Things I Like, Part 2: Heavy Metal

Is there a genre of music as moronic as Heavy Metal?

Probably not.

The macho posturing, the deliberate aural strain, the obtuse doctrine of louder+ faster= better, not to mention the outlandish lyrical themes, the phony satanic idolatry, and who could forget, the assless leather chaps.

It’s all very silly. It’s what made This Is Spinal Tap so funny, after all.

And it’s exactly why millions of boys are drawn to it like moths to a flame. It’s quite possibly the most fitting soundtrack to male adolescence. Aggressive, rebellious and its lyrics are entirely comprised of sex, drugs, violence, oppression and the occult –things that a 13 year old boy finds fascinating and terrifying, all at once.

I was one of those boys. Heavy Metal, and more specifically, Thrash Metal –an amalgam of New Wave of British Heavy Metal and Hardcore Punk– resonated with me from the first distorted tritonal chord I heard. The Thrash Metal bands were not as flashy or reliant on the Dungeons & Dragons imagery as their brethren often was, instead focusing on musical prowess and a low-key persona. This lack of pretension appealed to me.

And what band was at the top of the Thrash Metal game? Metallica, of course. I mean, they had the word Metal in their goddam name! Their 1986 album, Master of Puppets, became a defining record for the genre and quite a revelation in my early musical life. No other band in the genre mattered as much to me. Of the big four of Thrash (Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax & Megadeth) Slayer was undoubtedly the heaviest, but the absurd Sigil of Bathomet imagery and the Nazi undertones definitely turned me off, Anthrax was a bit too playful and fratboyish and I always thought that Megadeth’s founder, and former Metallica member, Dave Mustain had a terrible singing voice and never lived up to his former bandmates.

Metallica, on the other hand, was a perfect blend of velocity, intensity and virtuosity. The title track off of Master of Puppets was a model representation of the band:

The song starts with a rhythmic staccato guitar riff stressed by drum and bass accents. That leads into a syncopated groove of the main theme that doesn’t let up for two verses, bridges and choruses until it reaches a Metallica staple: the instrumental interlude. Not only does this curveball waylay the listener, but it also sets up the crescendo to the anthemic lyrical summation of the song and the subsequent guitar solo. And just when you think the song might be over, it kicks back in with another verse, bridge and chorus that leads into a coda and ultimately into the maniacal laughs of the titular Puppet Master.

From the moment I heard that song, the sound of Metal was ingrained in the nucleus accumbens part of my brain, producing great pleasure and satisfaction whenever heard.

Even though Metallica never really recovered after the death of bassist Cliff Burton and every album since has been progressively worse¹, that sound has lived in my subconscious ever since. As my tastes moved to the Pacific NW in the early nineties, the Metal tinges that bands like Nirvana, Soundgarden and Alice In Chains showed helped quench my thirst for headbanging as did the Melvins, Guns N Roses, Primus, Rage Against The Machine, Quicksand, Helmet, Tool, Pantera, Kyuss, At The Drive-In, the Hope Conspiracy and Paint It Black for years to come.

As I started playing guitar around the age of 14, I learned that there’s nothing more fun to play than Metal, too. The beauty of a palm-muted, down-stroked, mid-scooped, distorted open E string on a cranked up amp is quite heavenly (or hellishly, rather; to keep with the theme). It’s akin to firing an AK-47 or wielding a thunder bolt, Zeus-style –something you just can’t get from playing Guitar Hero III, I assure you.

The feeling doesn’t fade with time either. Even just a few years ago, whenever my ex-roommate/drummer James and I would jam out in our basement, every session would eventually escalate to a crushing Metal riff-off, no matter how tamely we would start. The power is too alluring to keep from embracing it; I don’t know how anyone with an electric guitar can keep from wanting to unleash devastating riffage, it’s too much fun.

So don’t get me wrong, I love a folk ballad with a three part harmony and a flute solo too, but if you really want to get me going, I’m going to need double kick drums, Gibson Explorers through Marshall stacks, wah-wah pedals and a pissed off, Cookie Monster-sounding motherfucker with a fu-manchu screaming on top of it all.

If I have to give up my indie rock credentials for that, then count me out. I’ll be blasting “Fight Fire With Fire” in my ’67 Mustang…..

¹Although they did team up with Rick Rubin for their upcoming album, so let’s hope he can inject some metal back in their ever-hardening veins.

See Also - Things I Like, Part 1: Basketball

Things I Like, Part 1: Basketball

Basketball was probably the first cultural morsel I savored and developed a taste for when I initially emigrated to the United States. It was my leap into American culture. Granted, basketball was invented by a Canadian, but at the time the NBA was still quintessentially an American-dominated league with few international players to speak of.

I definitely bought in at the right time, in 1990 Michael Jordan and his Chicago Bulls began their campaign of domination through the decade that got them six championships in eight years. In that time, there was a seven year stretch that I watched every single game the Bulls played, home or away, thanks in part to Chicago’s WGN which carried all the games that weren’t otherwise televised on NBC or TNT.

When the Bulls weren’t playing, I would watch other teams. I could name every player in the league and give you their height and weight and a close approximation of their statistics. I knew every nickname, from Charles “The Round Mound Of Rebound” Barkley (also known as “Sir Charles”) to Dominique “The Human Highlight Film” Wilkins to Xavier “X-Man” McDaniel. I had t-shirts, posters and all sorts of paraphernalia associated with the Bulls.

On top of that, I would spend two to three hours playing ball every day, perhaps recreating scenarios I had seen on television the night before. I played at school, on the driveway at home, on the playground and at the Bellevue Community Center any chance I got.

I was a basketball junkie.

Eventually, other typical teenage activities –playing guitar, driving aimlessly, staring longingly at girls, hanging out in parks, watching my friends do drugs, etc.– won my attention away from b-ball, but I always kept an oblique eye on what was going on in the NBA in the subsequent years.

Recently, the league has recaptured my attention and while I can no longer name every player in the league, I find great joy from watching a good game of basketball again. My ties to the Chicago Bulls were severed with MJ’s retirement (the second retirement…not the first, when he started playing minor league baseball…or the third, when he was a Washington Wizard), so now I can watch without too much emotional involvement.

However, I have found favor for the Detroit Pistons since their championship run in 2004 for their pure brand of selfless team play and I also think the Phoenix Suns are fun to watch (although not so much since Shaq’s arrival). I’m also amazed at how LeBron James has actually managed to exceed the already high expectation he faced coming in the league at just eighteen years of age and how Kobe Bryant looks more and more like Jordan every year, even down to his mannerisms on the court.

Lately, I’ve also felt a serious need to play again but I’ve yet to locate a public court around where I live or someone to play with. I need to do this soon because I find myself going through the motion of shooting jumpshots and lay-ups in my head sometimes. And as homoerotic as this may sound, I miss the physical contact that goes along with playing the game. Getting knocked around and colliding with other bodies in the heat of competition is just something men need to do sometimes; it’s innate and deep-seated into our psyche. Adrienne points this out to me every time I try to roughhouse with her and she’s just not having it.

I just need someone to bump up against, is that too much to ask? Is it too gay to ask?

Well, I’m asking anyways.