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I took slightly more cough syrup than recommended and went to the Mid-States Wrestling show in Springfield

yeah yeah its a reference to this, yes I'm a giant memelord I know I know
Waddup fuckheads, as you may or may not (you probably don't) know, I love writing about random bullshit. Be it ranting about terrible wrestling news websites or compiling links to bumbfuck unknown wrestlers, I truly strive to provide this glorious home of mine with some content every now and then that isn't a 28th thread asking true cold hard hitting questions about the state of Sasha's happiness in the WWE.
So, I went to a random indie show. Bob Orton was gonna be there, you think I'm gonna pass up a chance to see Bob Orton? Not fucking likely. Plus, one of my bois, Niles Plonk, wine conossouer and all around gentleman was gonna be there. That's pronounced Plonké by the way, you uneducated scum.
Now, before I get into the show, I suppose I should mention the intense physical effects my cup of muddy muddy purple had on me prior to the event. Not much. See, I don't really drink or smoke anymore, and if I have to choose something to partake in to give me that extra little push out of my lair and into society, I'm still a tad partial to a bit of that sweet sweet Dextromethorphan. But yeah, it doesn't do much other than clear my head and make me a good bit less likely to have a coughing fit than all the chain smokers I was surrounded by.
So yeah, I get there, it's raining, I gotta park relatively far away, sign on the door says Bill Dundee can't be there because of a family emergency, everything's kinda ass from the start.
I sit down, taking in the sights and sounds and mainly the smell of smoke, smoke, stale popcorn, questionably washed bodies, smoke, and smoke. Crowd is so big that there's even a few people standing. I don't know why at this point, as this is a city that at the last WWE house show I went to barely filled up half of our giant college basketball arena, as well as never drew this large of a crowd to NWL shows, which were actually on TV. I wonder to myself if Bob Orton is truly still that big of a draw.
Alright, first match. Dude comes out looking like a cross between ECW Striker and one of the spirit squad. Educated student gimmick/college wrestler type singlet for gear. He's announced as being from somewhere fancy, but the crowd chants, among other things, the name of a local community college at him. Was relatively quality humor.
His opponent, is motherfucking JEFFRO WILSON. Now, if I told you I'm at an indie show in fucking Missouri and some dude name Jeffro is coming out, you'd probably not guess that it would be a tiny, Cheeseburger-esque black dude, but you'd be wrong. Oh, and he was wearing a Michael Jackson-like red jacket/black hat. And he danced a lot. So...yeah. Solid opener. Lots of dancing around and playing to the crowd, exactly what you'd expect. Jeffro won with a roll-up to everyone's delight.
Referee James Beard is apparently here, and I'm actually kinda impressed after learning he's been around for like 60 years having worked for WCCW and about every promotion in Japan imaginable.
Our second match is for the right to face the MSW champion later on in the show, and our first entrant in said match is...alright, try to picture this in your head (I took a few pictures but that's never really my thing, I prefer to just enjoy a show, and none are particularly great anyway). Bray Wyatt...but shorter and a bit fatter. So, just a out of shape dude with hair all over the place, is what I'm getting at. He's got the Adrian Adonis type gimmick (pretty boy Flair type shit, but on someone that's clearly out of shape) a sparkly gold jacket (he's nicknamed Golden Boy) and he's accompanied by a larger version of himself in a suit, and two women hired off craigslist lovely ladies in particularly tight dresses.
He grabs the mic and cuts a promo about Missouri sucking dick compared to his home state of Arkansas, the crowd boos him, etc. Crowd chants about the women probably being his cousins.
Big bodybuilder workout gimmick guy comes out to face him, and grabs the mic too. He says he can tell the other goon is from Arkansas, and actually scolds us for the cousins remark. See, its obvious that they're actually just the man's sisters. I pop.
Match is standard chicken shit heel work, especially by someone fixing to have a second match later in the night. He rolls in and out of the ring, his manager and the girls yell at the crowd, and so on. Eventually he pins workout boy with his feet on the ropes, much to the crowds chagrin.
Next, it's time for Bob Orton to be presented with...some kind of award. It's at this point I begin struggling to understand what anyone's saying, and I don't think it was a personal problem. Whatever, Bob gets a plague, grabs the mic and talks like he forgot to put his teeth in. Seriously understood about 15% of it; he mentioned his wife going to college somewhere in the area, and obviously the whole state is always a home to him, etc. etc. We pop for everything of course, regardless of my inability to understand fuck all.
Intermission time. Stretch my legs a bit, realize the line to talk to Bob isn't really very long, so I head on over. Yada yada yada, shake his hand, tell him it's a pleasure to meet him, he says thanks, get our picture taken, good shit. It's here where I'm officially happy with my decision to come, and Plonk hasn't even wrestled yet.
Speaking of, we back from intermission, and it's Plonk time. He comes out with his man servant Belvedere, and I'm quite possibly the only person standing and applauding like the madman I am, lost in sea of boos. They yell and make fun of his wine, say it's probably just grape juice; they make fun of Belvedere, they make fun of everything they can think of. Heretics, the lot of them.
Plonks opponent is some geek cowboy from some nearby town, and the crowd obviously approves. He seems to be in decent shape and be relatively young too, so I assume this'll be a pretty good match. Cowboy fuck gets a mic and declares that he knows Belvedere is a real fuckhead, and that Plonk's always up to no good, so he found some backup.
Out comes Miranda Gordy, daughter of Terry, and sister of the good ole' biscuits and gravy man himself. I instantly notice she's thick as shit a seemingly well meaning nice young lady who will certainly help even the score against Plonk and Belvedere.
Even the score she does, when after the ref goes down (a female ref who surprised me by taking a pretty solid bump from Plonk) and Belvedere enters the ring and DDTs the cowboy, Miranda follows suit and fists him dead in his tracks. She's not done yet however; a moment or two later Plonk and the cowboy have maneuvered to the corner, and Plonks up top. Miranda weasels her way underneath him, and eventually power bombs him all the way down.
The crowd, and this is no different than other shows I've been to, goes fucking BONKERS. The attitude at these types of events really reminds me of what old school Rock N Roll express matches must have been like, or the reactions to women like Sunny getting involved in a match. There's just something more genuine that shows like WWE or whatever your given company of choice may be cant replicate; the small touring company that books entertaining babyfaces vs dickhead heels, with a great combination of badass women, quirky fuckhead managers, and the occasional piece of eye candy to make some rednecks hate a fat fuck heel even more than they already do is just so refreshing when most of your exposure to wrestling is filled with terrible attempts at marketing via awful buzzwords and nicknames, epilepsy inducing camera work, and...I'm ranting.
The cowboy wins, of course. He wants the crowd to cheer for Miranda, she wants the crowd to cheer for him; the crowd most definitely cheers for them both.
It's now apparently time for that fat little golden boy fuck's title match. Weird, since I assumed that was going to be the main event, but alright. He comes back out, entourage in tow once again. One of his escort's titties seems dangerously close to popping out, and the other is quite good at the Scarlett Bordeaux "ass sitting on the ropes" special. If you know what I mean, you know what I mean, and if you don't I'm pretty sure you're legally required to look it up.
Now here comes the champ, and it's a crazy fucking dog man. Loud ass music blaring, dude sprints out like some sort of Mojo, clad in a sanity-esque patch covered jacket, and a giant chain around his neck like The Junkyard Dog. He's barking, he's demanding the crowd bark back at him, and we bark back at him. Wrestling is weird. I realize I washed my hands right next to this guy in the bathroom earlier, and at the time I thought he was just a really weird looking fan. Apparently it's the MSW champion. Alright then. More barking. Lots of barking. Lots of Golden Boy rolling in and out of the ring like before. Crowd confuses the ref by chanting one number higher than he is, and when Golden Boy realizes this happened, he brutally chastises the ref for allowing such heinous manipulation.
Honestly...this match was kinda shit. For as much effort the dog man put into running around before the match, and how much Golden Boy saved by doing nothing in his 1st, they combined to do a lot of nothing here. Eventually Golden Boy wins dirty just like he did in the first match, grabs the title but before he can leave the gym fuck he beat earlier runs out. Gym fuck shows the ref how he cheated, and after the crowd yelling that gym fuck is indeed telling the truth, the ref demands the match be restarted.
Dog man wins via roll-up and by putting HIS feet on the rope mere seconds after the match is restarted. The crowd doesn't give a fuck though, as they seemed to all hate the little golden bastard, and were quite pleased to see him lose, by any means necessary. He leaves to more loud as all fuck music, which I now realize is "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and I begin screaming pour some sugar on me.
Next we have...a second intermission? The fuck, this shit's not supposed to happen. Well, it is anyway. Some goons get in the ring and throw some shirts and other bullshit, they announce you can go hang out with Gordy or get in the ring and take a picture with real life Kinnikuman character Tim Storm and his massive fucking title. I can't be fucked to do any of it, and spend most of the time noticing a girl behind me wearing Jotaro's hat, and another in front of me wearing Dipper's from Gravity Falls, and I bask in the remembrance that maybe, somewhere, there is some idiot out there in the world for me.
Co-main event time and...and Jesus Christ it's now when I find out why it's such a large crowd. So, the co-main is a battle royal, and it's filled with entirely wrestling students from the area. These guys all must have got like...every one of their friends and their entire extended families to come, because Jesus CHRIST it got loud.
A few of the favorites seemed to be a guy named Johnny Dynamite or some shit wearing red white and blue gear, a very Joey Janela/Brian Pillman Jr. lookin nerd, with the crazy hair and beard, tie-die clothes and all, a tall, rather Baron Corbin looking fellow, if Corbin had his old hair and current gear, a couple of real big ole' fat boys, and a few hilariously goofy looking 70s NWA-esque luchadores.
The match begins and well, it was already loud, but god damn it doesn't get any quieter. Absurdly loud Johnny whatever the fuck chants, screaming for anyone and everyone, from everyone everywhere. Yada yadaing a bit forward, it comes down to 4 guys. Johnny, a big boy, the tie-die faux Janela, and a rather plain, kinda Tony Nese looking guy. This Nese fella slaps the shit outta faux-nela, who I notice rolls outta the ring. He then demands Johnny take his chops and well, and he chops the hell outta Johnny too. He then moves on to big boi. Now, big boy doesn't quite sell it like the other two. No, he returns some chops of his own, and dumps said chopee out the ring.
Alright, now, we know there's three men left, but crowd seems to just think there's the two. And they are. Absolutely. Losing. Their. Minds. Screaming. For Johnny Whatever The Fuck. They go back and forth, reversal, attempt to dump over, skin the cat, so on and so on; you know how this shit works. A woman behind me and to my right continues to make a higher and higher pitched shriek any time Johhny Possibly Her Son almost gets eliminated, or almost eliminates big boi himself. I'm truly scared by her voice. I put my head down and start punching my leg and laughing at the ridiculousness of it.
It's absolute madness, and like I alluded to before, truly reminds me of what it must of been like being around some of those women just absolutely soaking through their jeans when the Ricky and Robert would come into town. I've been in some loud environments; concerts mainly. I saw Slaughterhouse perform shortly after they formed, and when Budden performed Pump It Up, the entire place seemed to decide it would be idea to just start fighting the closest person to them. I have vague memories of security shoving past me to yank some particularly crazy hooligan out the building, and the entire venue being on fucking fire. This woman, screaming for Johhny, honestly seemed louder and crazier than that. And she was just the loudest, or at least loudest and closest to me. She was far from the only person losing her mind, and was certainly not the only one DEVASTATED when big boi finally jumped Johnny Not Gonna Win over the top rope.
The shock and piss didn't last long however, because faux-nela slides back in the ring behind rejoicing big boi, and promptly dumps him. Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner. It's...not a totally popular one, a huge amount were clearly for Johnny, and I assume their boos were directly mainly at the booking rather than the winner, but rest assured I was certainly standing and clapping, if not only because I was so, so very thankful that I didn't have to hear what the woman behind me would have sounded like if her favorite had won.
A decent amount of people leave now that their reletive that begged them to come to the show's match is over, but before I go it's time for Tim Storm vs some random heel idiot. They announce Storm as a former NWA and TCW champion; I'm pretty sure that second one is a TEW promotion and not something that actually exists, but whatever. I don't know what title he's defending, but he's apparently defending a title in this, the main event, but it's not the MSW title, because dog boy did that earlier.
Anyway, it's Tim Storm vs some heel dickhead. He's 54, but he obviously knows what he's doing and works the remaining crowd perfectly. It reminds me of a lot like a current day HHH match, you know what you're gonna get, nothing fantastic, but a solid show.
Heel dickhead has a manager wearing a top hat and constantly waving around a flag with him and his clients faces on it, and he's constantly getting involved. The crowds pissed, the refs pissed, but no one does anything about it.
The ref, for what it's worth, is that 70 year old man I mentioned earlier, AND DOWN HE GOES. Out comes ole' Golden Boy from earlier, and he slides heel dickhead a chair. Heel dickhead smashes Storm's face in, and pins him for the title. Oh. I...wasn't expecting that. Nothing happens either. They just celebrate. No one comes out to demand the match restarts, no one comes out to help, it just ends. Whatever this title was, some dude named checks notes Matt Riviera just won it. It appears he's actually semi-known, but I certainly wasn't expecting it. The manager takes the flag and beats the shit out of Beard (the ref) with it. And then they leave. Beard eventually struggles to his feet, looking pissed off, and hobbles to the back to weak chants of "fear the beard." I think maybe he's gonna drag the manager goon back and fuck his shit up? Or some faces will drag both Riviera and the manager back out? But no, the show just ends. Announcer goons like "ight peace" and that's the show.
My ticket entered me into a raffle that they never announced the winner of, which is another interesting note.
Anyway, all and all, it was a decently fun time. If this post encourages a single person to take a chance and go see a random show they never would have thought about otherwise I'll be happy; I do really think that despite the flaws and loads of things I can, will, and love to make fun of, they can filled with fun moments and just pure enjoyable crowds that...lets be honest, you're not gonna go to an Impact taping and have these same types of moments. Unless any of these promotions DRASTICALLY edit their footage, there's no way their crowds are anywhere near as rowdy and enjoyable as what you'll find if you go to some random shit like this, or a Pro Wrestling EVE combo burlesque karaoke death match event, or the countless other places where you can find guys like Tony Deppen yeeting men without legs straight out their chairs and into the ring.
Broaden your horizons, love life, take some psychedelics or just slowly erode your insides with over the counter medication and have yourself a ball.
TL;DR go fuck yourselves, read the shit in its entirety, or don't, I'm not your dad.
submitted by ANAL_CAVITIES to SquaredCircle

Digital Recordings vs analog

*edited: maybe the band suffered from the 00-09 era from it being a time of too many transitions to maintain at once. Also it was kind of the dark ages of digital recording, which greatly changed grooves and vibes etc. just changed playing too much. Now people have a better handle on it but here was original post
so Been listening to The 00-09 output a fair amount. Much to be made about lifestyles, members and an eroding industry (as in the music biz wiz)
But fuck... these albums have great moments but maybe the appeal, the vibe that’s missing is that they were all made on pro tools? I remember reading about Standing from a guitar world in my hs library in like 1999 and Noel said something to the extent of ‘we used pro tools soon everyone else will too’
... not here to draw straws about the songs themselves from earlier works And oddly both Noel and Liams solo albums really vibe great in the digital realm
But take ‘Dont believe’ It’s so compressed and rigid It sounds like it was made with a fucking iron! (s/o dual disc) It’s like if H&M won a culture war. Not knocking the songs or even Andy Bell - But was just thinking about the digital era and how it hasn’t suited one. Not one - ‘analog era artist’ (except bowie of course)
Does anyone know of be here now was digital? It doesn’t feel that way
Also s/o Standing on the Shoulder of Giants I feel like that had a strong 01010101’s element but still maintained the vibe It was also Sonically wayyy ahead of it’s time (respect to Spike Stent)
If anyone is still reading this can someone link me with outtakes etc? Would love to hear more of the process
Much love
submitted by DamianThirstTrap to oasis

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