A GWAR concert coming to town is an annual event, much like Christmas or Halloween. Each year, we gather again—the faithful and the newly converted—to celebrate, to laugh, to be drenched in blood. As we get older, we remember past holidays and compare them to how they are now. Everything is reframed through experience and perception. GWAR concerts are no different. We still go to Christmas dinner, even though family dynamics change — maybe someone has died, perhaps no one is “playing Santa” anymore, and now the gifts are handed out democratically.
The ritual remains, but the magic shifts. So it is with GWAR. We still go. It feels correct because it connects us to who we were. However, it doesn’t feel exactly the same as it did 20 or even ten years ago. The blood still flows, the monsters still roar, yet standing there, just behind the line of blood, we sense that something has changed.
They have always existed on the edge of chaos, a grotesque blend of satire, violence, and spectacle. Dave Brockie’s Oderus Urungus was the heart of that chaos: clown, prophet, cultural assassin. Live, Oderus utilized humor while skewering politicians, mocking celebrities, and exposing societal absurdities. The satire carried weight, feeling almost dangerous, transforming fake blood into something like unholy water. The shows were nightly cultural critiques.
Brockie’s death in 2014 presented the band with a dilemma: retire the characters and close the mythos, or continue as a living legacy. They chose to continue, resurrecting the group with new members while keeping the masks and rituals intact. However, without Oderus’ unpredictability, ideological bite, and irreverence, something essential was lost.
Throughout GWAR’s history, every album and tour has felt like its own era—from the early punk-infused days and Slymenstra’s fiery dominance, to the wrestling theatrics and the metallic peak under guitarist Cory Smoot. The costumes, tone, and mythology shifted constantly, yet one thing bound them all together: a sense of danger and unpredictability. Each incarnation carried the threat that anything could happen, and often did. The current group, for all their technical prowess and spectacle, feel less dangerous, less volatile, and far more predictable.
The new GWAR retain spectacle. On their most recent tour, they revived Gor-Gor, the horny dinosaur mascot from earlier mythology. Its presence thrilled fans who never witnessed the original crack injection into the egg and reinforced the focus on nostalgia. Legacy characters like Beefcake and Balsac endure, but the individuals who wear the suits no longer carry the ideological weight they once did. Younger fans dive into the pit, reveling in baptism by fake blood, but the experience is framed as controlled fun, not rebellion.
Where Oderus once commanded the stage as a singular, profane ringmaster, the new incarnation disperses dialogue among all members. This ensemble approach dilutes the sense of direction that Oderus carried. More importantly, the unpredictability is gone. With Oderus, you never knew what he might say; he spoke his mind, moody and occasionally dangerous. Today, the dialogue feels scripted, measured, safe. Members like Grodius Maximus inject energy and comedic menace, recalling some of the band’s classic volatility, but the lightning in a bottle of Oderus’ personality is absent.
Part of this shift comes down to current vocalist and frontperson Blothar the Berserker (Mike Bishop). A GWAR veteran, he was fine playing the role of Beefcake the Mighty (bass), but he is not a natural frontman. Anchoring the stage, he provides stability, yet he lacks the feral, unpredictable charisma that Oderus exuded. Oderus—and former member Slymenstra Hymen, for that matter—were alpha aliens: confront them on stage, and you wouldn’t know whether they’d skewer you verbally, physically, or both. That manic energy is dulled today. The targets are more particular, the chaos more choreographed, and the sense that anything could happen has been softened.
Then there was GWAR’s rival, Techno Destructo, who seemed mentally unhinged but also possessed the confidence of one of GWAR’s original minds. As an enemy and occasional peer, he matched the alpha energy of Oderus and Slymenstra, creating genuine stakes on stage. That combination of insider knowledge and unhinged unpredictability amplified the sense that anything could happen. The new GWAR, by contrast, feels softer. You could get on stage, they might mock your hair, and then you might be “eaten” by a monster, but it’s a safe, pillow-like consumption. The danger is performative, the chaos controlled.
Even the music signals this shift. The recent cover of AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood” nods to chaos, yet feels hollow. Blood flows freely, but is devoid of danger or relevant commentary. Mindless splatter for performance, not provocation. New songs, such as “I’ll Be Your Monster,” further illustrate this change. Where older tracks carried venom, political bite, and grotesque humor, this newer material plays like a monster mash sing-along—fun, catchy, and self-aware. The monsters have become entertainers, not executioners.
The villains have shifted, too. Once, George Bush’s head could be lopped off on stage without hesitation. Today, enemies are priests, monsters, and generic authority figures. Although mannequins of Elon Musk and Donald Trump are sometimes mock-executed, social media outrage, corporate concerns, and risk-averse culture have constrained the group. Even Blothar’s upside-down flag waves are more symbolic than ferocious.
In the 1990s, when GWAR appeared on The Jerry Springer Show alongside the Mentors for a “Shock Rock” episode, the pairing made them feel even more dangerous by association. The Mentors were legendary for their obscenity; a band that blurred the lines between satire and depravity until no one could tell the difference.
Next to them, GWAR looked like the same breed of beast: ungovernable, confrontational, and absolutely alien to polite society. It was an era when GWAR could still terrify parents and confuse television hosts—a time when their menace wasn’t just a performance, but a presence. Springer was then shown eaten by a monster on stage, and in the back of your mind, you’d wonder if he survived—even though he appeared moments later interviewing Oderus.
GWAR’s baptism in blood recalls the ritualistic chaos of ICP shows, where Faygo showers serve as initiation and spectacle. Post-Wraith ICP, like post-Brockie GWAR, continue without its original force, generating new fans who experience the spectacle differently from those who came of age with the band’s peak era. Just as The Wraith revealed the secret that “the carnival is god” with the group continuing despite the story being essentially over, post-Brockie GWAR also continues despite his death feeling like a natural end to the story.
GWAR’s blood and theatrics have always carried dual meanings—sometimes demonstrative, when skewering political leaders or icons, and sometimes cartoonish, when unleashing Gor-Gor or devouring celebrities. In recent years, however, the balance has tipped heavily toward spectacle. The performances now emphasize entertainment and accessibility, leaning closer to a horror-themed variety show than a transgressive ritual. Earlier GWAR felt like The Toxic Avenger brought to life—chaotic, unhinged, Troma energy with a gleeful disregard for rules or safety. Today, it is more akin to The Toxic Avenger remake: predictable, choreographed, and more PC.
You can feel this shift most clearly in the crowd. The “GWAR virgin” ritual still survives—newcomers in white shirts pushing toward the pit, eager for their baptism by blood. However, the meaning of that blood has changed. Once, when Oderus ruled, entering the pit felt like stepping into servitude. You weren’t part of the show; you were claimed by it, absorbed into something feral and unpredictable.
Now, the blood feels safer, the chaos more controlled. Everyone’s in on the joke. The audience no longer submits to GWAR; they participate. At all-ages GWAR shows, children are sometimes hoisted onto shoulders as fake priests are dispatched, drawing them into the ritualized chaos. What was once a dangerous theater has become communal entertainment—a family-friendly apocalypse.
The line of blood, literal and metaphorical, is telling. On one side: immersion, surrender, and entertainment. On the other hand: observation, nostalgia, reflection. GWAR now exist on that line, balancing Brockie’s legacy with the expectations of a world unwilling to tolerate actual risk. More fans will join the fun, more blood will fly, and more props will be resurrected, but the bite, critique, and edge have softened.
Standing behind the line, it’s clear that GWAR persist. The characters survive. The rituals endure, but the shows no longer challenge, provoke, or unsettle. They honor what once was, entertaining new generations and celebrating old ones, yet they lack the danger, unpredictability, and ideological power that made GWAR extraordinary. The resurrection continues—vivid, loud, and bloody—but the audacity that once tore through the stage now lingers quietly, restrained behind the line of blood.