6O HOURS AND 24 INCHES
"Ok man, so we're headed out to Oklahoma to do the film premier of this
little independent movie called DADBOT that we made and after fifteen hours
of straight driving we're finally out of steam and out of gas so we pull
over the van in this little town called Cuba, Missourri. Ever heard of this
fucking place?"
The trucker starts smiling and nodding his head. "Oh yeah bro, I know
exactly where you're talking about."
"Fuck yeah, I'm not insane then! This place really exists."
The trucker keeps nodding and smiling. "Yeah man, I live about a hundred
miles west of it. It's the last place on god's green earth that you want to
end up. Ain't nothin' to do in that little shithole."
"No doubt about that," I say, ready to spew out the strange tale. "So yah
man, not only is there a drive in theatre playing two full servings of
Passion of The Christ on repeat long past it being on DVD for six months,
but there's a Jack In The Box on the corner of the interstate. We'd never
had it before and it was on the checklist of to-do items. So we walk up and
get tacos. This weird looking, skinny 19 year old chick is working the front
counter and takes her break on the spot to jabber at us. She drags us out to
her car and while chain-smoking tells us this shit about how Cuba is the
crystal meth capital of the United States and that we need to protect
ourselves. She hands us this street-gang looking hunting knife and tells us
to watch our backs. At this point in time, it's getting dark, and all we
want to do is drink a few beers at the local dive. We're walking to town
down these dark streets with creepy willow trees hanging over everything
like its New Orleans, and we get to this bowling alley. There are three
people inside and they won't look at us, like they just chopped someone's
body up in the background. They are ugly fuckers, and they look rotted out
like an H.P. Lovecraft New England Town."
The trucker's eyes light up in a strange, horrified bemusement. "We go three
more blocks into town because we still want to drink. When we get there,
it's the main street of the tiny town, and there are huge mural paintings of
farmers and cows all over the walls of the shops. All these Amish people
dressed in black, and everyone in the painting – the farmers, the chickens,
the cows – have pitch black eyes. Live evil insect eyes. And they're not
doing anything. They are all standing there, watching you, with their plows
and rakes limply at their side. Even the cows are staring blankly at you
with these soulless, black eyes. It was Children of the Fucking Corn man."
The trucker looks ever so fascinated. "Then we walked to the end of the
murals and there was this street with a dozen Texas Chainsaw Massacre
looking houses, and all of them had these human sized dolls sitting on
rocking chairs. We fucking ran all the way back to the motel."
The trucker just laughs, and for the next twenty minutes hammers me with sad
stories of trucking interstate loads for 19 cents a mile, gas not included.
He was stuck, like all these other displaced people, in the middle of St.
Louis Greyhound depot, rerouted or otherwise immobile due to the ginat 24
inch blizzard that had engulfed the entire middle of America. Our normal
route was to be through Denver, but the poor saps in Colorado are now stuck
there for up to three days. All of Texas devoured in white, the desert winds
searing a negative 20 degree chill. If it isn't a hurricane, it's Old Man
Winter's bitch-fist. Elemental bastards, stay out of my damned Valhalla…
So I commit these thoughts to mental calligraphy, awaiting the opportunity
to purge. Barely a day into this thing, and I have yet to recognize the
extent of what I've done. In a drunken whirlwind, not thinking the subject
over too clearly, I declared the creation of a new book via international
press release called "THE BIG SHINY PRISON." In it, I tell the world that I
now travel America for a year straight, drifting town to town, interviewing
bands and the personalities thereof, penetrating music scenes as I ping-pong
across the country totally D.I.Y. I have no energy, I have no publisher. I
have no game plan, I have no structure. All I possess is a backpack, a
duffel-bag, and an old-school cassette recorder. And I have no money except
for the $1200 I saved up in December which is to last me until the end of
March.
The money itself does not cover any kind of motel or rent arrangement. It
barely covers the fares of Greyhounds to destinations still vaporous and
unbooked. I have no real idea where I'm going for certain except a loosely
constructed list of bands, pr men, zine proprietors and promoters that have
no idea I'm crashing their way. I rely totally on the willingness of those
parties I can drag into this thing. None of that really matters though for I
have Myspace, the thunder of the gods…
The book I have espoused is not the book which will be printed. I have been
bored to the point of hammering nails through my face by the shoddy
journalism of heavy metal. The only well-known books available are
ultimately handcrafted from some writer making dozens of phone calls, and
typing away his conversations into a paint-by-numbers expose in which we
hear all too often the word "brutal" to describe everything.
No, this isn't my realm. I am not interested in what guitar strings they
use, I am not interested in their perceptions of rumbling drop D noise. It
is the soul of the performers I seek. It is less a book about music than it
is a sociological unearthing. Character studies, their environments, their
dreams, hopes and aspirations. To even call it a book about music is
misleading. What I seek is the soul. The real underground, the very
substance and inertia as to why people choose to live this way. What are
they fighting for? What are they fighting against? And most importantly, how
alone in my views am I? What is the common thread? Does the magical world I
once looked upon in magazines and onstage when I was 17 even exist? And in
the end, what do I hope to find?
So I let myself fall into this cocoon, my physical body screaming in
constant pain from a jigsaw skeleton of pinched nerves. No chiropractor, no
therapy, no respite. One full year of road with no stopping, my last
sacrifice to journalism before I can walk away, form a new band somewhere,
discover my queen and live a real life. This book will be just as much about
the artists and freaks I encounter as it is the hard reality of trying to
write this book. This isn't a Kerouac rip-off. This isn't Hunter S.
Thompson. This is akin to Christian Bale wandering the earth in Batman
Begins for seven years, recreating himself in steel. It is just as much
about me as it is all of them, because our struggle is unanimous.
Surely, I will be sued. I will be misconstrued, I will be laughed at by
dunderheads who think so small that the intensity and mission of such a
project will fly miles above their heads. Yet it does not detour me. Some
will ignore me, some will offer sanctuary. No matter the situation I find
myself in, I will play by the rules I am confined by, and weave in and out
of these undergrounds by stealth, and if all else fails, keep them amused by
whacky anecdotes before the clock runs out and I can jump back into the
safety that is the Greyhound purgatory.
The plan is to avoid big bands unless they seek me out or are right there
waiting to go. It is not my job to promote those already promoted. Instead,
I seek the unknown, the struggling, the fringe. I am out to prove the point
that no answer is ever the answer, and that reality is only in the eye of
the beholder. I will hunt down the most extreme of personalities from the
right and the left. I will let the recorder roll in front of views as
confrontational as possible. From pagan militants to Christian rockers. From
"Goth Idols" to street-dwelling crust punks. From neo-nazis to flaming
homosexuals. Every monster possibility in America, every inch of its seedy
underbelly will be thrust into the spotlight…
But one must take into consideration where I stand, and for uninitiated
squares, must give a run-down of the various subcultures I will be
encountering. The main focal points will always be that of metal, punk,
industrial, experimental and all-out rock n' roll. This does not prevent me
from any side missions capturing the essence of any demented freak, artist,
or politico that I encounter. Because in the end, any freak is somehow
connected to the grand scheme in my humble opinion.
As for myself, I don't proclaim any particular label. My background and
environment was aggressively against tags. All of us, no matter our personal
beliefs, no matter the way we dressed or music we identified with, were
considered by society to be "freaks." There was no differentiation in the
eyes of those we constantly rumbled with. To be called a freak and get spat
upon, harassed by cops, or forced to fight five or six jocks was a insult of
vast privilege. It was a pride of distorted quasi-nationalism.
I do believe that Detroit has always maintained this as a strong backbone.
That is one of the main reasons its always been known as "Rock City." There
is a true brotherhood and integrity where the outsiders instinctively have
each others backs – especially in the metal community. There is an unspoken
code and right of defense. It is another reality in which I seek to explore
-- is this hard-assed unity in areas both far and wide?
As for the pinpointing of subcultures, we have to break it down into main
categories, and the various tactics and strategies for dealing with all of
them…
The Punks: There are so many strands of where this could go – skins, crusts,
skaters, greasers, sXe. You have a huge mass of people from left wing to
right, but that is the standing of every subculture. I've always felt this
is the most "iffy" territory that can be traveled. Either people are
extremely cool about everything, like Rick James cool, or they are
pretentiously radical and fickle about every minuet detail.
Here you find the most panoramic view of politics in music. There isn't a
punk rocker alive that doesn't claim knowledge about some government
conspiracy or that has any true love for authority. This is the undisputed
best feature. No matter the level of intelligence, punks at least have read
a book or two in their lifetime. They at least have a sense of adventure.
And none have more of a sense of adventure then "the crustie."
The crustie is the closest thing to a land-based neo-pirate that you'll ever
find. They are street kids that have discovered freedom in disowning
everything; literal hobos all on some wild mission to overthrow culture or
simply overthrow society from their livelihoods. Hitchhikers, train-hoppers,
panhandlers, dumpster divers, they often travel in small, tightly-knit
groups before they get to the designated cities in which The Black Flag has
been raised. Here they form in packs and hustle the streets, sleeping in
parks or cracking the street system until they know how to get free food,
shelter, money, medical services, clothing. They are commonly known as
"crust punks," "squatters," "scumfucks," or the like.
When the tide suits them they are ultra-communal. Everyone shares what they
own, especially drugs and booze. They are united in their perpetual
self-destruction, and have an over-whelming hatred of squares and
clean-cuts. Some have been on the road for up to ten years, but many are
fresh crops who seek themselves for a few years before finding something
solid, whether it due to burn-out or physical collapse. They are mockingly
known as the "communism forever for now" crowd. They live fast and burn fast
like a tide of seasonal locusts. Those who die young are eulogized into
crustie folklore. Legends are literally spread like fables across the world.
In other words, "His name is Robert Palsin."
I will probably find myself traversing with many of these shadowy
characters, especially in larger cities where I may have difficulty in
finding a place to crash. There is always a squat somewhere, always a way to
get some food, and plenty of more secretive avenues that can be explored as
long as you dangle a 40oz in front of someone's face. It is the ultimate
bargaining chip. A bottle of Mickey's goes fast among twelve alcoholics so
hardcore they're puking blood. The only problem is that you have to keep
supplying it, or trick them into thinking your broke. Either way, ten bucks
in Steel Reserve is far cheaper than sixty bucks for a motel.
Plus it's far more fun. When you hang with crusties, you drink and drink and
drink or you're ass is kicked back into the street. Everyone dies together,
that's the rule. You also truly have to earn their respect or stay up until
you're the last one to pass out, because if you make the fatal mistake of
falling asleep while everyone is at their liver-annihilating prime you run a
high risk of "Beer Elf" danger. Expect your clothing to be sewn together
with dental floss and your face covered with magic marker, David the Gnome
style…
The skinhead is the antithesis of the crustie. Skinheads are not Neo-Nazis,
as this confusion is simply the outcome of media disinformation. Neo-Nazi's
do exist, but they take many shapes and forms and can be found in any
subculture regardless. Real skins are for the most part SHARPS, which stands
for "Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice." The skinhead thing was a WHOLLY
BLACK movement which originated in Britain. Black immigrants worked
mercilessly on dockyards and shaved their heads to avoid lice, in the
process gaining a specific look with Lonsdale Boots, suspenders, etc. They
were the working class backbone of the UK, and established a unified
underground in filthy Taverns on the outskirts of London. The centerpiece
was always Oi dancehall music, a component of Reggae. Oi eventually crossed
all racial boundaries, developed into ska, and was imported to the United
States and other areas in Europe. In the late 70's it really began to
explode alongside punk rock's growing phenomenon.
Skins are for the most part heavily nationalistic, and pride themselves on
their blue-collar position. Strongly tied to the bonds of family and
friends, they live a disciplined, clean-cut way of life. But they also drink
like fish, and have a tendency to ignite random bar-fights. They also have a
nasty, violent belligerency while unrestricted in humongous gatherings. On
their own they can be quite amusing, although don't be surprised if you
witness a brawl within a few weeks of hanging...
The crusties love to fight and pride themselves on their knuckle scar
tissue. But they mainly just fight each other, keeping their violent
impulses communally centered as to avoid any police presence. The crusts are
fanatical about their separation from society, and would rather bleed to
death from a stab wound in a gutter then call the police and degrade
themselves by snitching. Society is not an option, except as sheep to con
and panhandle.
Both crusties and Skins and highly secretive, because they are marked
targets for law enforcement, and the government has trained forces actively
trying to stamp them both from existence. If you ever get pulled over or
spotted walking with a crust or a skin, be prepared to be searched, if not
beaten up or arrested over a bogus charge. Skins however are friendlier to
cops and to military personal in general because they stand for the
middle-class, structured lifestyle. They can talk most cops out of anything,
so long as there's no rum in their belly.
Still, there is no denying that 90% of police – especially outside of any
major metropolitan area -- are the eternal enemies of both factions. The
police rare as Leprechauns that truly are supportive remember being young
and somewhat rebellious in high school, but were so sheltered from the harsh
realities of the underground that all they ever did was wear a t-shirt or
collect some vinyl before entering their profession. This lucky handicap
makes said outcast immune due to the foolish naivety of the officer himself…
Regardless of the shared legal and social situation of both groups, it
should be no surprise as to their mutual antagonism of each other. The skin
stands for order and discipline; the crustie total destruction and the
shunning of all responsibility. Still, they are systematically chained to
each other by being a part of the same counterculture lifestyle, albeit two
absolutely separate movements within the punk mainframe.
The straight-edger (sXe) is also the antithesis of the crustie, but 80% of
skins as well. They maintain the unity and discipline the skins have, but
straight-edgers get their name from their refusal to use drugs in any form.
This normally doesn't sit well with a tanked bulldog of a skin, who will
force them to take a shot, thus erupting in a surge of violence.
Straight-Edge came from Ian McKaye and the Minor Threat crew, who in time,
also drank themselves silly by their late 20's. Straight-Edgers are of three
types. First are those who've decided not to do drugs because they've seen
their friends or older siblings get wasted on bad shit like heroin or meth.
They usually don't push their views on other, and no one has a problem with
them, although they choose to rarely go to parties or concerts.
Second are the ultra-leftist, anti-hamburger, rambling Vegan self righteous
types. Many of them are also celibate. They stick to their own, because they
hate everyone else anyway.
Lastly, there are the ultra right-wing "Revolutionary Straight-Edgers," who
are a new brethren of Blackshirt. They are fascists, pure and simple,
fighting for a totalitarian utopian vision. They literally attack drug users
in the streets, show up with twenty-deep crews and jump stoners at concerts,
or otherwise commit lewd acts of violence in subservience to their ideals.
In Salt Lake City for instance, such a group was switchblade carving
gigantic X's (the sXe mark often tattooed on hands or elsewhere on the body)
in the backs of any cigarette smoker or intoxicated person that
unfortunately had a run-in with them on the streets.
There are many groups such as this, particularly in Cincinnati, SLC,
Detroit, LA, and Washington DC. Many of them gravitate towards hardcore and
metalcore bands like Hatebreed, Throwdown, etc. They have formed an unholy
alliance with the meatheads, and none really want any part in this.
As for other sub-types, you have the skaters, greasers, and a vast gray area
that actually takes up the largest percentage. Skaters are typically
free-wheeling, hard-partying, drunken vandals. Most every punk has been a
skater at some point when younger. It usually dies out by the time most hit
23. I've never understood the antagonism that makes skate-boarding a crime –
a literal crime in 90% of America. If the police see you skateboarding you
will either be ticketed, beaten, searched for no reason, or arrested on a
bogus charge.
Riding a BMX is of course legal, but to ride a skateboard screams 40oz's,
spray paint vandalism, fistfights, drug use, and a raging hatred of
authority. Yet skaters are mainly harmless, a fun-time escape from the macho
control mechanism of various pigs in their life. You have no idea how many
kids I've known that have went to Juvey or Boot Camp for nothing other than
this innocent past-time.
The greasers are exactly what you'd expect. They include the entire
rockabilly, psychobilly, classic 50's rock n' roll crowd. They are more
cartoonish and laid back then anything, and have a flair for bringing back
the world of James Dean and The Wild One. You'll know them by their
pompadours, their greased, aero-dynamic, jet-black dyed hair, leather
jackets, chain-link belts, hot rods, choppers, and girlfriends that have a
visual nod or fetish for Bettie Page or Marilyn Monroe. Cops don't really
fuck with these guys, but they might pull them over to talk about their cool
cars and flame-paint jobs. There might be clandestine games of high-speed
chicken on dirt-roads, although I've never heard of any West Side Story
switchblade fights.
These are zany folks with a hard-on for Americana. They drink heavy, but
rarely are seen into any other hard drugs, except maybe some acid or
mushrooms on rare occasions, or maybe a hush-hush line of cocaine at 3am.
They happen to get along ok with all of the various groups, and no one picks
fights because they don't particularly stand for any great social message,
although the ultra-anti-capitalist crusties may holler something about their
gas-guzzling chop-jobs…
No one wants more to deal with moderates than the metal scene, who by and
large tend to be a little more right wing on certain aspects. You could sum
up the vast majority of the metal scene's mentality by the simple phrase,
"shoot first and ask questions later." The metal-heads did not cling to this
music for the sake of artistic protest. It is more a simulated riot
alongside a bombastic wall of noise that taps into a primal need for
droning, trance-like states. Here you will find those into grind, doom,
power, death, black, viking, thrash, and all varied sub-genres. Each
sub-genre has their own variation of mentalities, although rarely as opposed
to one another as the punks tend to be. Politics are of course engaged upon
in lyrics and physical art, but rarely to the point of shoving it down
anyone's throat.
Metal-heads generally want to get hammered, run around in circles, slam into
each other, bullshit music, party, meet fellow brethren, watch fucked up
horror films, and leave the constant political diatribes to another
occasion. They don't feel the need to dental floss their clothes together to
fight the mass marketing of corporations. They don't want anyone to bitch at
them for eating a hamburger and playing into the wholesale murder of animals
with feelings.
There is a stereotype known as The Beavis & Butthead syndrome, in which the
outside world sees only this vague, Wayne's World mentality. There are of
course plenty of morons in metal, but idiots constitute themselves in all
walks of life. The real metal scene generally avoids these folks at all
possible costs, and they can be seen just as much in the crowds of Ozzfest
as they can a monster truck rally (but then again, so can I).
In reality, the smartest people I have ever known have all been into extreme
metal. Those deeply involved stay far away from mainstream tours, don't
watch MTV, don't listen to the radio. The Beavis & Butthead's of the metal
world will always be marked by their assumptions that everything has to be
bruuuutal and everything non-knuckle dragging is "faggot shit." They go for
the noise, the testosterone, the thunder, the beer…
We call them 'Meatheads." Meatheads are a bane and a curse to all, but
unlike the punkers that will blab away all of their digressions at them,
metal-heads tolerate them as the eternal dumb-ass little brothers of
everyone. The Meatheads are encapsulated mostly by classic metal (i.s.
Metallica, Black Sabbath, Slayer -- the easy shit that doesn't challenge
brainwaves), death metal (i.e. Cannibal Corpse) and bad, modern hardcore
(i.e. Hatebreed, Throwdown, etc) in which you also find many violent sXe or
Skinhead types. The meathead is entranced by the knuckle-dragging breakdown,
the mosh pit, the hatred of anything sissy, anything singing, anything
weird. It's all clunking thunder or nothing at all, with a macho flair…< P>
The people outside of this stereotype are above all intelligent, highly
versed in all forms of music, actually listen to metal as opposed to just
going with it. While the death metal dunderskull bangs his head to noise,
the real metal-heads actually pinpoint and dissect the notes, the rhythms,
the lyrics, the presentation. The real metal-head always has a lavish (if
even slight) history of building something from the ground up, whether it be
running a self-financed label, distro or zine, organizing/promoting/managing
shows, able handed with numerous instruments, playing in a band or two,
directing online support. The authentic underground metal scene is generally
composed of musicians playing for crowds of other musicians, random freak
collectors or fans. No one is interested in money. It's a brotherhood with a
unity far tighter than the punk crowd, who for the most part are too busy
fighting each other like children. Excluding the Greasers of course, who
have no shame in blaring Celtic Frost at top decibel…
Although they enthusiastically agree on their mutual distaste for gangstas,
preps, jocks, and authority personnel, the main rub between punk and metal
comes down to a few basic factors. First, metal is intolerant of that which
is intolerant of it, and wastes no time accommodating outsiders. Second,
metal-heads have distaste for laziness, hence the appreciation of
ultra-technical extreme metal. Punk is viewed as half-ass because most songs
are basic, light-weight, upbeat, and crafted from three or four riffs. The
punks see that as freedom, the-metal-heads boring, uninspired generica.
Third, you have a fascistically intolerant (if not wholly fascist) streak of
anti-religious sentiment.
No one seriously into metal likes Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. This
intolerance in the metal scene comes from individuals having Jesus Christ
violently shoved up their ass as a child. Some go the furthest distance of
embracing the occult, Satanism, witchcraft, etc. Punks think that all
religion is stupid, so to even piss around with Satanism or the Occult is a
waste of time and an all-out joke. The metal scene accepts it fully, if only
as the backdrop to a marvelous stage-show that evokes Samhain rather than a
Church of Satan rally.
Christian metal bands are widely viewed as a joke, and the Christian
metallers stay miles away from the real underground. They are a superfluity
gazing from outside. The punks, however, tend to let them speak their peace,
if only mildly heckling them as they do so.
Some engaged in this occultism are violently anti-Christian, and the vast
majority find themselves on the right wing of the Black Metal movement or
darker, more perverse death or thrash. Black Metal originated with bands
like Venom and Bathory as this gruesome, ultra-heavy, satanic noise from the
80's. These bands were overtly satanic or heavily engrossed in Norwegian
folklore, although none were all-out armed militants.
The ultra-violence of the Satanic underground exploded in the early 90's
when black metal was reborn. A handful of lunatics from Norway decided to
create their own reality, avenge the crimes of their mythological and
ancestral forefathers, and ended up burning dozens of churches and killing a
handful of people.
Those are the die-hard black metal fanatics, the ones who advocate
everything from genocide against all religious faiths to pagan neo-Nazism.
They take the literal interpretation of the occult-sided Hitler deadly
serious, and theirs is a heathen war-cry to bring about past glory. Yet even
at this level, most involved in the European and American black metal scene
decry genocide because they hate being persecuted themselves, and when
overtly racist, subscribe instead to white pride as opposed to any form of
militant white power.
Most of the all-out Nazis are stationed either in redneck America, heavily
urban areas where as a child they constantly got beat up for their skin
color by minorities, or in Europe somewhere -- particularly Norway and
(ironically) the Slavic and Russian territories. Curiously enough, there are
very few German Nazi bands. Most European metal bands – even black metal
ones -- detest Nazism. The Europeans still have not forgotten the bloodshed
of their past. The ultra-fascistic BM bands in America are few and far
between, but the diatribe of a man like Edwin Borscheim explains it all.
There are plenty that are polishing their machetes, enthusiastic for the
moment to unleash hell…
Not all into black metal are right wing to this extent. Most won't admit it,
but the typical American black metal fan in their twenties came from the
world of Ministry, Tool, Nine Inch Nails, Antichrist-era Manson. Black metal
was discovered through Napster, because no one imported this shit anywhere
in the 90's. In this category, most are hardcore metal-fans that collect
vinyl and bootleg everything they can get their hands on. Wearing a Burzum
t-shirt is less a statement of White Superiority then it is the same as
sporting a Ted Bundy shirt, and collecting these violent episodes of music
is akin to owning bootlegs of Cannibal Holocaust or SALO.
The super-misanthropic underground is a surge of isolated loners, or very
tight-knit and unaccepting of outsiders, unless they see you have a huge
Sodom patch on the back of your cut-off denim jacket. Many of the black
metal kids in America are into fantasy period, and are known quite frankly
as "dorks." Dungeons and Dragons role players, medieval renascence festival
people. Otherwise they are pissed off misanthropes, musicians, or weirdo's
obsessed by the awkward, painful quality of the more droning, ambient work.
This droning, experimental side can best be described by bands like XASTHUR,
Bethlehem, ::STALAGGH::, or Blut Aus Nord…
The death-metallers tend to be horror-movie obsessives, very disciplined and
with small circles of friends. They love sick humor or ugly porn, such as
collecting tampons or down syndrome bukakki. Total brutal sickout measures,
cartoonishly violent, anti-religious, or tongue-in-cheek misogynistic. 90%
don't take themselves all too seriously.
Same with the Thrashers. They love screaming at the stage egging on guitar
solos with a pitcher of PBR raised high. They are pretty closed minded to
many forms of music -- particularly electronic -- and generally detest
keyboards. The thrashers can be identified by their classic look of long
hair, leather pants, sleeveless denim jacket covered in patches, and
old-school high-top Reeboks. They are a hangover from the 80's that are
assured their musical world is not dated but rather timeless.
The power metallers are into the soaring, banshee shrieking, 'warriors of
the world' sentiment of bands like Blind Guardian, Dragonforce, Iron Savior
and Manowar, respectively. This all started with the duel onslaught of Judas
Priest and Iron Maiden. Everything classic about metal can be traced here,
and every nuance of the 80's lives onward. It is a world of guitar heroes,
poodle hair, leather pants, and monster Harley's.
Power metallers rarely get along with the death metal crowd who think their
whole vibe is aptly "gay," but none so much as musically homophobic as the
black metallers. Power metal, outside of Europe, is truly a rare breed, but
it does not stop a man from blaring Stratovarius in any parking lot
gathering he feels needs some quasi-spiritual uplifting.
Grind was a reaction bridging ultra-hardcore politically charged crust punk
with thrash metal. It can be easily identified by its particular blastbeat
and its short-attention span variation on death metal. Grind started North
of Detroit by Repulsion who combined Negative Approach, Celtic Frost, and
Discharge into one horror-obsessed entity. The boys from Napalm Death got a
Repulsion tape in a cassette-trade and promptly floored, decided to speed up
the formula churning out spastic, metal/punk hybrid ten-second-songs. It
developed technically and spread accordingly, but has almost always retained
its punk stylings at key moments.
This is the closest thing you get to a crust punk in the world of metal, and
most grinders are actually super-tight with crusts. This is a prime area for
communal squats, political dialogues, and leftist opinions.
Doom metal is the subterranean depths at which the die-hard eventually finds
himself one day. Doom is either classic garage Black Sabbath-influenced
metal complete with the rock n' roll blues-scale backbone, or the slowest,
snail-paced funeral dirge ever created. Doom can be highly complex, but it's
always dreary and medium-paced at best. Some doom bands have songs ranging
up to 30 minutes encapsulating minimalist drumming and two or three riffs
that drag on forever. Truly effective doom metal sucks the life out of you
harder than watching Gummo fifty times in a row. Most into doom are
surprisingly big grind heads or gravitate towards the darker, more
experimental black metal for its coldness and distance. It's all connected
to one extremely polarized head-trip.
The metalcore and tech crowd come from a bridging of newer styles towards
the end of the 90's. Metalcore is basically hardcore with a diverse spectrum
of influences thrown in including thrash, death, and prog. All-out tech
metal (or math metal) is the sound-freak, we-practice-eight-days-a-week, so
complicated and vicious your head explodes style. It's newer, and thus hated
by the 'you're a poseur' death, black, and thrash-heads. But any musician --
be it a blues artist to a symphony conductor – appreciates the jaw-dropping
complexity of the often jazz-based rhythms. Tech is the most disciplined
metal outside of death, and is truly a 21st, post-modern variation of it.
Tech metal is traced back to early Dillinger Escape Plan, newer bands like
Yakuza, The Mass, and The End taking it to the next level.
Since metalcore and tech have become trendy at this point with bands like
Unearth, Lamb of God, and Job For A Cowboy being mass-marketed to the kids,
there is a huge influx of hipster metallers that wear tight pants and have
girlie emo haircuts, marked by their contemporary apparel. They have
infiltrated to the point where all the old metalcore bands (which all
maintained the ultra-DIY edge of punk) are abandoning their old styles
because of the vast apparatus of clones.
It's kind of a mess right now, honestly, and it seems everyone is jumping
ship to play old-school thrash, doom, or crazed experimental styles. The
trend will die, as they always do, and all the underrated, overlooked bands
like Psyopus and The Mass will go down in history, wholly accepted in the
long run of metal generations…
The Industrial scene is a different thing though. America has never truly
embraced the tank-rousing, street war of digital hardcore that Alec Empire
has busted out in Germany with Atari Teenage Riot, or the truly bizarre,
Warhol-esque drug freakout zone that Throbbing Gristle pulled off in the UK.
Instead, American industrial has mutated into this kind of hedonistic dance
utopia, where metal heads, punks, and electronic music junkies coagulate at
3am wearing devilish suits and ties while half-naked freak-dolls are led by
the chain of a dog collar whilst electrical tape covers up their nipples and
thing-a-ma-boobers. It is the future of post-modernity that Marquis de Sade
cranked to in solitary confinement.
When a live industrial band such as VNV Nation or Skinny Puppy comes through
a territory, the traffic will change to another venue, but the great mass of
freaks will always flock back to the seedy club that has been designated as
the outpost. Expect pure darkness, candle-lit atmosphere, The Cure, EBM,
shouting alcoholics, rivers of booze, some fine huuh-hush white powder
guzzling up a nostril, and feeble goth kids in darkly lit corners everywhere
wallowing in misery while staring at a dried dead rose.
The goth/industrial crowd is not to be confused with the ravers. Ravers are
either those who are into the awkward, disturbing, experimental electronic
music I have discussed, dance club people out for a dangerous thrill,
hardcore drug addicts/dealers (meth, X, coke, K), flaming homosexuals, or
little high school kids that abruptly drop off once they are arrested and
their pissed parents have to pick them up at 4am on Sunday morning. Plus the
ravers are not as deviantly sexual, although the dance-floor can be quite an
aphrodisiac. Problem is when they finally get home at 6am and are actually
in the position to have sex as opposed to making it on some fucked up, torn
leather couch in the middle of a warehouse, the guys are so strung out from
coke they can't pitch a tent, and the girls are so drained from ecstasy all
they want is to cuddle or sweat profusely while dancing around a living room
until they pass out from exhaustion. Either way it's a nightmare.
The industrial crowd wears their S&M leanings on their sleeves, and the
ravers are more peace & love, not 'let's whip each other in a dungeon
setting and electrocute each other's genitals and go apeshit kinky with
straight-razors'…
So where do I fit in? I'm somewhere in the middle of it all, with my own
extreme views on everything, but still open-minded to it all. My people are
generally the moderates that devour film and literature, who collect vinyl
and blab weird stories until 5am. Depraved sex hounds and the bombastic
radicals who'll still heed to common sense.
I'm too dirty to be a skin, although I believe in their discipline and
unity. I don't see blue-collar as a privilege and something to fight for. I
see it as a bane and a curse to overcome. Yet I have no qualms about working
for money, and I actually enjoy taking a shower at least every three days,
unlike the crusties who enthusiastically sleep in dumpsters and pride
themselves on the absolutist rejection of hygiene. For the nihilist crustie,
I am too clean cut and organized (if you can even really call it that). I'm
also too abrasive for the politically correct crowd and they run screaming
the second I open my mouth. Yet I have no qualms against smoking reefer and
playing bongos with a bunch of hippies in the park…
I have never felt uncomfortable in the metal crowd, and prefer a good metal
concert or a mixed bag show above all. No one eyeballs you as a fraud, so
long as you're not wearing a Linkin Park t-shirt. Still I find myself
offending all with my political views, and challenge many of these "god damn
hippie" meathead quotas. I'm quite vocal about what I think is rude,
uneducated gibberish. I won't shut the fuck up and never will until they
steal my vocal chords like kidney thieves in the dead of night. So I piss
off, I insult, I do spastic cartwheels, I take great pride in ribbing people
for what I feel are varying factors of illusion and mental retardation.
"Kill me again or take me as I am for I will not change." I'm a freak -- a
proud one of a long-dead, distorted quasi-nationalism that rose from the
ghetto of East Dearborn in 1994 and evolved steadily thereafter. I am its
champion flag-waiver, and old-school in my tastes and preferences…
3am, sleeping soundly and somewhere in Texas. I am awakened by a
foofy-haired middle aged woman across the aisle. "What is he doing back
there?" she questions, in a weird state of panic. I pass back out only to
have her wake me once again with this question. To shut her up, I wander to
the back of the bus pretending to need to use the toilet. There is a creepy
looking Mexican man in a blue-workman's outfit, reminiscent of Michael Myers
duds in Halloween. He literally smells like rancid feces, and is cackling to
himself crazily under his breath. And he's tugging on his erection which is
raised like an iron-hard flagpole.
I sit back down. The lady asks me again, and I confirm. All of those in the
front half of the bus are wide awake, not willing to turn around and
confront the strange man wildly jacking off behind them. The bus pulls into
Amarillo, and everyone hides from the Mexican as he giggles whilst playing
video games. Greyhound has called the police, and when the heavily accented
coppers confront him, he gets angry. They point to the white smear on his
clothing, and he says "No iz paint, iz paint!"
Everyone is watching the spectacle. Mothers grip their children and elderly
passengers squeamishly gaze onward. Then the Mexican starts laughing as one
officer says something to him in Spanish. He unzips his garb and out it
plops, dangling from his bellybutton, as everyone looks onward in terror. A
giant colostomy bag filled with shit swings to and fro, dripping profusely,
and all the man can do is cackle horrendously at the terrified honkies…
