Fallon Bowman of Kittie Roseland Ballroom, NYC, 2/15/01 Photo by Winston Smith © 2001 NY Rock

Union Underground, hot off the heels of opening for Marilyn Manson on his recent stint, started off the night with a melodic, dark and dense barrage of moody sounds that was heavy on all fronts. On "Killing the Fly," charismatic lead singer Bryan Scott – sporting an NYPD ski hat – worked the crowd like a charm from atop a podium of steel and glass. Guitarist Patrick Kennison countered with crunchy fuzz and phreaky sounds, adding perfectly to the band's pathos. On "Natural High," Scott's deep baritone and the band's bombastic undertones commanded the crowd to spliff it up and the pungent pleasantries followed.

Bryan Scott of Union Underground Roseland, 2/15/01 Photo by Winston Smith © 2001 NY Rock

Kittie was up next. Four teenage chickadees from Canada (who probably can't even bleed yet) assaulted the crowd with werewolf growls and candy-coated riffs. Singer Morgan Lander's gravelly vocals sounded like a cross between The Exorcist's Linda Blair and Ozzy's aborted love child. Sent to earth from the doldrums of metal hell to avenge teenybopper pop, these ladies rock and have the wild vocal chords to prove it. On "Brackish," an ounce of melody even surfaced from the gothic foursome.

Burton Bell of Fear Factory Photo by Winston Smith © 2001 NY Rock

The evening closer, Fear Factory, stampeded through a set of hardcore that virtually defined the genre. The band rocked, rolled, grunted and frolicked in reckless savagery. Their energy seethed and throbed with so much pumped-up power and angst even I felt like kicking some ass afterwards.

Shirtless, tattooed and beer bellied, singer Burton Bell looked like a white-trash cracker from down south. But, boy, can he howl! Guitarist Dino Cazares looked like a young Jerry Garcia, fat and funky, while bassist Christian Olde Wolbers jumped up and down through the entire set as if some controlled substance were kicking in big time.

Christian Olde Wolbers of Fear Factory Photo by Winston Smith © 2001 NY Rock

The band's sound was mean, lean, and riotous. In the mosh pit, young toughs swarmed around each other like bees in a hive, head banging away. The jungle grunts, house rhythms and screeching guitars all converged on the tune "Edgecrusher." While the crowd chanted and the band peaked, it was as if we were all one in unison with the gothic gods.

I'd like to see Fear Factory in a musical duel or, better yet, a street fight with Limp-Wristed Bizkit. They'd show the wimps how to really rock. All while the girls of Kittie pull pubic hairs off of Fred Durst's jewels. As to the future of metal, boys, you better make room.