OZZ Feast

"Who's up next?" yelled a balding man, his amiable grin causing his sun-scalded skin to crack. He rubbed grubby hands against his American flag T-shirt, leaving traces of concession-stand ketchup and second-hand dust from distant mosh action. Standing alone in his row, he addressed no one in particular. The only people within earshot were much younger metal fans.

"System, man," responded a bored teen as he watched P.O.D.'s road crew disassemble a majestic, dreadlocked stone lion that looked like a Rastafied version of Narnia's Aslan. The lion's red eyes had pulsed erratically during the group's set, and smoke trickled from his mouth instead of billowing forth impressively, but there's a price to pay when bands obtain stage props at Spencer's Gifts. The teen had probably gotten his T-shirt there, too; it bore a misanthropic message ("I already hate you") that belied his helpful nature.

But his answer did nothing for the lobster-faced man, who had made the trek to Verizon Amphitheater for only one reason. "All I know is Ozzy," he admitted jovially.

Many old-school rockers, whose headbanging no longer sets hair in motion, attended Ozzfest on August 20 to see an icon from their own age group entertain three generations. A few teen-age mommies and daddies were chaperoned by their parents, and several of the toddlers had obtained tattoos, despite the legal handicap of being five years old or younger. One, swathed in a Jagermeister scarf, sat on his pimply faced father's mullet-cushioned shoulders and flashed the two-fingered metal salute. A natural.

Except for the very young and the nouveau-metal old (concert virgins who had never heard of Black Sabbath until watching The Osbournes), every paying customer boasted a rich history of rock-show attendance, all of it documented by a dazzling array of wearable souvenirs. There were a decade's worth of "last-chance" buys from Ozzy's "final" shows, a Pantera shirt that listed a tour stop in "Little Rock, AK," and a couple of Drowning Pool shirts, though not nearly as many as might have been expected given that the scheduled main-stage attraction's singer, Dave Williams, had died just a week earlier. A few musicians mentioned Williams' demise onstage, but none called for a moment of silence, displayed any visible emotion or played a tribute tune. Then again, after hearing Neurotica's butchering of "I Am the Walrus," Williams might have issued a restraining order from beyond the grave, preventing Ozzfest acts from covering his songs.

Anyone checking out the metal madness for the first time could be excused for never wanting to attend a similar event. For one thing, Ozzfest started at 9:15 a.m., with nine to fifteen also being the range of fans in attendance when Apex Theory filled this unenviable slot. Metal in the morning is like steak and cake for breakfast: too heavy, too early. The only thing that kept this calorie-heavy brunch buffet from becoming completely vomit-inducing was the presence of some actual high-quality bands among the early birds. Lost Prophets produced the day's only dance beats; Otep offered the only onstage female presence; Glassjaw presented an oasis of tuneful vocals before a barren patch of glass-gargling screamers. And Switched and Used, both of which have apparently been roaming the Bonner Springs forests since the rest of Warped Tour's groups left town, triumphantly returned to the parking lot pseudostages.

Mushroomhead made a bid for more prominent placement, wearing masks, making a scene and producing some surprising melodies. Unfortunately, it was 1 p.m., and though a few fans were warmed up (actually, these kids were well-done, though their blood-red skin suggested rawness), many were still sitting on the scorching hoods of cars with "Ozzynme" or "Bustnut" license plates and trying to find an appropriate orifice for joint stashing. As Mushroomhead's keyboard hooks wafted into the parking lot, security guards yanked some suspicious cigarettes from one would-be concertgoer's pockets, made him stomp the seeds to smithereens, then forced him to leave without seeing a single performance. I start to regret what I've done, Mushroomhead sang, playing Greek chorus to this forlorn, foolish soul. (Midway through Down's set, it became apparent that many, many puffers had found some way to smuggle successfully.)

But this joker toker was lucky. True, he couldn't see Swedish juggernaut Meshuggah twist metal into a precise, piercing scalpel. But at least he missed the "titty committee" unveiled by Adema's twerpy frontman Marky Chavez. "They come out two at a time," he said sleazily, and two topless dancers emerged. Before one song was over, they had scampered off stage, covering themselves. Perhaps they were overtaken by emotion rather than modesty at baring their breasts in front of thousands or shame at doing so for the benefit of a horrible band's bottom-of-the-bag unpopped Korn kernels.

"I've got the best job in the world," Chavez announced toward the merciful end of Adema's set. "I get paid to drink and fuck." Hey, Marky, you're fired. Severance? Sure, anything to get you to quit making those geeky gestures.

Several frontmen made similarly idiotic assertions, though they at least refrained from pairing them with atrocious songs. Imperial wizard Phil Anselmo (usually of Pantera but today donning Down's white hood) did more of his usual Confederate-flag-waving, adding some baffling audience abuse to the mix. After stopping a tune and chiding the crowd for not being loud enough (hip-hop shtick -- amusing given that Anselmo says "I hate rap music" with little if any prompting), Down picked back up with its drug-addled Southern-fried groove. But Anselmo was still pissed, declaring in a series of rambling diatribes that the crowd needed to "rise to the fucking occasion" and "get ready for fucking war." As he left the stage, he asked his oblivious fans whether he wanted to be remembered as "sucking or kicking ass."