Article and Photos by Amy Asche
There are concerts, and then there are “experiences” nights that leave you grinning, battered, and wondering if you’ve just survived a fever dream. On November 5th, 2025, at Denver’s Summit Music Hall, GWAR’s Return of Gor Gor Tour—bolstered by Helmet, Dwarves, and Blood Vultures—delivered exactly that. Bonus: it was my 44th birthday, a full moon hung over the city, a meteor shower flashed silver above, and even Atlas 31 was rumored to be speeding through the solar system. As if the universe itself had RSVP’d to my party.
My crew and I rolled up with VIP passes, stoked for the sold-out show. The buzz on Blake Street was thick as syrup; fans in clean white shirts, stained denim, studded vests, and the occasional homemade costume, pressed against the doors, waiting for them to open. The Summit’s brick-and-beam skeleton seemed to vibrate with anticipation—tonight, it would be tested.
The night ripped open with Blood Vultures, who wasted zero time warming up. Their set was a barrage of New York metal—tight, loud, and merciless. The early crowd pressed hard against the rail, faces lit by the strobes and pure, reckless energy. Blood Vultures’ set was short but lasting, the perfect jolt to prime the night.
Then the Dwarves hit the stage. In true Dwarves fashion, their set was a hilarious, offensive, and utterly unhinged blast. Blag Dahlia and company whipped through punk anthems like “We Are the Scene” and “Devil’s Level,” each song landing like a punchline and a punch in the gut at once. The pit started to churn, and anticipation coiled tighter.
Helmet followed, and the room collectively lost its mind. Page Hamilton’s guitar tone cut through the crowd like a buzzsaw, with “Unsung,” “Life or Death,” and “Tic” detonating the floor. Helmet’s precision—groovy and punishing—had the room in a frenzy, sweat dripping from the ceiling. By the time the last note rang out, the Summit was a powder keg ready to blow.
And then—the reason we were all here. The lights dropped. The crowd, already at a fever pitch, erupted in a primal chant: “GWAR! GWAR! GWAR!” The room vibrated as the Evil Ringmaster stormed the stage, launching into “Circus Train Disaster.” Suddenly, all hell broke loose: fake limbs, geysers of neon blood, and the first row instantly drenched in the infamous GWAR baptism.
You don’t just attend a GWAR show; you "wear" it. The pit became a joyous, headbanging mosh of grinning fans, arms raised, voices hoarse, faces streaked with sticky red. Each song—“Filthy Flow,” “Metal Metal Land,” “Saddam a Go-Go,” “Crack the Egg”—brought fresh theatrics, and yes, even more “body fluids.” The band’s absurdist, horror-comic stagecraft is as much a part of the spectacle as the music itself.
By the time GWAR blasted into “Bring Back the Bomb” and “Fuck This Place,” the line between audience and performers dissolved. We howled every word, drenched and delirious in the chaos. The Summit floor looked like a war zone; the only casualties were our clean shirts and maybe some eardrums.
Turning 44 in the middle of this mayhem, VIP crew at my side, under a full moon and a meteor shower—there was no better way to celebrate. GWAR’s show is pure, undiluted catharsis: heavy metal, absurdist theater, and communal exorcism all at once. It’s a spectacle that words can barely capture—you have to live it, taste the blood spray, and feel your heart hammer in your chest.
By the end of the night, the Summit staff—heroic as ever—handed out water and restored some sanity to the chaos. We stumbled out, ears ringing, shirts crusted crimson, faces aching from laughter.
If you’ve never seen GWAR, you owe it to yourself to enter the pit at least once. It’s not just music; it’s art, comedy, and pure heavy metal insanity. And for one night, on my birthday, with the cosmos putting on its own show overhead, it was the best party in the universe.
