Axiom
- Dean Cade
- Aug 13
- 3 min read
Updated: Aug 25
By the end of the 1980s, the punk scene had died out, so I returned to the metal scene. I was old enough to get into clubs but not drink legally. The Axiom was a wretched dive that was perfect for thrash and death metal. In a strange coincidence, it was the final location of the Cabaret Voltaire, the punk club I had snuck into underage.
I was eighteen and had survived some crazy times on the streets. My look was a bit of a greaser throwback. The underground 1950s subculture was cool in the 1980s. I wore blue jeans with a leather wallet and chain hooked to my belt, combat boots, and a leather jacket. I got my jacket at a motorcycle shop back then, when they were unbranded and cool.
The police locked me up in a mental institution on the drug rehab unit four years prior, and the whispers and stories followed me through my adolescence. My interest in gory horror, punk, and metal fueled the image. I had a reputation for being insane, so I learned to lean into it.
In Freeway Manor suburbia, I had a motley group of friends. Once I quit running wild on the streets, my mom convinced me to stay home, and the house became a party house at times. My room, painted midnight blue with black trim, had a Pioneer LaserDisc player and stereo with speakers hanging in the corners, horror posters, and a huge gore collage of bloody victims, monsters, and practical F/X cut out from Fangoria magazines. I also had two VCRs, and I would record film clips, then jack in the stereo to create montages of gore and horror with metal soundtracks on VHS tapes. One example was a tape of some intense war scenes from Platoon, with Slayer thrashing over it.
I saw bands at The Axiom like Cannibal Corpse, Deicide, Morbid Angel, and Nuclear Assault. One night, a death metal friend took me backstage to meet Dead Horse and get high. The moment right before the show—in and out of the green room—was brief but awesome.
One of the most memorable times was when Sepultura played the venue. A Heavy Metal Parking Lot, like the Judas Priest tape, was in full effect the night of the show. Metalheads drank and smoked all around the desolate warehouse club. There was no AC inside, and it was hella hot. I stripped off my shirt, left on my leather jacket, and pushed my way to the front of the stage.
An electric anticipation filled the air as dark, tenebrous shapes moved about. Then the classical Carmina Burana intro pierced my mind. Slow at first, it escalated into the rapturous metal fury of Sepultura’s “Morbid Vision.” Strangers slammed into me, and I stayed glued for as long as I could resist the pull of the cyclone. The brutal, shredding guitars and deep bass against the driving drums and growling vocals drove me to spiral into the mosh pit, hands up, blocking my face. The circle felt like the fifth level of hell—the pit of wrath.
Delirium set in when I was in the pit. I thrived on the masculine energy as I slammed through its chaos. I would mosh in the circle, then shove and fight, releasing my pent-up rage and aggression in acceptable violence. No one knew the thoughts in my head, and I liked it that way, surrounded by muscle and hate. Panting and out of breath in a dopamine rush, I returned to the stage, banging my head, drenched in sweat, ready to go again. The thrash metal experience was darker than the punk scene, but I loved it.
The Sepultura show was by far one of the best concerts I experienced in that era. Unfortunately, there are few surviving pictures of me from that time, but maybe that’s for the best.
Dean Cade
