Jonny Numb

Fear of the unknown is frightening; thus the fear and the unknown.

The older I get – and, on February 19, I was 48 hours from my 45^th birthday – the more that close-minded mentality rings true.

Case in point: when it comes to live music, I would much rather go to some much-loved (or just local) venue than venture into unfamiliar territory.

This applies to both the geographical and the sociological.

I spent the last couple years of my high-school career in close proximity to Thomasville, PA. The only thing that distinguishes the area is a small airport and the Martin’s Snacks plant. It also used to be home to the once-prosperous, now-closed Pfaltzgraff factory (I went there for “career day” as a junior or senior, and worked at a nearby distribution center for a short time 20 years ago).

Otherwise, it is a sleepy place that serves largely as a pass-through between York and the Hanover/New Oxford area.

That said, it’s still not that distant from where I currently live, so when a place called the RaceHorse Tavern [sic] announced they would be hosting Psyclon Nine on their “God’s Not Here” Tour, I quickly snatched up a ticket, even though – based on the name alone – it seemed like an odd choice for frontman Nero Bellum’s brand of heretical, insectile-voiced Industrial.

I have detailed my headspace leading up to my birthday elsewhere, but I will say I had doubts, even as I was navigating the mist and dense fog on the zigzagging backroads leading to the venue.

At one point, I noticed the soft yellow-orange glow of the “check tire” light beneath the upper arch of my steering wheel – a harbinger that always compounds my worry.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I thought: “are there gonna be a bunch of guys in cowboy boots prepared to kick the crap outta my black-clad butt? Is the gathered crowd gonna pull a Blues Brothers on the bands once they start?”

The venue really encompasses the phrase, middle of nowhere.

But parking – including an overflow lot across the street – was plentiful, which I noted in its favor.

A guy seated inside the door took my printed ticket, stamped my hand, and handed me a postcard for a local politician(?!).

I was reassured to see some black-clad folks sitting at the bar, and a couple likewise thereafter followed me in.

I ventured inside: decent floorspace for standing, with the small stage off to the left; to the right, a bar with a square perimeter and plenty of seats; beyond that in an adjoining side room, pool tables where the bands were set up with merch (and where the local opening act, Kollektiv, were applying their unique tribal face-paint).

The men’s room was as intimate as the rest of the place, a partitioned urinal with a “stall” divided not with a latching door, but a cloth curtain. Classy!

While tempted to take the edge off with a beer, I refrained, opting to hang on to my cash for merch purchases.

As for the bands…

Kollektiv were good, the type of driving, guitar-based stuff that mirrors certain eras of Psyclon Nine. The singer was having trouble with mic feedback early on, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy their set, as it set the mood for the rest of the night.

Of the two support acts tagging along with Psyclon Nine, I was most looking forward to Clockwork Echo (whom I’d seen on a previous P9 tour, and also as an opener on a Tim Skold solo tour), but was willing to give Our Frankenstein a fair shot.

It bears noting that I only sat a little during the night, choosing instead to just stand in the floor area. On a subconscious level, this was probably so I wouldn’t feel intimidated or awkward approaching the stage if everyone else was hanging back.

Anyway: as with Clockwork Echo, I’d seen Our Frankenstein on a previous P9 tour, and was left less than impressed by their set.

This time, however, they floored me with their energy and frontman Ryan Laney’s animated, always-active performance. I had a chance to tell him this after their set at the merch table, in which I complimented the “evolution” of their performance since the last time I’d seen them. I thanked them for coming “to the middle of nowhere,” to which he diplomatically talked about his appreciation of “intimate” venues. Nice guy – needless to say, I picked up the 2 albums they had for sale.

Clockwork Echo is another one of those blood- and grime-streaked acts where tempo is the end-all, be-all. Lyrically impenetrable (especially in a live setting), but with an unbeatable energy designed to get a crowd up an moving, they have grown on me considerably over time. The last time I saw them (at Lovedrafts Brewing – RIP), they were sold out of XL shirts, so picking one up was one of my prime directives that night.

Also: it’s hard not to like a band that samples the iconic “great ass” speech from Heat.

Fun aside: even though I wasn’t really “dancing” – in the traditional sense – my Smartwatch nonetheless registered that I’d “walked” 1.84 miles during their 33-minute set, which I found kind of amusing/affirming.

I chatted with them a bit after their set, once my T-shirt was acquired, and was having such a good time that I suddenly realized Psyclon Nine had already taken the stage and were chugging along with songs from the INRI era.

Nero remains as charismatic and acerbic a frontman as ever – at one point, he asked:

“Are any of you actually from Thomasville?”

[audience silence]

“Thank you for coming all this way. This is amazing.”

For snarky shits and giggles, he led the small yet mighty crowd in shouts of “hail Satan” to “freak out the locals” doing karaoke in an adjoining section of the establishment.

“You paid to have us here,” he mused.

After about an hour of foot-stomping and head-bobbing, their set concluded.

“Thanks for coming to Thomasville!” I yelled as Nero passed by on his way to the merch table.

“Fuck yeah!” he replied.

Epilogue: that Jon Siren is a machine-gunning maestro on the drums.

Epilogue II: this show was just what I needed. Stopped at Sheetz to fill my tires before getting home around midnight.