That Chelsea Wolfe with King Dude was one of the worst shows I saw this year was no fault of theirs. The sorts of black magical forces they tamper with were exactly the ones that seemed to have been at work against them. She was sick. Members of King Dude were sick. I was sick. A full-on flu hit me at the show. My joints ached. It hurt to even stand still. I fluctuated wildly between suffocatingly hot and shiveringly cold, even though I wore two layers and a jacket. All of that befell me on top of usual cold symptoms. No way was I able to focus on Wolfe's or Dude's cauldron-brewed doom-folk. Still, I didn't have it as badly as one person in the audience who passed out and had to be taken away in an ambulance.
Chelsea Wolfe with King Dude continued my Media Club Curse (see paragraph three of my Angel Olsen review). In hindsight, the show was no big loss: Despite heavily getting into Nick Cave and back into Swans and Michael Gira this past week, I'm mostly past Gothic music, these days.
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