When the Mother Goddess created the world, She took a bunch of earth and spread it around some, then took some water and spread it around some too. Then She took a pile of manure and stuck in a place today known as France. No offence to my French counterparts, but your country is one place I have been to twice, and both times were shit, and therefore I decided to never ever visit again. The following is a blog post about why sleeping in a car and peeing in a cup was probably some of my best times in France.
My boyfriend and I have been planning this trip for months, ever since we heard that King Diamond is set to perform at the Hellfest Metal Festival in the small town of Clisson in France. We tried to find the best way to get to that lost hole. We figured that since we managed pretty well with the trains in Belgium and Amsterdam, we might as well stick with what we (think we) know. We bought our tickets to Hellfest, then our flight tickets. Online, we found that there are no direct trains from Paris to Clisson (that’s how lost that town is), so we decided to take the train from Paris airport to the airport of the nearest city to Clisson with a hotel that has vacancy between June 14 and June 19. That city was Nantes– a 40 minute ride from Clisson, which my boyfriend was not about to drive every one of the three nights of the festival. So we reserved a room for June 14 and June 17 in Nantes, and one room for June 18 for the extra day we wanted to spend in Paris after the festival. The rest of the time, we planned to sleep in the car we would park next to the festival grounds.
Come the day of the flight, both of us are tired as hell, but force ourselves against the sleepless night, and drag ourselves on the plane.
My fears regarding my luggage, and whether or not I would make it through security were alleviated quite easily. I was worried that:
1) My carry-on would be too heavy to be brought on board – It wasn’t and I did take it with me, thus saving time for luggage claim once in France.
2) That the toiletries I took would be confiscated seeing as you are not allowed to have liquids on board – It passed just fine.
3) That my patches vest would be confiscated if the spikes it has are viewed as a “sharp object” – It wasn’t, so I took it with me and wore it pretty much the entire time during the festival.
The ride was also smooth. ElAl is generally decent when it comes to service and food. So far, so good.
Shit started going down shortly after we landed, at 10:00 a.m. We had a train to catch at 12:20 and since we thought our train was leaving from the airport, we figured we have time. First, we walked forever to make it to the train station. Luckily, the first time I went to France a few years ago, I learned that in France, an arrow pointing down means going straight. So at least we didn’t get lost on the way to the station. When we finally made it, we found out that the train is not leaving from the airport, but rather from a station called Paris-Montparnasse, and that we have to take two trains to get there. Having no choice, we stood in line to the ticket counter and bought the tickets. The guy at the counter was most annoying when I asked him to point me in direction of the actual train. He just said with a random wave “It’s somewhere over there.”
“Can you, like, point with your finger, and be a little more specific?” I asked with all the patience I could muster.
The dude still refused to use any hand gestures and said something about going down to some floor and go to Denfer, which curiously sounds like the French word for hell.
Before I could bite his head off, I decided to go back to the information counter, wait in line yet again, and ask for specific directions there. By then, I’ve already had enough of the French language. I could hold a conversation just fine, but I hate French. If I had to choose, I’d settle for Quebecois. In fact, I found myself comparing France and Quebec quite often. The train system was especially frustrating and I started longing for the small and simple STCUM metro system I’ve been using a lot in Montreal. Also, a few days later, I overheard a group of metalheads in Clisson talking about their car and referring to it in the slang term “bagnole.” I laughed my ass off, having completely forgot that word existed.
“How many words can you possibly have for one object?” I told my boyfriend. “See, the actual French word for car is ‘voiture.’ In French slang, they call it ‘bagnole’, and in Quebecois slang, they call it ‘char’.” Pronounced “shawr,” short for chariot.
Anyway, back in the airport train station, we finally made it on the train, and we were nervous during the entire ride, counting the stations left to travel and estimating the time it would take us to get to Denfer and take the second train, and hope to make it on time for our 12:20 train to Nantes. We made it to Denfer at 11:45 and ran like hell to the second train, trying to figure out the most confusing signs at the station. Somehow we managed to find the train and made it in by the skin of our teeth. The doors literally closed on my backpack just as we jumped in.
My boyfriend laughed in relief. But our ride was far from over.
We made it to Paris-Montparnasse at noon, and after getting lost in the station yet again, my boyfriend adopted the same solution we always do when trying to find our way to a metal show.
“When all else fails, follow the black pile,” he said, in reference to the crowds of metalheads swarming the country, all dressed in black. So we did, and it worked!
I started thinking, “OK, maybe now things are gonna be just fine.” There were times when I could have been right, but this wasn’t one of them. While we were in the train to Nantes, looking for the seats we were assigned, things went from bad to worse when my boyfriend suddenly noticed his wallet was gone.
With all the excitement, the rush and the stress, we failed to look after our cash, and my boyfriend was robbed. He lost 700 Euros, all his credit cards, his driver’s license and his Israeli ID. Thank the Goddess, he still had his passport and his international driver’s license, because otherwise we would have really been in shit. And also, thank the Goddess I still had my credit card and 150 Euros to hold us for a night until we manage to sort things out.
I took out my money and my credit card and stuffed it in my socks. Meanwhile, my boyfriend was livid. And I felt so bad for him that I started crying.
“We’re in this godforsaken country for less than three hours and this is what happens,” I said with frustration. My boyfriend was sweet about it as usual, and said we’ll figure something out. He called his parents, had them cancel his credit cards, and they said they can wire us some money via Western Union. Finding that goddamn Western Union would be yet another feat, but we left that for the following day.
Meanwhile, we still had to find the airport in Nantes. To do that, we had to take a shuttle bus from the train station.
As a side note, I have never been in so many moving vehicles in my life in the space of 12 hours – first a service taxi, then a plane, then three fucking trains and a bus. The hotel we reserved in Nantes was within walking distance of the airport, and so was the car rental company – at least that.
After we settled in the hotel, still pretty low on cash, we went to the car rental company to figure out how to settle the reservation. Even before we even left Israel, I told my boyfriend “There is logic, and then there is France.” And I was right.
1) A car rental company, which tailors to tourists, has no GPS in their cars.
2) To get a GPS, you had to pay an extra 12 Euros a day
3) And best of all – the GPS you get is in a FOREIGN LANGUAGE
But the woman at the car rental place found a way to set it to English. Thank the Goddess for small favors.
That night, we started thinking it could have always been worse.
“Yeah,” I told my boyfriend, “We could have been murdered. That would be the worse.”
The next morning, we got up bright and early and set out in the car to find that Western Union place. Finding the car we rented in the parking lot was a challenge in and of itself, but I won’t get into that. I was frustrated enough as it was.
We entered the address we got online of the nearest Western Union into the GPS, got lost on the way several times because the GPS failed to respond, and when we got there, we found no parking spot. My boyfriend parked on the side of the road and asked me to wait in the car.
He was gone for about half an hour which was the longest 30 minutes in my life. The entire time, I was worried he got lost; his being in a foreign country and not knowing the language, after 15 minutes, I started thinking something happened to him. Then I started worrying that if some police officer came up to me and ask me to move the car, I wouldn’t be able to because not only do I not have a license, but the car was standard shift and I wouldn’t know how to drive it and to where.
My boyfriend came back empty handed when I was in shambles, and I burst out crying for the second time since we landed, cursing the country and wishing we could go back home.
After I settled down again, my boyfriend found a parking spot and we went to Western Union together because, as he said, he couldn’t understand what they were saying and they couldn’t understand him.
I managed to find out what the misunderstanding was and we finally got the money his parents transferred. Bank 555.60 Euros. We sighed in relief and split the money between ourselves, and put it in separate pockets and socks.
Our drive to Clisson, which I was most worried about, turned out to be the easiest ride we had the entire time we were in France. It took us a smooth sailing 40 minutes and we found a parking spot alongside other cars of metalheads who decided to use their rides as their hotel.
We followed the black pile again to walk to the festival grounds. When we went in, I was struck by how much they put into the décor. The huge entrance gate looked like the entrance to a gothic cathedral. The stands of the bars and the festival merchandise were made of some kind of rusty metal. During the night, there were fires lit up around the top of the stands, and there was a pyrotechnic show on the top of the entrance gate. There was also a tree with “Hellfest” spelled on top, and a swing that looked like it was built for a gargoyle.
The gates to the various tents were also impressive, and at night, the Hellfest H logo appeared in the sky, like the Batman light.
The metalheads themselves were also impressive to look at. Many had the usual piercings, tattoos, black clothes, chains, studded collars, patches vests, funky hairdos and colors, mini skirts, shorts and fishnet stockings on girls, and kilts on guys. Some people even came in a costume. I saw a guy dressed as a banana, two guys as beer bottles, a mummy, a butcher, two guys dressed as an aristocrat couple with white hair, a gargoyle, four punk girls walking on tall sticks, one dude dressed as the blond guy from Wayne’s World, and many dudes dressed as girls, some of them wearing less than nothing. There were also some girls who removed their tops during some of the shows, even in the coldest of nights. I have no idea how they managed to do that without freezing to death.
Being at the festival after so much commotion, seeing all the beautiful metalheads, hearing the distant drone of the band that was playing on the mainstage at that time, and having a rather sunny first day, my boyfriend and I were finally ready to pull out our camera because it was the first time since we landed that we could truly smile.
We headed for the Warzone tent at around 12:45. I was supposed to meet my friend Marianna at 13:00, and I waited there until 14:00 with no sign of her. I would later find out that she was there, but somehow, we missed each other. I tried calling her, but our mobile wasn’t working (it worked when my boyfriend called his parents in Israel, but didn’t work in France– where’s the logic in that?). So we ended up not meeting, but the festival was too amazing for me to be disappointed yet again in an all-around disappointing trip. Besides, that evening, King Diamond was playing and I was super excited for that.
The first few shows on the first day went from meh to blah. They usually are on the first day. Even last year at Graspop, the shows on the first day were boring. The difference was the headline. At Graspop, Scorpions headlined the first day. I was cold, my boyfriend fell asleep, and the guy we met at the hotel in Belgium, Jurgen, said “Let’s get out of here.” So we left in the middle of the Scorpions show.
But this time, King Diamond was headlining. So while we were waiting for the dude we went through all this hell to see, we sat around, my boyfriend got beer and a kebab sandwich, I got some really good pizza for lunch, with a thin crust, and bottled water.
At around 21:30, we headed to the Altar stage for Cannibal Corpse. I didn’t like the show too much because I couldn’t see anything, and I was surrounded by smoking metalheads in a closed area. I forgot how much I suffered at Graspop during the shows in the tents because of the cigarettes, so for me, Cannibal Corpse was another blah show.
After that, we headed to the mainstage area and caught the end of Dropkick Murphys. I actually liked their music quite a bit. It sounded a bit like punk. When that ended, we walked closer to Mainstage II, where King Diamond was set to perform, and meanwhile we watched Megadeth from the side, performing on Mainstage I.
We walked closer to the stage when Megadeth finished. I had a feeling there would be no moshing and hardly any crowdsurfing during King Diamond, so being close to the stage would be safe.
King Diamond took the stage at a quarter to 1:00 a.m. on a backdrop lined with two enormous inverted crosses and a devil goat pentagram in the middle, in a burning shade of red. The stage was set like a cemetery, with a gate in the front. It started raining, but I was too entranced to care. In fact, as my hair was getting damp, I found headbanging to be a hell of a lot more pleasurable in the rain. It was so convenient, and fit so well with the dark macabre ambiance of the show. And seeing as I was right about my prediction that there would be no moshing, I enjoyed my headbanging even more.
King Diamond was beyond amazing. He sang At the Graves, Welcome Home, Eye of the Witch, Come to the Sabbath, Sleepless Nights and Halloween among other songs that my boyfriend and I didn’t know too well but enjoyed all the same.
The show ended after an hour and 15 minutes, and I thought to myself that if I had to go home right now, it would be just fine by me. But I still had Ozzy to look forward to, so we stayed put.
My boyfriend said he was amazed at how much King Diamond’s voice sounded the same as it does on his records. The guy is 54 years old and his voice hasn’t changed a bit. The way he maneuvered between a high-pitched falsetto and a guttural growl, especially in the song Sleepless Nights, was impeccable.
We got a little lost on our way to the car, and our aching feet turned to needles, and when we found the car, we scrambled inside and blasted the heater. That night, after the whole Western Union business, and the ride to Clisson and the excitement of the show, I slept like a log.
The second day of the festival greeted my boyfriend with pouring rain at 8:00 a.m. I woke up a healthy three hours later to sunshine, but that didn’t stop the festival grounds from turning to mud. I wore my trashy track pants with a double layer of socks and long johns. I wore my Arch Enemy tank top, with a long sleeve shirt and an Arch Enemy t-shirt on top, plus my patches vest and my Arch Enemy hoodie, and also took my raincoat, my scarf, my tuque and my gloves, which I packed into my boyfriend’s backpack in case it would get cold (and it did). And yes, all the change of clothes took place in the car, after I covered the windows with my raincoat.
We used the bathroom in one of the small restaurants nearby, then had breakfast at the festival. They had no tea, which can be disastrous for a morning-tea addict like myself, but I figured if I can sleep in a car for two nights, not shower for three days and headbang in the rain, I can survive not drinking tea for a couple of days. So I had bottled water and a Nutella waffle, which was yumminess incarnate. That day I also had a veggie wrap for lunch. Though I’m not vegetarian, when I’m in a foreign country, I prefer to have vegetarian food for kosher reasons. So I was really glad they had decent vegetarian food at the festival. That was another thing that set this festival apart from the Graspop one. The food was much better.
The first show we went to was Necros Christos at the Temple stage. There, we met with my boyfriend’s metalhead friend from Israel who we knew would be at the show. It was nice to see a familiar face, though we lost him again soon thereafter.
I liked the show quite a bit. I found it funny how the vocalist used his growl also while speaking to the crowd in between songs. The atmosphere was quite demonic despite the smaller scale show. There weren’t many people in the crowd, there was no moshing that I can remember, and although people around me were still smoking, the place wasn’t so crowded that it was unbearable. And also, I could see what was going on onstage. So I realized that not knowing a band’s songs does not mean I won’t enjoy the show. It mostly has to do with whether or not I am comfortable while watching the show.
That, however, wasn’t true for Djerv who performed at the Temple a couple of hours later. I thought I would check them out since they have a female vocalist, and I love female vocalists in extreme music. But although I was comfortable, I didn’t like their music. It was too popish for me, and the vocalist reminded me too much of Lady Gaga. So we left in the middle of the second song.
During intervals where there were no shows we were interested in, we either bought some food and sat on the grass, or went to the metal market to fuel France’s economy and feed the capitalist machine some more. I bought a Black Sabbath t-shirt, as well as a King Diamond one and a Hellfest 2012 one.
We tried to drink or eat as little as possible, so that we wouldn’t be forced to suffer the bathrooms any more than we have to. The bathrooms were muddy and shitty, overflowed and had to be pumped several times a day.
At some point during that day, we ran into Jurgen. Out of all the summer metal festivals he could have chosen, he drove 14 hours from Frankfurt to come to Hellfest, and we randomly bumped into him. I found it amazing that there were people we saw on the train to Nantes that we saw again at Hellfest, and a friend from Israel that we also saw, and a German friend who we never even planned to see, but the one person that I did plan to see – Marianna – we didn’t.
Later on that night, we headed for Mainstage II to see Machine Head. My boyfriend loves them, so we went dangerously close to the front of the crowd, but soon retreated after I was almost sucked into the enormous moshpit that formed. I was too scared to enjoy the rest of the show. I admitted later on that Machine Head’s music is great and the energy in their show was potent, but again, if I’m not comfortable, it takes all the pleasure out of my experience.
In a stark contrast to the energy of Machine Head, the headline that night was the tedious, and very unnecessary, newly reformed Guns n’ Roses. I’m sorry, but Guns n’ Roses without Slash is not Guns n’ Roses. It’s just Axel, who looks like a cross between a redneck trucker and a ventriloquist’s hand puppet with his ridiculous mustache, pilot shades and Texas Ranger hat, and some other musicians who, try as they may, can’t reproduce Slash’s skills for shit. They had three guitarists – one for accompanying riffs and two lead.
“What, they needed two guitarists to replace Slash?” My boyfriend asked with confusion.
I shrugged and nodded signaling “Of course!” My boyfriend laughed and nodded with agreement.
The show lasted a longass two and a half hours. We left about 40 minutes before the end because we couldn’t stand it anymore. The guitarists, although more skilled than I could ever wish to be, simply destroyed Slash’s solos. There is something about Slash’s touch that cannot and should not be reproduced. And if you so much as try, and see that you don’t have it, you don’t broadcast it to the world on a headline show.
We walked back to the car, our feet aching more than ever, and a ringing drone in our ears. That night was colder than the previous night. I woke up in the middle of the night to look for the car keys. My boyfriend woke up, turned on the car and blasted the heater which we left on all night. I was also dying to piss, but being far from the festival and not planning on going back there, I used a cup, and tossed it out the window.
Day three was the hottest and sunniest day of the festival. The sun was so strong that it dried up most of the mud of the previous day. But that weather didn’t stop that night to be pouring rain and freezing.
After having a Nutella crepe and bottled water breakfast, we went to the Warzone stage to see All for Nothing. From the samples of the tunes I heard on YouTube prior to our trip, I expected this female-fronted band to be punk. I was looking forward to it because after so much metal, it’s always refreshing to have a bit of grungy, trashy punk rock. But they were not punk, but rather hardcore. I find hardcore bands to be too screamish. Their beats and riffs were indeed punk, but the vocalist screamed random lyrics, which sounded nothing like what I heard on YouTube. In punk, there is a lot of screaming, but there’s a lot of actual singing too, and sometimes, if you fall on a particularly good punk band, you also get some really good background vocals. Bands like Lunachicks, HorrorPops and Distillers have elaborate background vocals which make their songs that much better and purely punk.
All for Nothing were ok, but seeing as I expected punk and didn’t get it, it wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be.
Right after that, we went to the Altar for Insomnium. I heard only one song of theirs from the Century Media sampler I downloaded, and liked it. The show was much better than I expected. Though I watched it from far, the acoustics were great, and the way they incorporated the keyboard and the guitars was impressive.
After that, my boyfriend had lunch, while I witnessed a wall of death for the first time during the August Burns Red show. I watched it from the big screen next to the mainstage – two crowds of metalheads from opposite sides slamming into each other and breaking out into a wild moshpit.
After that, during the Black Label Society show, I had to use the bathroom. Luckily, it overflowed right as I left it, so I managed to clear out my guts. As a result, I skipped lunch because I didn’t want to have to use the bathroom again. My stomach was flattened since the first day. By the third day, I was consciously starving myself and my stomach started turning inwards.
We watched Walls of Jericho on Mainstage II from far because the place was packed. There were more metalheads flooding the festival on the third day, and loads of them were there for the sole purpose of moshing and surfing. And Walls of Jericho is a band that begs that sort of violence. Keeping far from the stage is always a wise decision in such cases. Sitting on the grass way in the back, next to my boyfriend who fell asleep, I didn’t pay much attention to the show and I found that the lead vocalist was being too aggressive. I dig aggressive females who like to use profanity, but when the attitude goes overboard and every second word is “fuck” or a derivative thereof, it starts getting annoying.
Some time later, we went to the Altar to see Dying Fetus. We were far from the stage yet again, but visibility was decent. We were amazed that the band had only three members, the guitarist growls, and the bassist (who plays on bass the exact same riffs and notes that the guitarist does, which is unbelievable) shrieks. Though I don’t know their songs, they got me headbanging quite a bit.
After that, there were no shows we wanted to see for some time, and my hunger was starting to become a burden, so I finally broke and had dinner. My boyfriend had noodles earlier that day and I decided to get some too. He also got some fried rolls, called nems or something. He asked me if I wanted to taste it, but I told him if I don’t know what it’s made of, I won’t eat it. And I was right to refuse because when I went to get the noodles, I asked what these rolls were.
“It’s a Chinese thing,” the guy at the food stand explained. “It’s made with vegetables (good so far) and crabs.” I literally cringed and gagged as his uttered the word. Crustaceans have that effect on me, not only because they’re not kosher, but especially because they look like cockroaches on steroids.
“Ughhh,” I shuddered. “Give me some noodles and a bit of salad, hold the fucking crabs.”
After having the noodles, we made it back to the mainstage area as Trivium went on. After hearing my boyfriend bashing them so much when he saw them at Sonisphere, I expected my ears to bleed, but they turned out to be rather good. Even my boyfriend retracted his former comments and admitted that they were better than he remembered them. I enjoyed them more than Motley Crue, who came on Mainstage I right after.
But the show that really impressed me was Slash. I mean, I know that Slash kicks ass. But I didn’t think his own band would be so good. They were so much better than Guns n’ Roses. Hell, many bands out there were better than Guns n’ Roses, but this was special. Slash plays just as good as I remembered. He was the reason I started playing guitar in the first place. Seeing him live for the first time was surreal and so wonderful, and the lead vocalist, I found to be even better than Axel. They covered some of GnR’s songs, and brought them back to their former glory, which even the current GnR formation can’t do.
Ozzy came onstage five minutes after Slash finished his show, at around 23:00. This was another show where I doubted there would be moshing and surfing, and again, I was right. There was a bit of surfing but not enough to make me uncomfortable.
It started pouring rain and my hair was soaked, so headbanging was definitely in order. Ozzy sang Crazy Train, NIB, Bark at the Moon, Paranoid, and Iron Man among other songs. There was also an amazing rendition of the instrumental piece Rat Salad, with a long but totally mind-blowing drum solo. Since the show was called Ozzy & Friends, the Wizard invited onstage Black Sabbath’s original bassist Geezer Butler (un-fucking-believable talent) and SLASH! Yet again! It was sad that we didn’t get to see Tony Iommi, because he was sick, but Slash was a perfect replacement.
The show was great but there were no encores and it ended earlier than planned. My boyfriend assumed that perhaps the 64-year-old singer was tired or in pain. I was glad at least that he didn’t cancel the show altogether like he did last year during Graspop.
A couple of days before, we thought that after the Ozzy show, we’ll go see Dimmu Borgir at the Temple. But that night, we were simply too tired, too cold and too wet to do anything but walk back to the car and drive back to our hotel in Nantes.
When we arrived at the hotel, we took the shower of a lifetime. I turned the faucet almost all the way to the warm side and came out with steam rising from my skin, then crashed.
The next day, we got up early again (who said a vacation is restful?) to return the car, and we got back into France’s shitty transportation system to make it to the hotel we reserved in Paris. It took us about five hours. A bus from Nantes’ airport to the train station, a train back to Paris-Montparnasse, a train to Porte de Clichy, and a train from there to Saint-Gratien. We had to walk for another hour or so before we actually found the place. It was worth it though.
The hotel was tiny yet cosy. It has a basement, an entrance at floor 0, plus three floors with two rooms each. Our room was like a suite. It had a balcony with a pretty view, a comfy bed, a big bathroom with two sinks and a bathtub, and a mini living room with a small coffee table and two little couches. On the way to the hotel, we bought a bag of buns and made some sandwiches with the tuna I brought from home. That was our late lunch. Then we went to sleep and woke up at 21:00 to go to a restaurant for a late dinner.
We didn’t get lost too much. We tried to stay within proximity of the hotel and mentally noted landmark corners and intersections so that we could find our way back. We found a steakhouse (that had KANGAROO steak on their menu among other things!). My boyfriend ordered entrecotes and I got a Canadian dish – bagel and smoked salmon.
Since we already spent the entire day on the fucking trains, there wasn’t much else for us to do but go to sleep.
The following morning, we woke up at 7:30 a.m. We asked to have breakfast at 8:00 but had no idea where the dining room was. Just as I was ready to leave the room to find out, a hotel employee showed up at our door with a breakfast platter.
“There is no dining room here,” he explained. “We serve breakfast as room service.”
The platter included the coffee, milk and tea we ordered (best morning tea I ever had), plus a small basket with two baguettes, two croissants, four muffins, four biscuits, a bunch of little packages of butter and two tiny jars of jelly – strawberry and apricot.
“Damn!” I exclaimed. “And to think I expected horrible food!”
We sat in our little living room next to our balcony, and took about 45 minutes to finish our breakfast.
Then we left the hotel, went back to the Saint Gratien train station and took another two trains to the airport, and again walked forever to our gate. It took us three hours.
My boyfriend said that someone once said to him that if you go to Paris, you need to take at least a week to spend there. So I said “Yeah, because four days out of the seven, you’d be riding in the fucking trains.”
Home at Last
I got back home rather earlier than I expected, and as I was unpacking my stuff, my inner child, who was quiet for most of the trip and appeared only while I was headbanging in the rain during Ozzy and King Diamond, was suddenly overcome with grief.
I just got back from a vacation, she said. A VACATION! I’m supposed to be upset that the vacation is over and that I’m back home, but I’ve never been happier to be back home.
That’s how bad being in France was. I was too happy to be back home, and was therefore upset about it.
But I don’t regret going to Hellfest. Hellfest shreds! I’m so grateful that I got to see King Diamond and Ozzy. And if we go to another metal festival next year, we’ll make sure it’s not in France.
Peace, love and No More Tears.