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Page 1
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Mudvayne go from sick Clark Kents to bloody, screaming Supermen ...
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Page 2
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"It was all rotted and liquefied and it was the most disgusting odor you could ever
imagine." ...
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Page 3
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The aliens are dead, and the truth can only be known in silence ...
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Mudvayne Photos: Onstage And Backstage
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Follow the masked crusaders through a night of music
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-- by Jon Wiederhorn
Two hours before extreme metal iconoclasts Mudvayne were scheduled to perform at New York club the World, the bandmembers were crashed out in their dressing room like students after a week of grueling final exams.
Vocalist Chüd sank into a leather chair with a loud grunt, while drummer Spüg assumed the fetal position on an adjacent couch. Bassist Rü-D was in even worse shape, prostrate on the ground with a magazine over his face and a packet of antibiotics clutched in his fist. The band was trashed.
It's easy to imagine how Mudvayne got in this condition. You can just picture the hungry hedonists from rural Illinois arriving in the decadent Big Apple and spending all night in S&M clubs, the next day engaging in questionable activities in Washington Square Park, and nearly not making it to the venue in time for soundcheck. It's a good story, but the wrong one.
Mudvayne were actually exhausted from working too hard for way too long. They were completely and thoroughly rocked out, bled dry from the creation and support of their frenetic and dizzying new album, The End of All Things to Come, and bassist Rü-D had been stricken with the flu.
"Doing this every day takes its toll," Spüg croaked from his inert position. "I only got three hours of sleep last night."
"I got zero," Rü-D blurted. He coughed, then rolled over to ease the pressure on his sinuses. Considering how wasted Mudvayne looked, it was hard to imagine them summoning the strength to make it to the catering area for dinner, let alone perform a sold-out show. But somewhere between the time Mudvayne booted all hangers-on and media types out of their dressing room and the time the band took the stage, the weary Clark Kents of metal had transmogrified into Supermen.
Onstage, the band was filled with misanthropic life, hitting each jarring tempo and rhythm shift with unerring precision. And they looked as mean as they sounded. Chüd's face was streaked with blood and he wore a jacket decorated with ripped flesh and protruding bones, looking like he was run over by a subway on his way to the gig. Despite the bulky garb, he deftly stormed the stage and screamed with bloodcurdling rancor. Rü-D had a paper bag over his congested, swiveling head, and cryptic designs written across his bare chest . And Güüg wore thick, industrial glasses over his painted face and headbanged with such force he threatened to knock his guitar out of tune.
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Photo: Nitin Vadukul
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