Is there anything wendythirteen can’t do? She’s a promoter, loving mother, barmaid extraordinaire, and now the Cobalt queen can add bouncer to her résumé. About halfway through Anal Impalement’s opening set on Friday, she jumped out from behind the bar and grabbed a crusty street kid by the scruff of his neck and bounced him out. Well, not out exactly, more like escorted him to a holding pen at the front of the house—the punk-rock equivalent of being sent to the corner. Not one to let a little time-out keep him down, our vested troublemaker happily air-drummed there till it was safe to sneak back to the stage, where singer Ricky Snotrags and his blasphemous death-metal trio were dissing the sweet baby Jesus and shredding through such inviting titles as “Raping the Virgin Mary” and “Syphilis Claus”.

Between sets, the room started to fill and patrons began to engage in Cobalt-specific greeting rituals, such as belching in lieu of the traditional (not to mention tired) handshake. There were also a lot of headlocks, full-contact bodychecks, and my personal favourite, the trachea punch. At any other bar, this gesture would result in a gangland-style shooting, but not at the Cobalt. No, after being floored and winded by a potentially lethal chop to the throat, it’s time for bro hugs!

It was around this time that shameless self-promoters Raised By Apes created an impenetrable wall around Straight photographer Rebecca Blissett and I. As seductive as their pickup techniques were (nothing gives a girl an instant wide-on quite like sticking her head in your pit), we somehow managed to keep our panties on.

After several failed attempts, the RBA boys accused us of being “sophisticated”—the ultimate Cobalt insult. But before the gloves truly came off, Tard hit the stage, and it was back to work. Which meant it was also time for me to make my way to the periphery of the mosh pit, where the unmistakable stench of mildew, B.O., and pepperoni heartburn hit my olfactory receptors in stomach-turning waves.

Luckily, there was nothing stinkin’ about Tard’s new singer, Hilary Muff. Her debut performance blew the openers and headliners off the stage. Decked out in hot pants and a Dying Fetus T-shirt, the tiny peroxide piranha was every devil-saluting dirtbag’s wet dream. Backed by relentless hardcore beats and punishing guitar licks, Muff roared through Tard hits like “Gimpin’ Dat Ass” and “Beastialitard” with a demonic growl that betrayed her size, sex, and species. And just when you thought she was possessed by Satan himself, she’d switch from garburator-gurgling to a bitchin’ ear-pitching scream that brought the house down. And she did it her way, dammit (meaning Muff opted not to defecate on-stage like her predecessor, Jessley Willis, did back when Tard members performed in diapers). And no one seemed to mind one bit. In fact, judging by the crowd’s reaction, Tard’s approval rating with males has gone way up.

Ending the night, Ricky Snotrags was back on vox with his other band, Christpuncher, which sounded oddly similar to Anal Impalement. Needless to say, this was a bit anticlimactic because, let’s face it, if you’ve seen one antichrist death-metal band fronted by Ricky Snotrags, you’ve seen ’em all.