As most of the time at Party.San Metal Open Air, I was late for the photo pit. Not because of traffic or some act of God — no, it was the beer. Endless rivers of cold, merciless beer that demanded respect and steady consumption. And we’re not even counting the mountains of weed no one wants to haul back home. It was a haze-soaked festival law: smoke it now or watch it rot.
So there I was, half man, half alcohol, stumbling toward the pit for Blockheads Grindcore. For thirty years these maniacs have been plowing a direct course into the rotting heart of original grindcore. Call it old school, call it political — either way, it’s a merciless soundtrack to tearing the world apart and laughing at the wreckage.
The lineup was tight: Erik on bass, Nico pounding the drums like artillery, Fred’s guitar a whiplash of distortion, and Xav barking down the microphone like a political hitman. But halfway through the set, Xav made the call — the stage is for pussies. He hurled himself into the chaos, swallowed whole by the circle pit.
From that moment, the world tilted. The pit became a tornado of bodies — people flying, people carried overhead like rag dolls, the air thick with sweat, dust, and noise. Every second was a violent celebration of grindcore’s pure, uncut spirit.
It wasn’t just a gig. It was a ritual. Thirty years in, and Blockheads are still the storm at the center of the madness… 
