Somehow, through the dense gloom of grief, Arthur Rizk – guitarist, producer and underground metal’s unsung hero of the century – managed to put together a tribute show for his bandmate Brad Raub, whose untimely death earlier this year crushed anyone who had the pleasure of knowing him. Rizk kept it within the family for this gig, stacking the bill with four bands of which he is an active member. It would be a marathon performance for him, no doubt, but Rizk is nothing if not inexhaustibly dedicated to his loved ones, as well as electric guitars blaring out of double Marshall stacks. I’ve known him since he was sixteen (and Brad since he was thirteen!), and while the finality of it all smacked me with a fresh wave of sorrow I naively didn’t see coming, the countless friends, kinfolk and fans that packed the grimy cement-basement walls of Underground Arts over capacity supplied a bittersweet warmth.

Sumerlands were first to take the stage, Brad’s ashes in a black canvas Manowar tote overseeing the event from atop a speaker stack. Sumerlands are probably Rizk’s least popular group, but that wouldn’t be the case if I was in charge of doling out popularity, as their dark, sensual take on late ’80s major-label thrash-metal is truly inspired. With two Relapse albums to their name, vocalist Phil Swanson opened the set with material from the group’s self-titled debut (on which he sang). With the packed crowd starting to warm up, Swanson respectfully passed the mic to current Sumerlands vocalist Brendan Radigan, whose theatrical howl and skulking stage-moves added a glorious jolt of energy to the proceedings. Swanson’s stoic delivery could verge on 2D, whereas Radigan was animated and dynamic, embodying his role of an ominous, mischievous metal cleric. Radigan sang on the group’s sophomore effort, Dreamkiller, and he belted out my personal fave “Twilight Points The Way” with impeccable range, proving that his pipes required no studio trickery (which reminds me – did Chris Jericho ever refute Sebastian Bach’s claims of lip-synching?). If Radigan was humorless, he could be the Steve Perry of modern metal, but his banter about Brad “gooning from Valhalla” was the most entertaining tribute of the evening. Along with Eternal Champion, Brad played bass in this group, his lines replaced by a backing track on stage as Rizk and John “Newjohn” Powers locked into dazzling dual-lead guitar solos for the first of many times that night.

Up next were War Hungry, Rizk’s group of which I had the least familiarity. I’ll be honest, I checked out War Hungry’s 2011 self-titled full-length when it came out and didn’t care for it at all, and it had been just as long since I had given them a second thought. It would seem I have some catching up to do, then, as it took half a brain cell for me to appreciate their meaty mix of Pantera riff-logic and NYHC beatdown breaks. If these are the same songs I heard on that full-length thirteen years ago, I have no idea where I went wrong or how my perception (or the band’s delivery) has changed. Whereas the crowd was respectfully stagnant for Sumerlands, bodies were soaring and flailing in typical revved-up hardcore fashion from the moment War Hungry set it off. It came to an abrupt halt after maybe five songs, however, as one stage-diver was unlucky enough to find a body-less space, landing head-first on the cement. Knocked out cold, the band had to pull the plug mid-song, and while I was not about to push my way through the crowd just to rubberneck someone’s terrible luck, an unexpected half-hour delay took place as an ambulance was called and the diver was stretchered out. With modern capital-H hardcore’s preference for these speedy headfirst dives at obtuse diagonal angles off the sides of the stage, I’m surprised this sort of gnarly situation isn’t more common. I figured that was it for War Hungry’s set, as the spirit of the room sagged considerably while everyone wondered if this guy would regain the ability to move his hands and feet (I heard that he did), but War Hungry picked up where they left off for a few more songs (and almost immediately, the dives resumed).

I get the impression that Rizk is a hired-gun for War Hungry and Cold World, but he’s one of the primary songwriters for the two non-hardcore metal groups that performed, Sumerlands and Eternal Champion. One of the few contemporary metal groups for whom having an “official fan club” makes sense, Eternal Champion ushered forth their fantasy power-metal with full commitment, vocalist Jason Tarpey emerging in a fearsome chain-mail coif (that I believe, as a literal blacksmith, he forged himself). Their galloping, epic metal thrilled the more Dungeons & Dragons-leaning members of the audience, ready to throw up their signs-of-the-hammer in glorious adulation. Seeing as Manowar played their only US show last month in what must’ve been years and most of us missed it, an Eternal Champion show is as close as we’re gonna get to this level of fully-committed, triumphant metal heroism, Rizk’s riffs shifting through motifs redolent of ’90s Metallica, ’80s Judas Priest and all eras of Manowar with the blink of a dragon’s eye. I take my thirteen year-old son to a comic shop specifically for the excellent recommendations given by the young-ish long-haired guy who works there (he finished Urasawa’s Monster series, what should he read next?), and lo and behold, that friendly cashier was right up front for Eternal Champion’s entire set, arms raised in invisible-oranges pose and head thrashing about in pure ecstasy. Next time we stop by, I’m going to casually sprinkle some Helloween song titles into our conversation and see if he bites.

Before Cold World took the stage, I did what any self-respecting Cold World fan would do and hit their merch table! Thirty dollars and one Operation Ivy-parody T-shirt later, I bumped into personal mosh icon Jay Scheller, who I first spotted in front of the stage for War Hungry’s set. He told me he’s been listening to a lot of Roc Marciano and Elucid and urged me to do the same, and we bemoaned the loss of Double Decker Records (the place I first met Brad), having just past the first anniversary of its closing. Even on a regular night, Cold World brings out a crowd filled with old friends, but alongside those who primarily came to honor the memory of Brad Raub in attendance, you couldn’t do a windmill without clocking a friendly acquaintance in the nose. The guy who runs a well-curated bookstore in Fishtown was there (I didn’t know he liked this kind of hardcore – the gold chain he wears should’ve been a clue); a bandmate of mine talked to his pal in Pissgrave who confirmed their third LP is nearing completion; another friend revealed to me that noise impresario DJ Dog Dick and fashion designer Lauren Manoogian (who needs to release a men’s line already!) were high-school best friends. This goofy cross section of benevolent gossip echoed the spirit of Brad, a guy who would always somehow already be friends with the least likely people in the room. The world is a dimmer place without his cheerful, unguarded extroversion, though I felt it in practice that night.

Which brings us to Cold World. An argument can be made that they are the last innovative hardcore band, and while I’d be happy to have that discussion with you offline, there is no squabbling about the dynamic power of the group onstage. After a lengthy delay (c’mon Arthur, three other sets and you can’t find a working guitar cable??) featuring a lot of Supertramp over the PA and the anxious on-stage guitar noodling of WarZone and Underdog classics, Cold World dove in and didn’t look back. Three guitars strong and riding high after an unassailable 27-13 Eagles victory earlier in the evening, the crowd was fully committed to shouting Dan Mills’s words back at him, louder than any microphone could be. As bodies continued to fly, little guys in fitted caps and giant guys with diamond earrings all materialized in a pit that was equal parts frenzied, communal and dangerous – a decent shorthand definition for hardcore itself. Finishing his sweatiest set of the night (even with a fresh shirt for each band – the Sepultura hockey jersey was my favorite), I hope Rizk felt at least some fraction of the love that he has given to all these excellent bands, and his dearly missed friend, back from all of us.