Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks
One weekend a few months ago, I made plans to visit my Dad at his place in the outer suburbs of my city, about half an hour away from me. Being the procrastinator I try hard not to be (but unfortunately am on lazy Saturdays when no work needs doing and I just want to sit in the sunshine and write), I left at 11.45am in order to pick him up at midday. The main road from my house to the highway was moving slowly because of the abundant number of fellow Saturday drivers. This was compounded with the eighteen thousand sets of traffic lights that punctuate the relatively straight run towards the city’s west, like unnecessary semicolons; in an otherwise flowing sentence.
At around the quarter way mark, I was perched up in the fastest-moving right hand lane and I cranketh my iPod via the radio on my shitty twenty-year-old speaker system. Everything sounds harsh – simultaneously tinny and bassy – through these ancient Magna artefacts. There’s no point in listening to beautifully layered and complex compositions through them because the EQ is non-existent, and all nuances are lost in the crude translation of my speakers. Early hardcore with down-tuned guitars or filthy black metal or balls-to-the-wall thrash are adequate though. Sure, it’s not the ideal way to listen to anything, but through a five year process of trial and error I’ve surmised that the only shit that sounds halfway decent in my car is dirty, hard and heavy rock and roll. I proceeded at a slow crawl along this congested track thusly, skipping anything too complicated and letting loose all that was raw enough to take the narrow range of my speakers.
Early Mastodon was crackling through my car when I noticed him. He was in the car in front of me and it appeared as though he kept looking back at me through his rear and side mirrors. As a paranoid type, I dismissed the thought for a little while. However, I was soon certain that he was in fact looking at the blood red Slayer sticker dripping down my front windscreen. I observed him beginning to jerk his head and drum upon the steering wheel, throwing a sly cymbal crash out the window every now and then with his invisible stick. He then started headbanging in a form that my Brother in Hell and I have termed ‘old-school anger thrashing’.
My Brother and I are both fond of any old-school headbanging style, and oftentimes we have admired Metal Lords at gigs engaging with the musical assault with such direct, intense and no-frills approaches. My Brother is old-school himself, favouring dramatic power stances and a rotational direction of the neck for maximum windmilling of the hair, one fist usually held aloft unyieldingly to penetrate the air. I’m more of a mover and shaker, letting the energy take me where it will – sometimes front and centre of the pit to absorb the band’s stage presence from close quarters, or rarely up the back to take in the atmosphere of the gig holistically, but usually in and amongst Sisters and Brethren in the pit – thrashing, jumping and fist-pumping proudly, furiously banging the head on the end of my long and sinuous neck in triumph.
As I observed this fellow Metal Lord in front of me, he took his hair from out of his ponytail and shook it out brazenly (all the better to headbang with, my dears). I was amused no end, watching him lock into whatever song it was that he was cranking. I wondered what it was that was causing him to move so joyously. Whilst I understand the principals of ‘each to their own’ and other similar Crowley-type rhetoric, I must confess I am a fairly judgemental cunt when it comes to metal. Fortunately, I love most styles and can appreciate everything from the most serious of Opeth to the most ridiculous of Manowar. Yet I do draw lines, and respect has been lost by many an otherwise cool person simply by talking enthusiastically about music that I deem shit. Was this guy as legit as he was making out, or was he wasting valuable thrash energy on unworthy offerings?
To find out, I snuck into the left lane and crawled up beside him, turning my own music down. Luckily, his passenger side window was open and I could clearly discern Meshuggah’s Bleed blaring out of his far superior speakers. This was good; all was right with the world and this Metal Lord was okay in my book. His song finished just as Darkthrone’s Witch Ghetto clicked over on mine. I cranketh, and Fenriz’ dirty voice carried past me and to the ears of Metal Lord next door. He looked over and nodded his approval and we both sat, silently thrashing as we waited for the lights to change. I could see him fiddling with his console in preparation for his next turn. His selection was Pantera’s Cowboys From Hell – a classic and decently heavy song, even if a somewhat obvious and safe choice for a Metal Battle. Nonetheless, I nodded in appreciation and we listened to it the whole way to the next set of lights.
What was I going to do next? Nothing cheesy. No fucking around. As I skipped through each iPod suggestion in anticipation of Dimebag’s last solo, I was getting worried that Anselmo’s final “oorgh!” was closing in. However, relief and pride filled me as Amon Amarth rode into battle to save the day, swords blazing With Oden On Our Side. I glanced next door and Metal Lord was clearly as pumped as I. We sat there in unity, headbanging appreciatively on that hot Autumn Saturday, separated by metal vehicles, yet united by a love for metal that is true and good.
Soon, a gap in the traffic appeared and I burned off down the road opportunistically. As I looked back in my rearview mirror, I saw that Metal Lord had thrown me the horns and I returned in kind, saluting a worthy metal brother with the triumphant sounds of Viking bloodlust and violence renting the air.
Defender Of The Faith – 19.09.12
