Metal Fatigue

I grew up on Heavy Metal, although these days always wake up with more of an "Emo" haircut, where I look like all those new rock bands I don't know jack squat about, but see everywhere I go on the internet. I kind of like these bands, only because of the fact they remind me of the awesome youthful power of Rock and Roll. And not combing my hair.

I wonder if my dad would have liked Black Sabbath if he woke up with a mane of long stringy hair every morning; even though Black Sabbath's mission in life was to scare the bejeebus out of balding, middle-aged men like him. As time crawls along I notice my hair is receding to that rooster-like plume that my old man had, but I still have enough to whip around when I headbang. Only I don't headbang anymore. My neck sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I do.

I grew up listening to classic rock; always the gateway to harder stuff like Sabbath and Zeppelin. From there I was but a hop, skip, and a bong hit away from the 'New Wave of British Metal' bands like Judas Priest and Iron Maiden. Motorhead: the epitome of all that was heavy about Heavy Metal.

Then came the 'Poodle Hair" era of Metal, and I wandered off in search of music with a little more substance, and a lot less hairspray; in the late 80's Ozzy and Dame Edna became interchangeable and that made me give up on MTV. Except for a late night program called "Headbanger's Ball,"

I hadn't watched that show for years but I tuned in last night to do some research on a project I am doing with Axel. I am vaguely familiar with today's Metal bands, although I am not a fan of the "Cookie Monster" vocal style most of them utilize. I clicked on halfway through a video by a band called Dragonforce. They had dual lead guitarists playing these hyper-speed Yngweenie Malmsteenie type noodling over a TNT-ish melody, complete with a castrato vocal in the style of Tony Harnell. It was nostalgic, really.

And filled with Homotextual Subsext. "Pussy Metal" we used to call it.

The next video was the bludgeoning type of Metal I was expecting. The name of the band was Amon Amarth, which I think is Norwegian for "tanless and tuneless." Seriously, someone needs to tell their singer to get in touch with a Key and Jenny Craig, and to stick with both for a while. Man-boobs are not Metal. He was growling about wanting some "rune stones," while sounding like he was passing gallstones. And, in my 'umble opinion, you ain't a real Viking if you're holding a shiny green guitar. They did have some impressive synchronized headbanging action going on. Look for that at the next X-Games.

After the video they had an interview with the night's guests, the singer and guitarist for Goatwhore. Yeah, my grandma's favorite band! The host actually asked them how they came up with that delightful moniker, but anyone who can't see the sublime brilliance of placing the word "Goat" before the word "Whore" shouldn't be left unattended in front of a TV. They explained it anyway, and it was anticlimactic to hear they stole it from Aleister Crowley. Then they played their new video, which was as eee-vil as Congressman Joe Crowley (D-NY). Which is to say, not very.

I was struck by the fact that all the band members has some sort of facial hair protuberances coming from their chins, and I wondered if their groupies were called "Goatee-whores." [Note to self: Consider forming a band called "Chin-gyna"]. Then they played another Goatwhore video, and I had the image of the singer introducing it in concert by saying "Here's another song I wrote while I was on the shitter pinching a loaf…harrrrrrgh…" He made Springsteen sound like Pavorotti.

Then there was an ad for some other Metal bands, and I discovered that I had misread the name of one that had used the scrawled lettering that all Metal bands seem to use these days. It isn't "Lamp of God," but Lamb of God- sorry Jesus! Then the VJ played a video by a band called All That Remains. The VJ said the song was "The Air That I Breathe," but it turned out to be the worst Hollies cover I have ever heard. It didn’t sound like the original at all.

Then they played a video by Incubus, a band I'd actually heard. Very melodic, almost too melodic to be Metal, and the bassist was wearing a porkpie hat, which made me want to put on a Tom Waits record and listen to a real master of the "Bowels-of-Hell/Gargling-with-Drano" vocal style. Now that guy is spooky, far more menacing than these Heavy Metal guys. That's when it hit me: maybe Spinal Tap did stab the final stake into Heavy Metal's black, bitter heart. These new bands fail to do what they are supposed to do: scare the bejeebus out of middle-aged guys like me.

Metal bands have become a parody because of their sincerity in trying to make Beelzebub's marching music. We all know Satan's Symphony is being conducted by Yanni. Goatwhore might as well fold up their Ouija Board and go home. The Polyphonic Spree make me sleep with one eye open, not these James Hetfield acolytes.


As for "Chingyna," I am scrapping that name. So, yes, I am breaking up my imaginary Metal band. I am starting over with a completely new imaginary band. I have even thought up the perfect name:

"Cheesy Umlaut.”

Featuring Yanni on keyboards.

\m/

The Sock

It was just another day at the store, you know, old ladies trading in their Danielle Steel books, me telling the bums they can’t use the restroom, the usual. In comes this guy with a book in his hand. He is well-dressed, too well dressed for this neighborhood anyway, so I say hello to this li’l Lord Fauntleroy, how’s can I be of service to you, I say.

            “I have a book I want to sell.” His voice was a warble-y alto that belied his appearance. The entire time, he’s giving me the walleye; looking at me with his peripherals while he stares down the aisle, looking at something that must be located in the part of the store that is located a million miles away. He had set the book down and slid it towards me on the counter. His eyeball never budged a centimeter.

            The book was “Sock,” by that magic guy with the mime partner, Penn Gillette. I flipped it open. It was a First Edition. It was signed by the author. Little things like that make a bookseller’s nipples stiffen up a bit.

 I say to him, hey buddy, this book might be worth something here. You could get a lot of money selling it on E-bay or something.” Now, you would think as a mercenary bookseller I would not tell a customer to sell there goodies elsewhere, but instead dog the book out to underbid on it. But I like to see how desperate people are before I engage in negotiations with them.

            “I just want to get rid of the book.” He turned and finally made eye contact with me. His eyes were as grey and blood-streaked as Dresden in ’45. “I have a bad connotation with this book.”

            Connotation, I say to myself, who uses the word connotation in every day speech?  Then I realize I can get the book real cheap now. I had already pulled up the ISBN on Amazon and a signed copy was going for thirty bucks. I picked up the book again and when I did I notice the top of the pages had a scarlet mark across them. “Ooh, an ex-library remainder mark. That’ll knock some of the value off,” I replied a little too smugly. I do that sometimes, bad habit. Anyway the fop says, “It’s blood.”

            “Wha?”

            “Don’t worry, it’s my blood,” he says.

Like that’s going to take all the ick out.

            “Like that’s going to take all the ick out,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth like bouncing super balls, never to be caught. He ignored my comment and said, “I am a waiter at La Maison de Crêpes. One night about a week ago, just before closing, a group of well dressed men left there table and one of them said, “We left you something on the table. Usually this means coke, which I steadfastly don’t do, so I went to tell the sous chef to take it, but something told me to go back to there table and see if they had left cash. I am way behind on my student loans. I walked back there and saw a book on the table. It was this one.” He made a whisking motion with his hands in the direction of Sock. “It was signed by Penn, and there was also a card with a note that read “Call us. You will not believe your eyes!” There was a phone number below it.

            “So you called the number?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’ll give you three bucks for the book,” I said, seizing the hand of gullibility he had laid out on the table, “Five if you don’t finish this story.”

            Alas, he was a three dollar man. “They sent a car to pick me up and take me to a ghost town up in Nye County, about eighty miles north of town,” he continued, his voice gaining more confidence. “They blindfolded me, and I was told what to do by a woman with a soft, soothing voice. It was a long and bumpy ride, but she held me. Her hands were soothing yet firm, and did amazing things to make me relax. Finally we got there and she untied me. We got out of the car and I couldn’t see anything but there was warmth coming from a crackling fire. She pushed me on ahead, and I took off the blind fold and saw a group of people standing in a circle around the fire. They were all hooded, so I couldn’t see any faces. The firelight danced off a lone, ruby-red painted fingernail of the coven leader as he raised his hand in an invocation. “Azhrael,” he bellowed, “we call forth to thee!” And then there was a flash of smoke, and I saw…the Devil!”

            I blinked my eyes twice. “Get the fuck out. You’re just shitting me now.”

            “Oh no, sir,” he said. “I kid you not. I was tremulous, and my heart was bursting with a giddy joy so intense that I had to will every cell of my body to control the urge to....”

“Scream?”

“Yes!” he practically squealed.

Oh, for the love of Manilow, I could slap this fuck right now.

But he goes on, “Then Satan started yelling at the coven leader and the guy who led me to the fire pit. They pushed back their hoods, and it was Penn and Teller! They looked mortified. Then Satan points to me and says, “He is not worthy of a sacrifice. He is unpure.”

“Unpure? You mean you’re not a virgin?” Penn asked me, his voice going up a full octave.

“I just smiled back at him.”

 “So then Penn was all like, “C’mon, there’s no way you’ve ever gotten laid!’ But Satan replied, “Oh, no. He’s not a virgin.” So Penn looks down at Teller. And then reached into his cloak and pulls out this ratty sock puppet, then through the sock puppet he starts yelling, “We chose him because he was a virgin! Now the big guy says he’s not a virgin! He sure was a virgin when you picked him up…” then he screamed, “You had butt sex with him, didn’t you?” It was then I realized that the warm, nurturing female driver was really not a woman,” he sighed.

“So you had sex with Teller…and liked it?”

“Well, nobody’s perfect.”

*

I handed him the three dollar bills, having gotten quite a laugh over the story. I couldn’t resist asking one question, though. “So, how did your blood get on the book anyway?”

“Oh, I got a papercut when I picked it up earlier. I didn’t even notice I was bleeding until I got to the car. Silly me” he chuckled softly. I laughed a bit too. Then I could have sworn I heard a muffled laugh, like a chattering monkey. Then the guy says ‘goodbye’ and turns away. I swear I see a sock monkey peeking out of his jacket pocket! I swear, officer, it was lookin’ right at me. And then it winked.

Scottdammit © 2011