Death and Festing in Maryland: A Very Ghoul-y MDFtrospective (Part II)

June 16, 2026

“How could I shed the skin of a brave mosh warrior and return to my bullshit job and salary-lady life without feeling this loss in my heart?”

READ PART I HERE

Day 3

Audience member crowdsurfing in an inflatable raft.

Feeling dissatisfied with the amount of bands I saw the previous day, I made an effort to right that mistake. After a relatively quick stop to finish seeing the sights of the Walters Art Museum, we made our way to the festival grounds and caught a very small portion of Warbringer‘s set while checking out more vendor tents. After bullshitting for a while, we made our way to Market Place for a big one—fucking Pig Destroyer. These guys blasted through the runtime of Prowler in the Yard to what was, at this point, the craziest crowd yet. When text-to-speech introduction began, you could practically feel the potential energy building in the crowd. Once the band kicked into “Cheerleader Corpses,” all Hell broke loose. At one point, someone began crowd surfing in an inflatable boat, sailing the audience as if they were the great Atlantic. This seemed like a pretty great time for the captain, until his raft capsized and, from what I could tell, he landed on the concrete and hit his head (I didn’t see any ambulances, so I assume he was fine).

Seafaring hijinks aside, Pig Destroyer ripped the audience a new one, as did Destruction. Another legacy set, Destruction ran through the runtime of Infernal Overkill with a heft and power that didn’t translate as well on recordings back in the ’80s. You could still recognize the classic tracks from the LP, but it hit with an impact that you can only get live.

Along with Kreator later in the evening, the spirit of Teutonic thrash was alive this Saturday. These two sets were the point where I had enough of being a passive viewer and really immersed myself in the mosh mindset. Destruction came across much more like a regular pit with some agitation in the periphery, whereas Kreator’s set of older deep cuts quickly became a free-for-all-confrontation where the entire front of the crowd was the pit. This was pretty manageable, all things considered, until the Gods upon high demanded more crowd surfing of us lowly peasants (crowd serfing?). At this point, the pit became a sea of bodies either attempting to float to the top or keep hooligans from killing themselves. Eventually, growing tired of almost drowning in a body of Slayer fans, I opted to wiggle my way out of the admittedly awesome frenzy.

Members of Destruction, Miasmatic Necrosis, Kreator, and Pig Destroyer (left to right).

In between Destruction and Kreator was another violent frenzy in the form of brutal death meatheads Mortician; they even had a real drummer live! Their set was pretty much exactly what you’d want and expect from the band: overly long horror movie samples giving way to metal so ignorant that it votes for the incumbent candidates without doing any policy research. It was a beautiful display of aggression and vitriol, the kind of which you would never experience from “well-adjusted” folks.

Miasmatic Necrosis (who were after Kreator), too, embodied a frenzied brand of brutality. Another hyped set for me, Miasmatic are one of the few modern goregrind bands in the running to be classics for the genre. Their meaty production and energized assault was true to the power they showcase on record, serving as a fantastic end to this day of the festival. We had intended on seeing the Sinister tribute set and (potentially) Rotten Sound, but once again fell to the allure of smoking weed at the hotel and listening to Bladee’s Sulfer Surfer again.

Yet, that was not the end of my story for this day, as I wanted to smoke but was not being joined by my fellow creature. Already pretty high, I left our hotel room and mistakenly opened another hotel room door, which was not locked. Scared shitless, I quickly entered the nearest non-emergency stairwell I could and made a beeline for the lobby. I made it to the bottom floor and, upon entering the lobby, I noticed that it was not the same fucking lobby. I thought for sure I had fallen between worlds and somehow managed to enter a realm I was never meant to exist in. Or, more realistically, I’d be chewed out for ending up somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. I attempted to enter the stairwell again, only to find it locked from that side. With no other options, I pathetically made my way to the security guard and explained the situation. He was very sweet about it and helped me get back to the hotel (I had somehow managed to wander into the lobby of a neighboring apartment building). After thanking him and apologizing, he remarked:

“Don’t worry about it, kid. It happens all the time.”

With that, I smoked my joint outside and came back in, content to pretend that none of that happened.

Mortician plays to crowd.

Day 4

Members of Grave, Caveman Cult, Hemorrhoid, Cancer, and Antichrist Siege Machine (left to right).

It felt both long-awaited and far too soon, but this Sunday was the final day of Maryland Death Fest. After a similar start to the rest of our days, we settled in for what was to be our most packed day. Caveman Cult warmed the crowd up on the first festival day sans rain, playing a blistering set of fiery war metal. I had seen them previously, but their sound setup at this outdoor stage was far better (in general, the sound people at the fest did an amazing job this year). I dipped from their set a tad bit early to poke my head in for the first two-thirds of goregrinders Hemorrhoid, who played a nasty fucking set that shared DNA with Miasmatic.

Book-ending a final break around 6 o’clock were two riff-forward bands, Cancer and Grave, who both brought classic-era material with a great forcefulness. Cancer’s Death Shall Ride made for great meat-headed pit fuel, as did the old school set from Grave, playing material from Into the Grave and other early records. Both bands sounded great, but I was, truthfully, too busy living the metal fest lifestyle to pick up on detailed intricacies (not that there’s much nuance needed for a deathrash band named Cancer). That said, I was more than capable of picking up on the many crazy riffs while being intoxicated and tossed around by my fellow attendees.

My attorney and I engaged in another soon-to-be-time-honored-tradition of sharing Tecate beer buckets and chugging the beers as fast as we can between sets, one right before Grave and one right after. I have a decent constitution when it comes to alcohol, all things considered, but chugging 4 beers within a hour block is enough to make any bad bitch throw up (but not me).

Time management was difficult each day, but my goal (ending this fest by seeing as many bands as I could) put it to the test. After feeling like I just ate a loaf of boozy bread, we had to make haste between our next 4 bands. Getting to Antichrist Siege Machine was handily the most stressful trek of the weekend, as we only had about 8 minutes to Frogger our way across the street and get to Nevermore, but said strife was worth it. ASM sounds about as loud and overwhelming as you’d expect from their records, which was even more impressive when considering they’re a two-piece. As with Caveman Cult, ASM succeeded in the uphill battle of making war metal listenable in a live setting.

Gerald “Incubus” Minelli and The Laws

And, while it may have been on flat ground, every traversal between venues this weekend was a battle to some degree. Hustling back over to Market Place was more than worth it, as Gerald Minelli and the Laws were ready to perform as Sarcófago, playing from INRI. Much like the Triptykon-does-Celtic Frost set from last year, the functional difference between the Laws and Sarcófago means very little when you’re getting roughed up by goons in the crowd to “Christ’s Death” and “Ready to Fuck.” After all, most legacy metal bands slowly become tribute acts with one or two original members eventually, they might as well kick ass as hard as the Laws did this night.

Sex Prisoner.

We originally didn’t think we would be able to make it to Sex Prisoner due to time restraints between the Laws and Dying Fetus. But with the words of Pig Destroyer’s J.R. Hayes echoing in my head (“IF YOU MISS SEX PRISONER, YOU ARE A FUCKING POSER”), I decided a sacrifice had to be made. Needless to say, I’m glad I left the Laws early, as Sex Prisoner brought their best powerviolence riffs and completely floored the audience. Those of the audience not floored by the band were probably floored by aggro motherfuckers in the pit, giving the set one of the most violent and high-energy atmospheres of MDF. I departed earlier than my good pal, who was even more enamored by the showing. Regardless of how good the band was, I had to be right up front for our last show of the festival.

Despite groups like Batushka and Cephalic Carnage playing later into the night, the buildup to Dying Fetus made it feel like the main climax of the whole weekend. A mass of impatient and inebriated metalheads had formed all around me while classic rock blasted down upon us. Power Plant Live’s boomer-core barrage for Dying Fetus gave way to a beautiful moment—Bon Jovi‘s “Livin’ On A Prayer” began to play and every single person began singing in the most loud and drunken way possible. Meanwhile, an enthused circle pit formed to the hair metal opus; I found myself going between the two modes during what felt like a great celebration. Said celebration gave way to Dying Fetus tearing the open-air roof off of Power Plant Live with songs from their first three or so albums. With all due respect to She Lay Gutted, Mortician, and Cephalotripsy, this final set was the most brutal and intense of the festival, ending our time in Maryland with a fucking bang and a half.

With that said and done, I fell asleep halfway through a standup special, woke up at 4am for my flight, and ate the last of the weed gummies we had before going through TSA, longing for the metal fest mindset I’d be leaving behind. And, yes, I did pass the fuck out on the plane.

Dying Fetus playing to crowd.

Epilogue

The crowd in the throes of “Livin’ On A Prayer.”

During the leadup to DF’s set, I was enraptured by the weekend, the Jovi, and substances most foul; I thought on the weekend as we experienced it. Maryland Deathfest seemed to embody the true spirit of metalhead culture—contradiction. A so-called “Deathfest” had become a celebration of life and joy so great that Maryland braces itself for it yearly. A fuck-ton of widely different people all gather into enclosed spaces and, for around 45 minutes at a time, all joined the same wavelength. The highly-honored pit looks like pure chaotic mayhem to outside viewers, but you feel closer to these strangers than you ever could otherwise while inside. The pit is a place of violence, but one with a code to keep each other safe: if you fall down, you get picked up. Sure, this also includes that GBK-chud nodding along to “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” with zero self-awareness, but, at its most pure, the various contradictions show us how the most depraved music possible can contain community in the strangest of ways (somewhat related, Nick saw a different loser get his Burzum snap-back knocked off his head by another man who then proceeded to wag his finger in the Varg stan’s face). [Pow, right in the Myfarog ~Roldy]

Much like a raver who shot the last of their dopamine off at a rave, I returned from my expedition to an unavoidable depression. How could I shed the skin of a brave mosh warrior and return to my bullshit job and salary-lady life without feeling this loss in my heart? Once that faded and I got back into my groove, I was able to get early bird tickets for MDF ’27, which made me feel a good bit better. I’ll see you fuckers there next year.