It was Destined That You and I Collide: A Review of Terror at Flying Panther

It was Destined That You and I Collide: A Review of Terror at Flying Panther
by Maddy Hanes

It's Monday, September, 18, 2023. Flying Panther Skate Shop is located in a towering warehouse that a passerby might assume is a vessel for industry, a production facility, with its darkened parking lot enclosed by chain link fencing. The utilitarian, sheet metal exterior of Flying Panther prefaces the ecosystem within its walls. The interior is a concrete lounge with worn couches, a small refrigerator filled with free water, homemade merch tables for the bands, a halfpipe in the corner. Every cranny is designed for skateboarding. The room is a tribute to independent culture: be it skating, visual art, or music.

But tonight the couches have been moved, the tables pulled to the opposite side, the halfpipe blocked off. The show is sold out and the air is heavy with anticipation. As the room fills with familiar faces from the local hardcore, punk, metal, and indie music communities, it becomes apparent that this show already feels different from any other at Flying Panther. Noteworthy bands have graced the stage before, but none more iconic than Terror.  Having formed over twenty years ago in Los Angeles, California, it is not hyperbolic to say that Terror’s sound is key in the evolution of contemporary hardcore music.

Roanoke hardcore heroes Hostile Takedown kick off the show, bringing to the stage their masterful ability to encourage their fans to care about themselves, their friends, and their scene, while simultaneously being a catalyst for chaos. As their roughly thirty minute set progresses, the room begins morphing into “the pit.”

In the mosh pit there is circling, floor punching, windmilling, ax handling, and wheelbarrowing. The action is demanding, aerial, athletic, and yes, dangerous. Stage diving is encouraged. The point is, when attending a Terror show, there is an unspoken contract between the venue and the patron that the experience is interactive. Hurting people is not the intention, neither is blatant barbarity. The pit is an expression. It is an expression of anger, it is an expression of frustration, and it is an expression of the community.

The people of the hardcore pit are not celebrating violence or inflicting harm with malice. The mosh pit is a release from the pain of existence. The day-to-day wounds and traumas that are often too upsetting for words are shed amongst the fellow sufferers in a powerful physical performance. And as Infernal Gaze, Dimension Six, and Naysayer move through their sets, the room approaches a critical point of entropy. The artists and the crowd become one in a frenzied mass injected with a lawless sense of freedom. The setting is egalitarian, people move freely on and off the stage with the band members. The vocalists hand microphones to the crowd and jump into the pit themselves. Band members encourage the attendees to stage dive, then spin into the audience, until everyone is a participant and particle in this vicious universe.

Terror takes the stage and they are incomparable. Despite being a celebrated, infamous, legendary hardcore band, they make the people in the room feel like we are all on the same level–just people spending Monday night listening to music made by their friends. Playing seminal songs like “Return to Strength,” “Stick Tight,” and “Pain into Power” invigorates the crowd. Vocalist Scott Vogel acknowledges the praise, sharing gratitude for the opportunity to play The Panther. And the band is keen to the feeling that there is a significant reason that we are all in the room together tonight. The crowd is as charismatic as the performers.  People fling themselves off the stage, hit the ground, and rise with grace. The audience swarms the stage with Terror, grabbing mics and screaming lyrics, while striking riffs hang in the air.

Vogel reminds the crowd that “the last thing he wants to see is a fight,” before revealing a personal story about his single mother, who raised her three children on food stamps. The story bolsters Terror’s connection with the crowd, enabling listeners to reject any shame of who they are, what they like, or what they had to endure. And that is the spirit of hardcore music.

Terror then concludes the show with a classic take on “Keepers of the Faith” and the house lights come on. As Terror loads out their equipment, and people mill around, an image appears. There is no bar, no alcohol. There are no bouncers. There are no barricades. There is no VIP section. There are only the people. And that is the spirit of Roanoke’s hardcore scene. <>

Photo credit: Openhead Takes Photos