The day before Labor Day 2019, I’m enjoying the rays of a sunny afternoon in the Virginia countryside. Spread open on my lap is Mrs. Spring Fragrance, an engaging collection of short stories by Edith Maude Eton.

I’m at peace, but increasingly aware of the swelling mass of moshing metal heads thirty yards to my right, black shirts clinging, greasy manbuns unraveling. The mass swirls, effusing its signature odor: sloshed beer’s hoppy aroma, overtones of cigarettes, all saturated in sweat. The ones jostled from the fray stagger across the lawn gasping for breath. It’s clearly the only cardio they’ll do all year; I’m enmeshed with the powerlifting, beer-guzzling, sleeveless, show-off-my-ink set.

Why am I ending this summer at a Slipknot concert?

Two days ago, sitting in my muffled office cubicle, listening the air conditioner’s whirl, it seemed the fitting way to punctuate my summer with an exclamation point, a summer prefaced with the text-message eulogy of my six-year marriage. Andy O’Connor of Pitchfork said this August when reviewing Slipknot’s new album, We Are Not Your Kind, that “They’ve made anguish look appealing throughout their two-decade career.” No, the frustration and uncertainty don’t look more appealing, but the new tracks do grant an adrenalized disruption.

I’ve loved Slipknot since my late teens, when my best friend Cody loved them. Before sentenced to federal prison on a drug charge, he offered me his Slipknot hoodie, sweat-stained and pockmarked with cigarette burns. What wouldn’t I trade to have that hoodie now?

The trouble begins on the day of the show in choosing a blanket to accompany my lawn seat. My ex-wife had high tastes in these, and I can’t expose the Pier 1 blankets I spritz with Febreze twice weekly to the metal scene. The only option then is a lilac-colored blanket she bought for the Fourth of July one year. Hopefully the fan base thinks I’m being ironic.

The blanket turns out to be necessary. Jiffy Lube Live pavilion’s grounds crew haven’t removed any cigarette butts or drug paraphernalia from the lawn since the Village People played the first show here in 1995.

Opening for Slipknot is Volbeat, the Danish version of Nickelback. The gentlemen 20 feet from me wearing his Nickelback shirt is enjoying himself. His buddy is the fascinating caricature complete with red headband, sleeveless Pantera tee, cutoff skinny jean shorts, and sand-colored combat boots. Also, every few seconds I’m reminded that fishnets aren’t flattering, on men or women.

A high point of my evening is a compliment on my own wardrobe. Standing in line for popcorn (the other high point of my evening), a gentleman holding a tall boy Guinness approaches.  

“Hey man, that’s an awesome bracelet,” he says, pointing to the one I’m wearing made from old typewriter keys.

“Thanks, it spells ‘TWO REASONS,’” I explain. “It’s part of a quote from Les Misérables.”

“Hell yeah, I’ve seen the musical of it. Where did you get it?”

“I bought it on Etsy.”

“Nice! I’ve bought some things from there before.”

He disappears into the crowd, leaving me with the satisfaction of having a conversation about Etsy and Les Misérables at a Slipknot concert.  

At 9:15, the lights are killed, and Slipknot’s banner rises. Finally, they can remind me why I suffered through cigarettes, fishnets, and Volbeat. Instead, I get tinnitus from the bad acoustics and an anxiety attack of being alone now as a crowd of people encroach on my ex-wife’s blanket. Four songs in, realizing I can’t stay here, I turn to leave.

As I exit the gates, singer Corey Taylor reaches the crescendo of “Unsainted,” one of the new songs: “I’m finally holding on to letting go!”

Summer is over.