While most of the local hipsters and party people were shaking it at various Pride Fest events in Sioux Falls last weekend, a different kind of highly-inclusive show was going down at the edge of town.
Slamdokota Death Fest 6, billed as “the most vicious fest in the Midwest!” might not sound like the kind of thing where everybody can play, but spend a few hours lurking around and chatting up the fans of the brutal stuff and you’ll find a kind and caring community, with peace and love, respect and courtesy on tap. Well, maybe not peace, exactly.
Big’s Bar, despite having a full slate of bands from Metal to Country to Hip-Hop is somehow still off-the-radar of locals who continue to whine that “there’s no music in Sioux Falls.”
As Les Watkins, promoter at Big’s tells us, “That’s because we’re not downtown. But we like it out here. We can make a lot more noise that way.”
Les is the force behind Slamdakota, now in its sixth year, pulling in heavy-hitting bands from across the country. The two-day festival is a staple of the scene for many of the acts — and their fans — who drive in from all over the Midwest to let loose for the weekend and reconnect over a shared love of the heavy stuff. “It’s my baby,” she says.
Running a two-stage format — one inside, one out — means that there’s never a break in the rock. The next band can get set up while another one blasts out a set. With show times capped at around thirty minutes, there’s constant action. And thirty minutes is plenty. Spending thirty-five under the sonic assault might just do you in.
Recurring thunderstorms put a damper on the outdoor stage this year, but everyone still got to play. Two drum sets were ready to go, so bands could jump in and start the attack without hauling too much gear around the stage. Everything ran pretty close to on time.
Death Metal is serious music, but it’s also serious fun. It’s a realm of fantasy and escape – just try worrying about your problems when the volume and intensity are cranked to eleven. The stress of day jobs, ex-girlfriends, and bills-to-pay fade away in a barrage of inscrutable logos and over-the-top song titles. “Self Gorification,” anybody?
Spider-fingered virtuosos shared the stage beside de-tuned bashers, fishnet-wrapped hotties head-banged arm-in-arm with sun-shunning troglodytes. There were flowing locks and shaved heads. High-school kids and grey-beards.
“Eat Pizza. Worship Satan,” commanded one fan’s t-shirt. Well-worn battle jackets were pulled from closets with patches celebrating everything from vintage thrash to Elliot Smith. Buddy Jesus hung with skulls at the merch table.
There was even a local clown and filmmaker, Irene Dangles, with a booth to hawk her pandemic-inspired art. “I heard that metal-heads can be afraid of clowns, so I didn’t do the full costume,” she said, sticking with a fun frock, rainbow pins, and an extra splash of makeup.
While that might have been the right call on the clown suit, the next time you’re looking for a place to go do you, to be free to be me, Slamdakota is the place to be. Hoist the horned hand and raise a finger to your troubles. Tonight, you’re with friends, and everything is going to be ok.
Note: The original version of this story appeared on SoDakMusic.com. It’s archived here for my personal reference, and of course, your future enjoyment.
