A few years ago, I wrote an article about my experience at Furnace Fest. Afterward, I kept my
head down for a long time. I want everyone to know I love them, in my own odd way, and I still
appreciate the hate my thoughts generated. Keep this in mind: I was there, too, because I love
the music and I love the scene. Granted, I probably sounded like I was shitting on everything.
So I decided to step back. Wait. And now, here’s my second take.
With the corporate overlords moving into uncertain territory, of course there were problems.
But I have to admit, this year’s lineup was stacked with fucking incredible acts Birmingham
wouldn’t normally see. Somehow, the festival felt freer this year than ever before. As for
Saturday, I avoided the hurricane despite my love for Cartel.
Walking in on Sunday, I noticed what seemed like more complications with pedestrian traffic.
Apparently, there was only one entrance. I avoided the whole mess by casually showing up
late. And, to be honest, I walked right past the wristband scanner after going through security.
Just inside the entrance stood the most massive main stage Furnace Fest has ever seen.
Thanks, Peachtree Entertainment.
Suicide Silence was onstage, so I headed as close as I could, passing people who were taking
naps on the ground. That was unusual to me. There wasn’t even a mud pit for people to
wrestle in, as I’d expected. A few rows back, the wall of death split the sweaty bodies. The lead
singer called for everyone to charge in unison. That was my cue to walk the grounds and figure
out the layout.
I made my way to my favorite place on the grounds: the shed, where Winds of Plague was
vibrating the metal walls. I headed toward the back of the crowd. That’s when I had to put in
my earplugs for the first time—not because of the band, but because of the echo. The stacks of
twelve-inch speakers were absolutely overbearing. The mix, though, was on point, especially
for a festival.
The smell of propane at the back of the shed was so pungent that I probably should have
brought nose plugs, too. I watched people dive off the stage into the crowd. Apparently, this
was the first year the shed didn’t have a barricade. Motherfuckers were eating whole boxes of
Asian flare noodles. Even security seemed unsure what was going on. By the time the last stage
diver was lowered to the ground, Winds of Plague was winding down.
I circled the pond in search of the massive collection of mud-covered shitter boxes. To be fair,
the shitters themselves weren’t completely covered in mud. Unfortunately, I had to micturate,
so I found an unlocked door. The floor was covered in something. Shit? Mud? Hard to tell. Fuck
your Docs and Converse. They’re screwed. Party on anyway.
After leaving the porta-potty, I walked around the pond to catch the end of BOLTCUTTER’s set.
A tanned man wearing only his underwear dipped himself into the pond. I wondered whether
he had any idea how full of iron and rust that water looked. What happens at Furnace Fest
stays at Furnace Fest.
The sun was beating down, and some people seemed to have forgotten their sunscreen. The
narrow path between the fence and the pond stage was packed with people lounging and
relaxing. What a refreshing spot: the coolest air, a breeze off the pond and the waft of shit
water. Every word coming from BOLTCUTTER’s singer seemed to sound like “get the fuck up,”
even though everyone was already standing. For the first time, as far as I knew, people were
climbing onto the pond stage and diving off it.
I worked my way around the back of the crowd to the sound tent. A group of classy youngsters
lit what looked like a French cigarette right next to a child wearing ear protection. The mother
looked anything but thrilled and quickly scooped up her son. Judging by the smell, there
seemed to be a lot more weed pens burning than in previous years. Reports said people had
traveled to the festival from across the United States and around the world.
The foot traffic—and the throngs wandering around trying to find their rhythm—certainly
made that easy to believe.
I decided to push my luck and check out the festival’s VIP section. Near the middle of the shed
was an ADA entrance. The day before, a friend had posted on Facebook that someone at an
entrance had supposedly told them wheelchairs weren’t allowed. Yet at the side of the shed
stage, there was a small accessible seating area on a concrete slab. I was glad it existed,
although it looked like people there couldn’t see much of the stage.
I walked past it and into a section I’d never experienced before, straight up the ramp to the
back of the shed stage. More people seemed to be backstage than ever before, and not many
appeared to be wearing VIP wristbands.
I’d heard reports that Furnace Fest’s original curator, Chad Johnson, had said, “We don’t want
Emmure to play; we want more local bands.” With the festival rights sold, Emmure was now
playing. They’re well known on the metal-festival circuit, having formed in Connecticut before
moving to the New York area. Before the set, the singer warned that anyone near the pit was
responsible for their own safety.
Thankfully, I was behind the stage. I knew nothing about Emmure’s music, but their set was
some of the most fun I’d had all day. Mass chaos. Bodies crowded the stage and launched
themselves into the audience. The circle pit stretched almost from one wall of the shed to the
other. I worried about the accessible viewing area, but part of me imagined someone lifting a
wheelchair and carrying its occupant through the crowd. That fantasy never happened. At one
point, I saw a small woman in a bra being punched onstage by a shirtless dude.
“All I want you to do is bang your fucking head.” The gravel shook with the bass. This was why I
was here: to witness the madness and freedom these people were celebrating. Nothing
happening in the outside world seemed to matter inside that shed. Trump could have sent the
first nuke, and the people rocking out to Emmure couldn’t have cared less.
After three hours of headbanging, my back was starting to hurt, so I sat down on the concrete
next to the railing. Suddenly, a security guard came over and hassled me for the first time all
day. His words: “Fire marshal will shut us down if people sit here.” I thought it was bullshit, but
I obliged.
I walked right past the security guard, who was sitting down. Inside the water-tower VIP
section were restrooms that were cleaner—and I do mean cleaner—and a cooler of water. Less
than a minute later, some guy in a blue shirt looked at me. I felt awkward, so I left. I made my
way down the long ramp toward the ADA section, where people sat on the concrete
overlooking the stage. I wondered why the fire marshal hadn’t shown up yet.
Back at the main stage, Norma Jean was playing. This is where I might lose some readers, but
Norma Jean was awful. Yet again. They’ve been part of Furnace Fest since its early days, but the
sound this time was an overmixed mess. I’d read a review that said playing to backing tracks
and prerecorded vocals was a good way to make someone leave a set. Between songs, there
was that stupid radio interference. Sheesh, just fucking play. There’s no need for recorded
interludes reverberating at a volume that hurts your eardrums even through earplugs. It’s not
the 2000s anymore.
I had a good laugh thinking the singer resembled Jack Black. How can you have a band with not
a single original member left? Hard pass. Sorry, not sorry. I walked away.
By then, I was thirsty. I crossed the hay- and mud-covered ground to a food truck selling little
metal mugs that supposedly came with free refills at the soda fountains. The price? Fifty
dollars. I decided a bottle of water sounded better. I later saw reports that the mugs were
repurposed metal cups with stickers slapped on them, and I heard the refill stations were
running low. An open mug with no lid, carried through a dusty, muddy festival with pit dirt
flying everywhere? You’d have to be a complete fool to buy into that money trap. And of
course, I saw plenty of those mugs around.
At the back of the food area, a small white trailer stood out because it didn’t have AI-generated
advertising. It also had the shortest line. I waited patiently, only to discover they were selling
hot dogs and bags of chips. Shout-out to the family running it: Their prices were actually
affordable. Three-dollar sodas and six-dollar hot dogs. Better yet, they were kind to everyone
and got orders out quickly.
After about four hours, the sets were starting to blur together. I hung out at the back of the
shed and listened to Carnifex, a fan favorite. Honestly, I couldn’t understand a word the singer
was saying. Pretty typical for deathcore.
I relaxed near the back of the pond, where people were sitting along the steps. The general
attitude seemed to be: Do what you want. Personally, I thought the seating arrangement was a
trip hazard, and that fire marshal was still in the back of my mind. Maybe I was losing it again at
Furnace Fest. Maybe one guy had managed to spoil the fun. Or maybe I was getting myself
ready to jump into a pit for one of my favorite Midwest emo bands: Free Throw.
Admittedly, Free Throw is a band that’s constantly playing in my personal mixes. Their song
“Two Beers In” got me through a breakup. As the crowd shifted around the pond stage, I
worked my way toward the center, about three rows of bodies from the front. Naively, I’d
never imagined seeing crowd surfers at a melodic math-rock set. I was wrong.
As soon as Free Throw started, a girl in the packed crowd had a panic attack. She screamed, “I
want out!” Being the size I am, I pushed through the bodies and helped her toward the edge.
That’s when I got shoved forward to the pit. I raised my elbows to protect myself and helped a
few people up out of the dirt. I could barely focus on Free Throw’s opening song because I was
so busy watching the pit.
By the time the circle broke up, I’d been pushed to the stage-left corner, where people were
climbing up and jumping off. Oh, how naive I’d been. A roughly four-foot-tall teenager
launched himself from the corner directly onto my skull. My neck cricked, and I heard a small
crack. I helped him back up and sent him floating into the crowd again. It wasn’t going to stop
me from banging my head and enjoying the overstimulation.
I ended up spending more time helping people back onto their feet than listening to the music.
The set flew by almost as quickly as the bodies flying off the stage. Then Cory Castro called out,
“If you know this one, please sing along.” I heard the lyric I’d heard so many times before: “Two
beers in…” And that same four-foot-tall teenager picked that exact moment to come flying past
me again. My favorite moment of the entire festival was everyone singing “fuck everything” in
unison. Despite the neck pain, I wasn’t disappointed at all.
I made my way back to the main stage, where Motionless in White was getting ready. I’d seen
them twice before, both times at Warped Tour in the late 2010s. All I could think was, Look
how far you’ve come. From little stages and back-alley shows to this gigantic Furnace Fest
stage, loaded with fog machines and a laser show that would put Trans-Siberian Orchestra to
shame.
After my earlier pit experience, I’d decided I was getting too old to mosh. I hung back and took
in the black-swan face makeup. Even from a distance, I could see people had come ready to
lose a limb in the pit. The music pulsed in time with flashes of white and red light. Fire erupted
from the front of the stage. Silhouetted stage divers flew through the air and surfed over the
crowd. It was safe to say Motionless in White was on fire, too.
As the night wound down, it felt as though everyone at the festival was waiting for Bring Me
the Horizon. The band had announced a full performance of their debut album, Count Your
Blessings, for its twentieth anniversary. During setup, the video screens displayed an animated
Poo-Chi-style Windows XP help screen. Entertaining, if a little goofy.
Then a K-pop demon appeared and warned everyone that they were getting old and their
knees would creak when they moshed. The crowd laughed at the irony. The warning joked that
the band wasn’t responsible for injuries—except, apparently, Oli Sykes’s own. Suddenly, smoke
and lights exploded across the stage, and Bring Me the Horizon unleashed a screeching growl.
It was a sound that sent the older metalheads straight into nostalgia, and the pit showed it. If
you were there, you know the excitement. That’s all I can say.
As the clock neared eleven, Oli Sykes headed for the corner of the stage and dove into the
crowd as confetti blasted into the air. I had already left, so I saw the moment afterward in
videos. From what I could make out, his leg struck the barrier and people were knocked over. I
also saw an unverified online claim that a woman had broken her leg when he landed on her. I can’t confirm that, and it may be an exaggeration. One thing seemed clear from the footage:
He wasn’t simply caught and gently lowered down.
I’d left early to beat the crowd, so I missed that final burst of excitement in person. As I walked
out under the bridge, which was still filled with trolls, I noticed people standing above and
watching the stage. They had a direct view. Even if you couldn’t afford a weekend pass or a
single-day ticket, you could still take in the spectacle from there.
All in all, despite the corporate takeover, the Rock the Country baggage and what looked like
the biggest crowd yet, Furnace Fest did what it set out to do. We trampled through the mud,
survived a hurricane, brought a hell of a lot of business to Birmingham, probably annoyed
every neighbor within earshot—and it fucking ROCKED.
I can’t wait for next year, when the organizers will have a chance to patch the holes and fix this
year’s faux pas. And hopefully—just hopefully—we’ll get another great lineup, and I’ll finally
get to see Cartel. See you all in ’27.
By the way, if I offended you this time, well, I was the guy selling those fifty-dollar mugs. So
avoid them at all costs.
Written by Pluto, guest author to The Alabama Take
Leave a Reply