If you went back a decade, got an indie kid and a black metal dude together and told them that bands from their respective genres would one day play shows with each other in perfect harmony, you’d get two reactions: the indie kid would turn reclusive for weeks, listening to his vinyl copy of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures morning, noon and night in an attempt to expunge the idea from his fragile mind; the black metal fan, conversely, would grab his torch and set the nearest church ablaze in an effigy to the almighty Thor while crying till his corpsepaint ran. But on November 16, 2007 at the Hawthorne Theater in Portland, this unthinkable scenario took place.

And who was it who brought these two disparate genres together in the same venue? Why, it was L.A. experimental metal titans Isis, of course. Seeing as the quintet is my favorite band, and that they were playing a mere hour and a half drive form my apartment in Eugene, it was imperative I attend. A quick call to my buddy Sam a week before the date to secure a ride was all it took to ensure my presence at the gig, which was also the third night of the West Coast leg of the tour in celebration of Isis’ 10^th anniversary as a band. In other words, it was destined to be monumental.

The indie rock and black metal bands opening were 27 and Wolves in the Throne Room, respectively. The former hails from Isis’ original home of Boston, while the latter finally emerged from their farm deep in the woods of Olympia, Washington to bless the diverse audience with their hypnotic musical attack.

The scene that greeted Sam and me upon entrance to the venue was straight out of any sane music fan’s nightmare. Long-haired heshers sporting Burzum shirts stood side by side with mop-topped high schoolers, carabiners hanging from the buckles of their skinny jeans, the pants of which shrouded pairs of well-loved Chuck Taylors in a declaration of scene allegiance.

Perhaps more conspicuous than the audience were those involved with the bands. Due to the venue’s relatively small dimensions, the openers were forced to share a merch table, resulting in a curious situation. The first to set up at the empty table was none other than 27 frontwoman and owner of one of the prettiest voices in rock, Maria Christopher. As we discussed the tour and my complete infatuation with her singing (to which she humbly thanked me in her raspy Boston accent), Wolves in the Throne Room’s merch guy began setting up. The bearded monstrosity solemnly proceeded to drape a velvet cloth over his half of the table on which he lit three wax encrusted candles after surrounding their bases with a pair of deer antlers. As Ms. Christopher and I finished our conversation, I overheard Wolves’ guitarist/vocalist Richard Dahlen regaling mountain man with his tale about the wolf he killed and skinned to make the pelt he was wearing to keep himself warm on this particularly cold night in Portland. If that’s not metal, I don’t know what is.

It was around this time that Maria and company took the stage and opened the show with a torrent of blissful guitar lines, gorgeous keyboard atmospherics and, of course, soulful vocals. As they played through their set, more people filed into the cramped front section of the venue, as the gathering in the back half drank in both the sweet harmonies of 27 and the finest beer Portland had to offer. A great opening indeed.

By the time 27 finished their set and cleared the stage, the Hawthorne was crammed with everyone from the aforementioned scene kids and metalheads, to reporters frantically scribbling their thoughts on notepads, curious locals who just wanted to see live music, and members of the other bands present. Isis frontman Aaron Turner stood within spitting distance of Sam and me. Not that I would want to spit on the underground legend; I was instead restraining myself from approaching him and rambling on about how powerful and incredible his band is…again.

The room glowed ominously as Wolves in the Throne Room took the stage, sans a bassist. In the course of their half hour set (which translates to about three songs), the guys not only proved they “don’t need no stinkin’ low end,” but that they are deadly serious about their music. As they ripped through blast beat after uncompromising blast beat, a gang of intoxicated twenty-somethings jumped the barrier between the bar and the standing area in an attempt to start a pit. Arms flailed, fists were swung, and Aaron Turner frowned a spiteful frown. You see, Wolves aren’t your average black metal horde, and, in an effort to stop the moshing before it got out of hand, our buddy Richard stopped his shredding and screaming mid-song, pointed authoritatively at the bunch, and delivered his only cleanly spoken word of the evening: “stop.” When a 250 pound man wearing the fur of a wolf he skinned with his bare hands speaks, you’d better listen up.

It seemed to be a night of large, hairy men. Minutes after the moshers took their leave, a behemoth decked in an In Flames shirt, having noticed my own metal tee (Morbid Angel), turned to me and threw the horns in salutation. I hoisted my response, and his head banged to and fro from its lofty perch on the tree trunk he was passing off as a body, blond hair flying through the air in glistening swathes.

Wolves killed their set a few minutes later and the main event began. Isis plodded through an hour plus, career spanning set; their progressive doom metal deafening everyone in attendance. Buildings collapsed, the ground opened up, and we were sucked into the abyss that is the live Isis experience. Maria Christopher even joined the fray to lend her vocals to a particularly hypnotic song, her breathy croon colliding with Turner’s growls like a matter/antimatter annihilation.

With the set over, I hit up the merch table one last time to buy a limited edition tour poster, which I promptly covered with my sweatshirt in anticipation of the rain that surely awaited Sam and me after we exited the venue. In a stroke of luck, the air was dry, and we made it to the car without a single drop on my precious cargo. Ears ringing, we drove into the night, renewed by the aural bliss we had just taken in. It was, in a word, monumental.