It was an all Southern affair in Melbourne as the shred king addressed his subjects from stately chambers, occupied in the name of the Black Label Order.
Sultry, rainy, miserable. To the perpetually meteorologically bemused residents of Melbourne, experiencing all four seasons in the space of as many minutes is a given; we see rain, take a piss and by the time our flies are half way done up, it’s sunny once more. Ho hum, pass the butter. After two days of summer, it rained and rained. Fortunately this humid night just lent itself to the atmosphere. With beer in hand as the aroma of cheap cigarettes wafted over me, I felt like I was back in Atlanta, GA hanging out with pre-fabricated good ole boys wearing denim and leather kuttes direct from the merch desk - the real 1%ers were most likely cooling their boiling blood with beer as they planted themselves on the edge of the pit, their arms as thick as oak trunks folded together and just as immovable.