
By the showcase’s end, the crowd was so energized by the experience that they refused to leave — lingering just outside and chatting in the dark for over an hour. In defining those feelings of dread and doom — sensations we are often led to hide in Normal society — the showcase was able to build a common bond and sense of community.
Despite listening to three hours of screeds on cosmic injustice and the futility of hope, it was hard not to catch hints of optimism in the air. If a niche cultural scene can find the will to reconvene following near apocalypse, it might follow that the rest of us can find the will to move on as well.
However, the process of dredging counter-cultural streams in the District has been especially complicated following the closure of many well-trodden venues over the past few years. The Pinch, known for its raucous punk shows and cheap beers, shuttered in 2019 along with Ten Tigers — famous for its drum and bass and electronica shows. The loss of other small stages (Black Cat’s Red Room, Velvet Lounge, Dodge City, the Rock & Roll Hotel and multiple DIY venues) denies emergent local acts places to test their stage presence and curate a regional following. With each death of a classic creative space, the yuppies, transplants and consultants inch ever closer to achieving their grand scheme of redeveloping the city into one giant high-income playpen.
Finding reliable play and practice space is a burden that falls especially hard on louder, subversive, or technically intensive acts. Darker themes, such as those covered in doom, don’t mix well with the farmers markets, galleries, and parks which define DC’s typical startup circuit. Appropriate space is critical — to make sure you have enough room for amps and instruments, mostly, but also to ensure the audience can get a little wild and release all that pent up anger.
Overcoming these hurdles are essential for avant-garde and countercultural scenes to grow and sustain the community established around it. And boy do we need them. Moving on from last year’s torrent of contagion and chaos is an arduous — maybe impossible — task to surmount alone. Scenes and spaces such as this act as ways for people to confront morose thoughts and cosmic suspicions together, rather than succumb to them in isolation. In recognizing those same feelings of misery and despair in others, you are able to find solace through each other — even if the universe itself is damned.
It’s an essential service for residents whose night sky is consistently stained by the glow of a crumbling empire.
