Fighting To Succeed

Another trip to Manchester was required to see metalcore titans, Hatebreed. Why do so many bands not bother with this side of The Pennines anymore?

I had it all timed perfectly: I would arrive at Piccadilly station at 6:15, go and get something to eat and head to the venue for just after 7:30. With my immense local knowledge this shouldn't have been a problem.
The train was on time and I made my way to the highly-fashionable Arndale Centre to eat some less-fashionable chicken, made famous by a man who liked white beards and white suits. I was feeling quite smug with myself at this point as I had all the time in the world. Big mistake.
I exited the shopping centre on the opposite side to which I'd entered without realising it and after a few minutes of heading in completely the wrong direction, I was forced to concede that my immense local knowledge was neither immense, nor knowledge.
I asked a local, floppy-haired indie kid how to get to Oxford Road and he pointed me in the right direction. It would take me about 10 minutes to get there, he said. This was good as it was now 7:45. I'd been to Oxford Road before, so I knew I'd be there in time for the first band. Wrong again! What I didn't know is that Oxford Road is the longest road in the British Isles and it took me over half an hour to walk along it to the venue, which was at the university.
Two bands from the hotbed of British metal were providing support. That's right, they were both from Grimsby. Sadly (or not) I arrived after Demoraliser had finished playing. I asked someone what they were like and he gave me his expert analysis: "they were a bit shit".
Next up were Black Dogs, who weren't canines and probably hadn't named themselves after the Led Zeppelin classic. After about half an hour of listening to them, I concluded this: they were a bit shit.
Whilst waiting for Hatebreed, a drunken man named Paul from Oldham latched on to me. He slurred his way through an analysis of Lancashire's metal scene, bragging that he "personally knows all the bands" and told me I absolutely have to go to this bar in Oldham that I've now forgotten the name of. Oh well.
It's lucky the guys in Hatebreed are all in a band, because otherwise five men who are older than me, wearing bandanas and backwards baseball caps would be seen as total arseholes. But they aren't. I also noticed that, from a distance, the bass player looks like Chandler's crazy roommate who watched him while he slept in Friends (I Googled him later and he actually looks nothing like him).
"Too hardcore for the metal scene, too metal for the hardcore scene," shouted frontman Jamey Jasta from the stage - a comment someone wrongly made about them when they first started out. 20 years later, with a string of hit albums under their belts, they have proved their doubters wrong.
75 minutes of shoutalong songs, moshing, circle pits and general tomfoolery later I was leaving the venue, my ears ringing. Still I had a better time than the shirtless, gurning man who was led out by medical personnel with a very obviously broken arm after they'd only been playing for 10 minutes.
The band posted a picture of the crowd on Twitter minutes after the show was over and I think I could make myself out standing near the bar (shocker) in it. There was definitely a blurry, Tim-shaped person there anyway.
And the fun didn't stop there. On the train home, a man woke up just as we were leaving Huddersfield and tried to get them to stop the train so he could get off. They wouldn't and his night was made considerably longer with an impromptu trip to Leeds. Double misery for him.