I Love Heavy Metal from the '80's and Early 90's...Pt. III: Believe in Love

This love's got what it takes to give us one more chance to start, once again...
-Klaus Meine

When I was 15, I fell madly in love with a girl and it fundamentally changed my life in more ways then I could have ever imagined (Fast-forward 16 years, and that woman is now my wife, so clearly, she's impacted my life a great deal, but now we have to rewind 14 years because seventeen year-old Brandon is the subject right now). After having a girlfriend who, with real sincerity, loved me for the "who" and not the "what" for 2 years; seemingly from out of nowhere, I discovered the strangest thing...I had confidence. I liked myself not for what I was in the eyes of my peers, but for who I was in reality and in the eyes of my girlfriend. All of the sudden, I no longer cared about what others thought of me (not that I'm 100% sure I ever really did) because there was someone who wasn't my mom who truly loved me with honesty, innocence, purity, and intensity , and out of everyone I knew, she was easily my favorite, so if she was happy with me as I was, who was I not to feel the same way?

So on a fateful Friday night in the early Spring, I found the new, "self-confident" me at home earlier than expected and slightly drunker to boot. I had 4 warmish Black Label's that were meant to be drank at a party that got busted up far too soon for my liking still stowed away in my backpack, and I wanted to drink them; partly because I wanted to be a little drunker than I was, but mainly because I wanted them gone. If I am to be entirely honest, I was scared my mom might stumble across them and then there would be disappointment (I never really got in trouble for anything I did). So I drank. I drank and started looking for my old tapes.

I don't know why I did this exactly. I was drunk, people do stupid things when they're drunk. My best guess would be that due to my intoxication, I was easily amused and looking at these analog relics of my past sounded funny, but your guess is probably just as valid as mine. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to look at this stuff with no real intention of actually listening to any of them, but as I read the song titles on the back of the Scorpions album Love at First Sting, I had to pop it in. I knew most of the songs, at least the one's I really liked, but there was one, a song called "I'm Leaving You" that I remembered loving. In fact, it was easily my favorite song from the record, but I couldn't recall why. Nothing popped into my head. Not a single line, lick, or note, and it seemed funny to me that I could remember loving a song so much but not actually remember the song at all. I had to hear it. It was a fact finding mission, nothing more. Call it "a journey to the center of me...circa '84". It was a pretty easy track to find. It came right after "Rock Me Like A Hurricane" and that one would be a little hard to miss.

From the opening drum beat, it all came flooding back; every word, every riff, and most importantly, the sweet-ass bass groove that Francis Buchholz laid down during the choruses (the very reason I had loved the song so much in the first place). If it was a conscious decision to stop listening to Metal in 1992, it was a destined accident that I started again 3 years later, because instantaneously I was back in. The Scorps, with special thanks to Francis B., had me hook, line, and sinker. I started going through all of the others there: Dangerous Toys, Poison, White Lion, Megadeth, L.A. Guns, G N'R, Cinderella, Tesla, Great White...the list goes on. I could still sing all of the words, I remembered enough to anticipate my favorite parts of all my favorite songs. It was an awesome night.

But the brain is a powerful tool. We can condition ourselves to feel ways we have no real right to feel, and the veil of shame for liking this music still clung heavily to me, like underwear to the sweatiest balls in the heart of Summer. For two years, I had convinced myself that this music was a waste of tape, so shaking that self-taught lie wasn't easy. My guilt was heavy and great, and because of that I still felt a need to keep my long-overdue reunion a secret...kind of...mostly.

I would crank Def Leppard's High N' Dry in my Oldsmobile, but only when the windows were firmly in their rolled-up position. If my friends were around and I simply could not help but listen to Stryper's "Calling On You", I presented the song to them as though I listened to it more for the sake of irony than from honest enjoyment. Oh, if one of them asked me flat out if I truly liked this music, I would be completely honest, I just attempted to carry myself in a way that would deter a question of that sort. And that was my life, that's how I lived for a while.

With each passing year, I became more and more comfortable listening to this stuff in public, but I was rarely if ever boastful or forthcoming about how much I actually liked it. It remained something more to be chuckled at than to truly like. My friends even started listening to some of the stuff for the same reason. My Junior year of college, it was nearly impossible to go to a friend's party where Dio's "Holy Diver" wasn't blasted. When it was, all of the college girls in their sluttiest party attire and the sweaty meathead's who were desperately trying to get those girls out of those tiny clothes would exit the dance-floor with confused and disgusted looks on their faces, leaving 5 guys who sang all the words in each others faces, excitedly anticipating the moment when R.J.D. would command us to "jump, jump", which we inevitably would do. The song would end, the the latest danceable chart-topper yet to be played would come on, and I would slink back into the shadows, laughing on the outside but pumping my fists on the inside. This was how I lived and liked Metal for years; pretending my appreciation was out of admiration for the ironic rather than sincerity....that is until 2003.

It was 4 A.M. and I was dozing on the couch, unable to sleep but not fully awake, when a video played on MTV 2. At first, I was almost convinced I was dreaming because the song made no sense in the current climate of commercial pop, but as I became more lucid, I realized it wasn't a dream. I've asked myself more than a few times if I would have prefered it to be a dream, as it would have easily been the most lucrative one I have ever had, had I remembered the song that played in it, but I'll be honest with you; never in a million years would I trade reality for the fantasy, no matter how much bank I would have undoubtedly made from being able to regurgitate such a monstrous jam because the song never could have meant as much to me if it was a product of my own imagination. No, this song was real, and it certainly didn't make any "pop" sense, but I understood every last note.

I had never heard this song "I Believe in a Thing Called Love", nor had I ever heard of the proprietors of this jam, The Darkness, but the instant I heard the opening lick, I was brought from semi-consciousness to being wide awake, drinking every face-melting note in, soaking up every ear-blistering, falsetto shriek. This was the very thing I had been waiting for, begging for actually, and I didn't even know it. Before the song was even half over, I knew I would be skipping classes and calling into work in order to find, purchase, and devour this record. I wasn't being irresponsible because I wasn't deciding to do this; it was written in the stars, it was out of my control, it was preordained by some higher power my lowly mortal mind could not, nor deserved to comprehend. This was fate, this was destiny, this was of absolute and vital necessity. I waited on pins and needles for the hour to strike 9 when I could head out and make this album mine.

Oh, I fell asleep on the couch around 8:30 A.M. and slept nearly 13 hours, waking up a little before 9 P.M., realizing that I just might have missed my window to buy this album but like a true addict, I wasn't willing to give up easily. This record would be the fix of the century to a closet Metal junkie, and there were retailers, as unlikely as they were, who were open later than 9 and might have this record. Target was a bust, as was the dreaded Wal-Mart, but low and behold, the trusty Meijer Thrifty Acres (a regional, 24 hour grocery/"everything-else-under-the-sun" store to those people out there reading this who have never lived in the middle of the northern Midwest. As a side note, it is now referred to simply referred to as "Meijer's") came through. At a little after 10, I found The Darkness's debut album Permission to Land in the Meijer's music section. My girlfriend was visiting her parents for the weekend, so to celebrate this triumph of modern music, I decided to also pick up 12 Honey Brown's in the bottle, 20 Basic Menthol Lights in the soft-pack, and who knows how many Altoids in the tin (I like mints when I booze and Altoids are definitely the best mint out there, especially the Spearmint, although they didn't exist at the time...whatevs), and set out to have what I could only assume would be one of the most kick-ass nights in who knows how long.

And that is exactly what I did. I listened to the album front to back 11 times, replaying "Growing on Me" and "...Thing Called Love" occasionally because they both rocked so fucking hard. These figures are accurate, I promise you. I have a keen sense of memory, probably my only real talent (which is why I was so compelled to listen to "I'm Leaving You"; the fact that I couldn't remember it bothered me so much). I was home by 10:30 and I went to sleep at 6 A.M. The album is just short of 40 minutes...do the math. By the end of the first track, I was calling friends (well, actually, just "friend", singular) to bestow knowledge and enlighten him on the brilliance of what would most certainly be one of the greatest albums in modern rock history.

Permission to Land was (is) unrelenting. From the beginning of the album to then end of it, each song destroyed (destroys) me. It never stopped (stops) kicking my ass. It was (is...I have to stop this whole "parentheses" thing. You probably get the point by now that I feel the same way about this record now as I did when I first heard it. I promise to try to stop being annoying) one of those perfect records; an album with no filler, no weak point, no chink in the armor. From start to finish, it was witty, catchy, and kicked every last inch of my sizable and square ass.

This album was 80's Metal, it just happened to be recorded 13 years after the 80's ended, and it was a wake up call for me. I had to come out of the closet. I could no longer keep my feelings about 80's Metal hidden. I wanted, nay, needed to tell the world about this record. Everyone I knew should hear it. Everyone I knew needed to hear it. Everyone needed to be given the chance to fall in love with this music. Permission to Land was that good, it was that important. I could no longer pretend that Metal from the 80's was simply something funny to listen to because if I did that, no one would possibly take this record that was so undeniably influenced by my heroes of the past seriously, and it deserved to be listened to not as a comedy record but as an honest-to-God, sincere Rock record. But even more so, it opened my eyes to why I loved 80's Metal so damn much.

As much as I love rock from the 90's to the present day, it seems like somewhere around '93/'94 (maybe a little earlier), it became uncool to command your instrument. The better you played, the less cool you were. Virtuoso...hack, sloppy and without any real knowledge of your instrument...visionary....bullshit. Don't get me wrong, the sloppy shit was ridiculous too. Liz Phair, Pavement, John Spencer Blues Explosion, etc, etc...these fuckers were amazing, but there shouldn't have been anything wrong with owning your instrument, yet there was. We can't pin all the blame on the weak-ass hipsters and the "too-cool-for-imagination" crowd though. Metal definitely had a hand in its own demise. We can deal with only so much self-indulgence and overbearing bravado before we throw in the effing towel, and towards the end, Metal certainly couldn't get outside of itself to realize times may in fact be changing, but that doesn't excuse our inability to see that talent and bullshit don't have to equate to a singular sum. Metal could have dialed it down a bit, certainly, but we also could have tried to amp it up.

I guess what I'm driving at is so often I've found that the music of a song is simply a vehicle for melody and vocals, but with Metal, the music and vocals were two separate beasts, or at least two snarling heads on the same kick-ass monster. They coexisted, but didn't need to. The music was it's own force. The music, without vocals, could speak for itself. See, playing the instrument well was not in and of itself the accomplishment, I mean, the dudes in Creed play their instruments extremely well, but Creed sucks (if you like Creed, sorry, but someone had to tell you). No, the accomplishment was playing your instrument so well that you could speak without saying a word.

I remember the first time I heard Metallica's "To Live is to Die" on the ...And Justice for All record. I was blown away. 9 year-old Brandon had never heard something so beautiful and gut-wrenching. In fact, 30 year-old Brandon still has trouble keeping an entirely dry eye when listening to it. There's a part around halfway through the song where the guitar can't simply be called "sad", it's like the guitar is actually crying. It is so somber and grieved. Even to a 9 year-old, it was clear this song was written for Cliff Burton, this was their way of mourning his loss. They didn't need lyrics, they didn't have to tell me their friend died and they missed him, that they loved him and the loss hurt. The guitar did that for them. No words were necessary, only the heartbreaking wail of that guitar. It is still a very magical moment for me every time I hear the song. It is, in fact, the very reason that song is my favorite Metallica song, possibly my favorite Metal song, possibly one of my favorite songs ever. It says more with no words than most others do having the entire lexicon at their fingertips. That was unbelievable, that was magic, that was fucking Metal.

People always assume that Metal was all technique and no soul, but a song like To Live is to Die clearly shows that's not the case, and it's not the exception to the rule. Take Skid Row's Wasted Time, Scorpions' Believe in Love, Iron Maiden's The Duelist, Queensrÿche's The Mission, I could keep going; all of these songs and so many more have just as much heart and guts as anything else out there.

Of course, there were more than enough bands out there writing songs and making music that was about nothing more than getting fucked up and getting fucked, but even these guys managed to write music that had integrity, regardless of how trite the song itself was. It was the perfect union between sincere creativity and glossy, plastic entertainment. Somehow, these guys managed to be both trivial and brilliant simultaneously, and that's a beautiful thing.

I don't know...when I set out to do this, I think I expected to answer some huge question about life through Heavy Metal, but here I am, clearly at the end, but entirely unclear on how to end this. I guess if you should take anything away it should be that cursory glances are meaningless. The Metal from the 80's and early 90's is occasionally (maybe even often) myopic, misogynistic, simple, self-indulgent, and over-inflated, but it's also passionate, sincere, honest, complex, and beautiful. This music manages to establish, perpetuate, and abolish stereotypes in a single shot. It is a dichotomy in and of itself. Nothing and everything matters all at once. To judge it at face value without reading between the lines is an absolute travesty. There's no doubt that a great deal of it is meaningless, but it's just as true that so much of it matters so very much. Heavy Metal changed, my life...shit, Heavy Metal saved my life, and if one person can read this and decide to see what I'm talking about or even simply understand where I am coming from, understand even in the smallest, most insignificant way what I'm talking about, then it will all be worth it. Of course, even if that doesn't happen, it will still all be worth it because Heavy Metal from the 80"s and early 90's kicks supreme ass and if you don't understand it, I guess that sucks for you because, well...fuckin' Dio, enough said.

I Love Heavy Metal from the '80's and Early 90's...Pt. II: Love Turns to Hate?

I still love you, but, I still burn...
-Layne Stayley

If there's a point in my life that could be made into a "coming-of-age" movie, it would be the summer of 1992. I had spent my entire life believing what I thought was a single undeniable truth; nice guys did not finish last. At that point, that staunch belief had yet to pay off. But I was only 14. Let's face it, that's not a whole lot of real-time life to make any concrete decisions about anything. That's not to say that at the time, fourteen years-old didn't seem like an eternity. When you're 14, it seems like you've grown as much as you possibly can. Of course, it never occurred to me that I had felt the same way about life exactly one year prior when I was 13, and going back another year to when I was 12, and so on and so on...but foresight is not the strength of the young. Frankly, I think 30 may be the age that most of us begin to realize that what you do at any singular given moment in time will ultimately not define the remainder of your life. Mistakes can be correctable, wrongs often are righted, change is possible, but when you're young, it seems like who you are at that exact moment in time is who you will always be.

...And I was a nice kid. That's who I was. Oh, I made some monumental blunders and got in my fare share of trouble: talking out of turn in class, detentions, phone calls home to Mom (the fucking worst), creating cruel nicknames for peers that were undeserved or at least more about malice than justice but when it became obvious to me that my ill behavior, in whatever shape it managed to manifest itself, had actually hurt the person it was aimed at, I generally felt devastated and would do nearly anything I could to make it up to the wounded victim, because I was a nice guy and I liked it that way. I was nice and one day, someday soon, being a good guy would pay off.

It didn't matter that the most "desirable" (do I use quotes too much?) girls I had met had always ended up liking bully dickheads who made fun of the small, defenseless kid with glasses, or the bookish girl with early-onset body image issues. If it wasn't that brand of douche, it was the affluent kids who were their own special kind of cock. I'm not saying that if you grew up wealthy it automatically means the words "bitch" or "bastard" applies to you, but out of the crop people I knew personally, it seemed the amount of money your family had was in direct correlation to how great the stench of ass wafted off of you.

Still, none of this mattered; nice guys did not finish last. The way I saw it, we simply got a later start. See, I've always been a hopeless romantic, just without any real sense for romance. But as a childhood Metalhead, I had learned about love from songs like Bon Jovi's "I'd Die for You" (still easily the most kick-ass jam on Slippery When Wet). That's what I thought love was or at least what love should be. I was just going to wait for the one who I'd die for, cry for, do any thing for, lie for...a Juliet for this clueless Romeo. I was just going to continue to be a nice guy. But then things changed in the summer of 1992.

I became fed up. I guess we all have our breaking point and I had reached mine. Without going into too great of detail (this thing will be long enough without throwing in yet another story), I decided to trade my white neckerchief and shiny silver star for a black stetson and a handlebar mustache. And it worked. I got what I wanted. I got the girl and lost my virginity to boot. (Just to clarify, it was two different girls, part of the new "asshole approach" I had adopted that summer .) I had schemed and did some rather underhanded things that summer to get what I wanted, and shocking enough, it payed off...for a while. As it turns out, my soul wasn't worth all that much and the return from it's sale was only a short term yield. Eventually, for various reasons, information fluttered to and from the "major players" in my neighborhood and alliances were compromised and secrets exposed; the warm summer air was rife with deception. Turns out I wasn't the only villain on my block in the summer of '92, just the stupidest one. I had betrayed one of the fundamental and inherent parts of me, and in the end, my world as I know it collapsed in on itself.

So over the course of three months I fell in love, got laid, and watched all of my friendships unravel, some I unavoidably and helplessly watched disintegrate, others I unconsciously but actively destroyed. As those few remaining days of summer faded into nothing but memory and regret, I realized three things about myself: 1.) Nice guys may in fact finish last, but assholes are always done first, 2.) (and most important), my actions had an effect and were capable of fundamentally altering other people's lives and my relationships with them, and 3.) I adored boobs.

Sex was good. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it immensely, but the act itself was far less amazing to me than the boobies that were intrinsically a part of it. The funny thing is, they weren't even very good boobs. In the grand scheme of things (I hope that woman doesn't read this), they were the worst boobs I've ever seen in real life. Still, they were unbelievably awesome, one of the great and brilliant wonders of this universe.

Why? I don't know. It's an age-old question, isn't it? Men are bewildered and astounded by breasts. Big ones, small ones, tanned ones, pale ones, real ones, fake ones, they all seem positively dynamite. And after my first real-life encounter with a set of knockers (you got to love funny, crass euphemisms...at least I do), no matter how ultimately weird they were (and they were weird, believe me), they were remarkable and beautiful and both physically and emotionally moving. Certainly, it's not that I hadn't noticed boobs before losing my virginity. I enjoyed stealing sideways glances at girls walking around the mall or seeing pictures of bare breasts prior to my first tangible encounter, but slimy ogling and glossy pin-up pages could never do justice to the genuine article.

I tell you this only because when school started that fall, I was now hyper-aware of the blossomed bodies of my female peers. Having an in-the-flesh relationship with boobs, in spite of how fleeting (or maybe because of it), made that addiction place in my brain "ping", and I now had to dedicate at least a somewhat significant part of my time attempting to get a fix.

It probably goes without saying, but this was a tough spot to be in because, as shocking as it may come to many people (sarcasm is a difficult thing to convey in writing), I was not what you would call a "lady's man". To my credit, over the course of the next year, I did manage to get an opportunity to touch/feel/see two different sets of these astounding orbs of biological and evolutionary perfection, but that's just ego-boosting, He-Man posturing, because that's all ultimately inconsequential to the story I'm telling here (especially because that's not all that impressive of a feat). My point is, I had a taste of boobs (pun both gross and intended), and I absolutely needed more.

So what's a chubby fourteen year-old boy to do? How does someone such as myself improve his chances of getting an opportunity to have a close, intimate relationship with breasts? I saw two ways. One was with looks, which I was screwed on. I don't believe I was or am an ugly fellow by an means, but I'm certainly no Adonis or Arthur Fonzarelli, so physical appearance was not going to be my key to open the gate to the land of boobs. The only other way, but maybe the more crucial, substantial, possibly sure-fire way gain access to the holy land beneath the bra was "cool".

Being cool in 8th grade is the holy fucking grail. It is the quality that, if obtained, can transcend looks, intelligence, economic status. The way I saw it, if you were "cool", you were "in", both socially and, I assumed, sexually. It would have to be an open invitation to the world of "Awesome", and without a doubt, that world included access to breasts.

"What in the hell does any of this have to do with Heavy Metal?", you ask. Simple. In 1992, the climate in the world of music had begun to change. Slowly and sadly, but undoubtedly sure, Heavy Metal was fading from being the cool absolute to being unequivocally not. But Heavy Metal was my life. As much as I wanted to ignore it, the writing was on the wall and in my mind, Slaughter or Dokken would be a major detriment to my achievement of sweetness.

How was I to pick? Tits or Metal, which one mattered more? I was in a precarious situation. On the one hand, I had discovered and liked, nay, loved music that was outwardly perceived as definitively not Metal, although I would have argued against that idea at the time. You very well may say "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was the end of Heavy Metal, but I respectfully and adamantly disagree. Not only could the "Alternative" bands co-exist with the Metal bands of the day, those bands actually became a sort of "new" Metal (not to be confused with the atrocious Nu Metal). The first time I heard Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, and Alice in Chains was on MTV's Headbanger's Ball. Some of it (most notably Ned's and Pumpkins) were in the Ball's three-video block called "The Fringe"; bands who were heavier than standard rock, but weren't 100% Heavy Metal, but most of the bands that ultimately came to be tagged with the "Grunge" or "Alternative" label were played side by side with Tesla, Death Angel, White Lion, Megadeth, King Diamond and Queensrÿche. No one, at least not MTV (and in 1990, to a twelve year-old, there was no one else), was making the distinguishing difference between the two.

I would wager a guess and say that the majority of the "older" fans that these bands initially managed to garner were Metal fans. The relationship between old (or, as I prefer to think of it, classic) and new seemed mutualistic at first. Mötley Crüe's first "greatest hits" compilation, Decade of Decadence was released one month after Nirvana's Nevermind, and over the course of the next year, the collection managed to sell 2 million copies. Clearly, if Nirvana's major label debut was the final nail in the coffin, that couldn't have happened. But let's play Devil's advocate for a second and and pretend I believe that Nirvana killed Metal. ...Teen Spirit was a major hit by December of '91. D.O.D. continued to sell massive amounts for nearly another 9 months. If Nirvana was the Grim Reaper to Metal, wouldn't 3, 4, maybe 6 months on the outside be enough to demolish the house that Metal built? I would think so, but it didn't. It seemed that the old had given the new exposure and the new had given the old a revitalization. These two different musical avenues could both coexist in my heart. But could they coexist socially? On the charts and in the minds of my peers, nothing had changed, but to a devout Metalhead like myself, the downfall had begun, regardless of how infinitesimal. The declination was so small and slow that, commercially, it almost couldn't be tracked. To the naked eye, it didn't exist. It was virtually unnoticeable, but was nonetheless existent. By the time my 8th grade school year was underway, it didn't take a rocket scientist to see the music I had loved for so very long could potentially be a stumbling block on my road to "cool", and this was a fact that plagued me.

Tits/Metal; should I stay loyal to the safety and comfort of my history, or would I find a greater joy in discovery? It certainly seemed like it had to be one or the other. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe I was being melodramatic. Maybe I didn't have to choose, but it certainly seemed like it, and making that decision was easily one of the most gut-wrenching predicaments I had ever found myself in.

Before I go on, I would like to clarify ideas about the genre that may be confusing. In the 80's, there were three different families operating under the Metal blanket.
The two most popular were the 1.) less threatening and most commercially successful of the genre: the Glam Metal guys. These bands were your Poison's, Def Leppard's, Bon Jovi's, and later M.C.'s. Then 2.) you had the sonic opposite, the "moral and spiritual" threats. These guys were heavier, louder, faster, more brutal. Bands like Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Anthrax, Death Angel, and Mercyful Fate fell into this category. They're lyrics seemed more polluting to the mind and damning to the soul. They sang about death, violence, anger, religion, blood. The lyrics seemed far more evil and wicked than the "Glam" guys. Of course, with growth, it's clear that this grouping was far more socially conscious and less ethically damaging than the earlier sect and were (in most cases) not evil at all. (Out the aforementioned bands, Mercyful Fate and Slayer had they're moments of pure and unadulterated fury/hate/Satanica.) For the most part, these bands simply sang songs that attempted to expose injustice, intolerance, cruelty, bigotry; the inconsistency of "normal" life. Then we have 3.) the in-between of these two: Q.R., Iron Maiden, GNR, Dokken, early MC. These guys were heavier than "Glam", but not nearly as heavy as the serious "balls-in-a-vice" Metal of the thrash and speed genres. They were catchy but not poppy. Their message was threatening to the social structure of Reagan-era, conservative America but without the bluntness of the Thrash/Speed set. They could open for a Glam band or have a Thrash band open for them. They were the nearly perfect union between the two extremes.

But regardless of how different one band may have been from another, there was a single unifying factor that pulsed through all of the music...rebellion. No matter how overtly aggressive or comparatively passive, these bands were comprised of people who felt rejected by normal society. See, the thing about Heavy Metal that most people neglect to realize is it was/is one of the most nonexclusive clubs someone can belong to. There's only a couple of essential factors: a love for the music and a desperate desire to "Rock". It didn't matter how down-trodden, how outcast, how different, how "uncool" you were in the eyes of normal society, if you loved Metal, you were "Metal". You were part of a family. You could sit down to lunch in your school's cafeteria wearing a Ratt t-shirt, and see a guy who you've never met, never spoken to before wearing a Kiss t-shirt from across the room, and you instantly understood each other. One of the guys could have been rich, the other poor, one black, the other white, one gay, the other straight, one thin and fit, the other a fat fatty, and still, you had a brother, a cohort. Regardless of how different you were, you were one in the same.

For a kid who spent his life being fat and on the outskirts of normalcy and unconditional acceptance, having that feeling of community outside of a loving family was a huge deal. I didn't really have any peers as a young Metalhead, but I had respect from those who loved my music. They may have been older than I was and had no desire to hang out with me (thank God...Could you imagine?), but they were still willing to acknowledge my existence, and what's more, they validated that existence, they made me feel like I was someone of importance, a person of worth, a boy who mattered. But more importantly, I had the music. I could listen to songs penned by society's outcasts and feel like I had allies. There were people who understood me out there. That was huge.

Tits were amazing, but I had to be cool to get them, and to be cool in 1992, I had to give up that sense of belonging. Granted, if I achieved the level of cool necessary to cradle a breast in my hand, I would most likely once again feel like I was a a part of something. But with my future being uncertain, I was faced with the question; Do I stick with something that gave me a figurative sense of intimacy, or do I take a chance on the possibility of literal, physical intimacy? The decision tore me apart.

In the end, I went with boobs. The gravitational pull of those globes was too great to resist. They're round, soft, beautiful, fun, fantastic, but I'd be remiss if I didn't express to you that the decision was made only because Metal didn't produce. I had told myself that the tunes had to defend themselves. There wasn't music I loved more than Metal, but there was still music I loved. I wouldn't lose out on music if I gave up Metal, but if I went with Metal, I would most certainly miss out on boobs. Metal had to convince me. An album had to come out that mattered so much, that sounded so good, that kicked so much ass that boobs ceased to matter. That album never came.

That doesn't mean the decision was easy. I struggled. I hurt. I gave up one of the only things that had ever truly mattered to me in pursuit of something that very well may have been unattainable. As sad as it is to admit, I killed a part of myself on the day I swore off Metal. Oh, I found it again; I managed to resurrect the shit out that part of me when I realized a few years later that trying to fall in line and live up to some social rubric of cool was one of the most fruitless quests ever and that I was far more happy with myself when I was simply comfortable with who I was and listening to the music I loved, regardless of how "cool" it was. Touching boobs and liking Heavy Metal could be symbiotic as long you were happy with being yourself, but that was too sophisticated an idea for me to grasp at the time, so I gave Metal up.

Like I said, some boobs came, most didn't. In the end, I found a girl in 9th grade who I loved who loved me for who I was and not what I was and that love eventually gave me the confidence to reignite that old, lost flame, but that's a story for another day, the third chapter in my "I Love Heavy Metal" saga. Ultimately, if you take anything away from this, it should be 1.) Be true to yourself. Life is much better when you are. 2.) Heavy Metal kicks serious ass. And 3.) Boobs are amazing enough to die for.

I Love Heavy Metal from the '80's and Early 90's...Pt. I: In the Beginning

In the beginning
Good always overpowered the evils
Of all man's sins...
But in time
The nations grew weak
And our cities fell to slums
While evil stood strong
In the dusts of hell
Lurked the blackest of hates
For he whom they feared
Awaited them... Now many many lifetimes later
Lay destroyed, beaten down,
Only the corpses of rebels
Ashes of dreams
And blood stained streets
It has been written that
"Those who have the youth
Have the future"
So come now, children of the beast
Be strong
And Shout at the Devil...
-Nikki Sixx

Heavy Metal saved my life. I know it sounds silly, melodramatic, crazy, but that doesn't make it any less true. To understand this, there are two things you need to know about me: 1., I am an addict. I have that thing in my brain that turns something I love into a preoccupation, and that preoccupation turns into obsession, and then obsession turns into desperate need. It started at an extremely young age. My first jones was for action figures. I loved those little plastic men with all of my heart. The actual accumulation of the toys was secondary. Don't get me wrong, obtaining "Battle-Action Armor He-Man" was kick-ass, but plotting, planning, dwelling on the figure was far more appealing. I would look at the tiny comic books or the box-backs where other available figures were displayed, and I would dream about them. I would imagine the epic battles that could take place. I was addicted to action figures. I was three, three fucking years old and this was how I spent my time. Insane, I know, because let's face it, I'm at least a tiny bit nuts, whatever...

2., I am lazy. Having too many things to do makes me mentally shut down. Oh, I get those things done, I'm just so angry about being a "functioning, productive, responsible" human being that in order to accomplish any of the things necessary to call myself an "adult", I have to go on auto-pilot lest my already unstable mind be pushed even further into Loonyland. This also means that if I want to actually get done the things i set in front of myself, I have to be realistic and not put too much on my plate at any given time. I have to make things manageable or I will instead manage to get nothing done.

"So just how did Metal save my life exactly?", you ask. The answer is simple; Heavy Metal quickly became the addiction. That addiction (eventually) turned into a full blown to music period, a monkey I still carry on my back to this day (don't worry, it will soon all make sense). It's like any addiction story you've ever heard, the first taste made me want, the second one made me need.

The story goes that my brother went on a school trip to Toronto and wanted to get everyone souvenirs. He asked me what I wanted Toronto, and after seeing the video for the lead-off single from Ronnie James Dio's first solo album, a recently four-year old Brandon asked if Toronto had "Rainbow in the Dark"?, because if they did, that's what I wanted. I wanted "Rainbow in the Dark". Being a good big brother, Scott came home with a copy of Dio's "Holy Diver" on cassette. But it wasn't until four months later when Mötley Crüe's second record "Shout at the Devil" came out that I was truly hooked.

I saw the video for "Looks that Kill" (two videos...does that make MTV my pusher?) and I needed it. But see, this time it was 100% different. Four-year old Brandon had a rather wild and overactive imagination that often, for one reason or another, turned to the macabre. I was scared of a whole mess of stuff and it didn't take much to set me off. I refused to go down the cereal isle at Meijer because they had Kiss puffy stickers and painted up Gene Simmons sent me reeling. If I saw those stickers, there was a good chance I wouldn't be sleeping that night. It was a fucking sticker. I was scared of a sticker. Don't ask me, because I have no idea. All I know is I avoided the cereal isle like the plague, but I digress. "Looks that Kill" was the most amazing thing that had ever touched my ears. The guitar part for the chorus was the most brilliant thing I had ever heard (to this day I still think it's one of the most inspired licks in history).

But Mick Mars; my God, I had never seen a living soul more terror-inspiring than him. Simmons be damned, Mars was grade A, #1, "I'm going to puke and pee at the same time because I'm so scared" material. I was convinced this guy ate children. He ate little one's for breakfast and lunch and a bigger one from dinner. And there was no doubt in my mind that he was like a spider; he liked his meals alive. And what's worse, I was on the menu.

I could picture it in my mind; I would be roused from a dead sleep to the sound of awesome guitar being played just outside my bedroom window, and the righteous tuneage would pull me outside like a moth to a flame. He would lull me with increasingly sweet licks and then when I was at my most mesmerized, he would precede to devour me whole, leaving nothing but a pile of little bones. It was going to happen unless I could just forget about the Crüe. If I could just stop loving the song, if I could stop wanting the tape, all I had to do was not listen to Mötley Crüe and I would slip off his radar. But I couldn't, it was just too damn good. In the face of death, and a particularly gruesome one at that, I still wanted Shout at the Devil. Consequences were no longer a factor. Death did not matter, not if it meant I could rock out to the Crüe. So instead of doing the smart thing and denouncing the supreme sweetness that was Mötley Crüe and live, I chose to love the Crüe for my few remaining days and die an early death.

Mick Mars never showed up to eat me which was awesome. But from that point on, I was a Metalhead in the worst way. Mötley Crüe gave way to Poison, who gave way to Def Leppard, who gave way to Tesla, who gave way to Metallica, who gave way to Queensrÿche, who gave way to Anthrax, Megadeth, Death Angel, and a virtual ton of other bands. But see, here's the point; addiction's hard work. If you think otherwise, you clearly are not an addict. Getting addicted to something isn't all that hard, but maintaining said addiction is complicated and exhausting. And with each new addiction, the maintenance grows all the more tasking. But as I said, I'm lazy. Trying to maintain multiple addictions is tough work, and seeing as how I hate work, I've had to pick only the most important things to become/remain addicted to.

As a kid, it was action figures and Heavy Metal. By around age seven or eight, I added soda-pop into the repertoire. As I got older, pop continued to stay strong and action figures were replaced by boobs. Eventually I added a love/hate, on-again/off-again relationship with tobacco, but the only constant, absolutely necessary addiction has remained music. You see, without music, there would have been room for booze or drugs. I tried my best to be a fan of drugs but they were just too much work. Finding someone to buy them from, finding money to buy them. I had to buy Super-Big Gulps and cd's and my seasonal outdoor maintenance money only went so far. On top of that, the work of returning home after doing the drugs and appearing "straight" was way too much for a louse such as myself. Not to mention they made me feel fuzzy and stupid.

And booze, well alcohol is a fantastic stress-reliever/vice ( I am actually drinking a finely brewed Busch Light beer from an all too classy aluminum can as I write this) but just as it was/is with narcotics, finding the extra money to purchase the delicious ales and lagers I enjoy so much is simply too much extra expended energy. I have records to buy and I only make so much money, and I find nearly all distilled liquids to be vile concoctions, even the quality, pricey ones make my stomach quake and quiver a little, so the cheap ones are simply out of the question. That's not even figuring hangovers into the equation. So booze is, addictionaly speaking, absolutely a "no-go".

But here's the thing...if you take Metal out of my life, you take away the sum and total of music as well and then a huge "addiction space" opens up. Without that early addiction to Metal, I can guarantee you I'd either be an alcoholic or dope-fiend. And although smokes certainly aren't "life-friendly", without Metal, I'd be on an even faster track to Deadsville. This, my friends is how Heavy Metal saved my life, and I will be eternally grateful to the Gods of Rock for bestowing it upon me.

Where is "Octahedron" and "There is No Enemy"

I know The Mars Volta's Octahedron and Built to Spill's latest masterwork, There is No Enemy, have only been out for a little while (but so has The Flaming Lips Embryonic, not that isn't as well a brilliant fucking record)but how did these albums make no one's top "whatever" list of 2009? Granted, I haven't read every list. But I've read Pitchfork's, Spin's, Rolling Stone's, and Paste's, and neither record is there.

OK, The Mars Volta are certainly a band for a certain sect of individuals. I'll give you that, but Octahedron is easily their most accessible set of tunes to date, and is a brilliant and shockingly beautiful record. And There is No Enemy is quite possibly the best Built to Spill record yet. The mere presence of "Tomorrow" should push the album into 2009's stratosphere, yet no one has mentioned it.

I'm a little angry. Two of the best albums in a reasonably lean year in my opinion have been slighted. If you haven't checked these gems out, please do so. They are worth every penny you will pay.

If You're Not Already Listening to "Black Rose", You Should Be

It's been a long time since I've posted last. Over a month in fact. Not an incredibly good precedent to start. It's not that I wasn't writing; I was writing nonstop. The problem was nothing was popping. Nothing was flooring me. I couldn't get excited about anything I was writing. It wasn't the subjects. Trust me, they are all worthy of one of my little essay/blogs (not exactly sure just how worthy my little essay/blogs are of them though). It was the writing. The tunes were doing the job on their end, I wasn't coming through on mine. Looking over 4 blogs started and not finished, what I reread sounded lifeless and worthless. I couldn't seem to put down on paper the ideas that had bounced around in my brain so many times. It was a translation problem. But With Christmas fast approaching, and familial obligations taking me out of town for over a week, I decided to put the blog on the back-burner.

It was a good thing that I did it too, because without Christmas, there's a good chance 19 Sank While 6 Would Swim may just have been trashed altogether for lack of motivation and material. Instead, I got lucky. Christmas morning came, and in true Brandon fashion, I had a very "11 year old" style Christmas. All I asked for were records...glorious, beautiful, 12", shiny, glistening vinyl. I opened my gifts on that oh so holy of days with the kind of fervor and excitement that should be reserved for actual children, not those who simply act like them, but I couldn't help it. Album after album wowed me. The Flaming Lips' Hear It Is, Metallica's Master of Puppets, Wilco's Being There, along with so many others...they were all great, but when I opened Thin Lizzy's Black Rose, I found myself unable to think about anything else.

This seems funny to me, although I guess it really shouldn't, because I love Thin Lizzy. And Thin Lizzy is a band that has been wildly underrated in the pantheon of great Rock N' Roll music. Oh, critics adore them, and they certainly have had at least a few moderate nods from musicians over the last 25 years, but when it comes to contemporary record buyers, after having heard "The Boys are Back in Town" from 1976's classic Jailbreak, Thin Lizzy fades into that dark recess of the mind where things go to be forgotten. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Rush, Alice Cooper, these are all names synonymous with great 70's rock, even if they don't always deserve to be, and that's just naming a few. But somehow, Thin Lizzy's name seems to be at best a footnote in the book of great 70's rock. And that is an absolute shame. Nonetheless, had you asked me before Christmas what album I was most looking forward to getting, Black Rose would not have been my answer. But when I saw that blueish-black rose dripping blood on the cover in it's full 12" glory, instantly there was nothing else I wanted to listen to more.

The album opens in full, bombastic Thin Lizzy fashion; low, humming, hypnotic bass coupled with equally thunderous drums. In less than 15 seconds, the patented duel guitar wail explodes and instantly sends you into 70's Rock heaven. This record is a mile a minute rocker (well, at least until you get to the ballad, "Sarah". Phil Lynott wrote for his daughter, but it is a minor and enjoyable diversion). Black Rose sounds as "Thin Lizzy" as it gets. This is a pure, unadulterated Rock N' Roll record.

I'll be honest, it's hard for me to verbalize my reasons for loving this record. As a big "Lizzy" fan, the sound isn't describable, it's inherent. You only have to hear this album to know why it's amazing. This is real life, no-holds-barred "Fuckin' A" Rock N' Roll. The grooves, the grinds, the lyrics, Phil's always impeccable delivery, there's nothing other than straight, sensitive, tough, sincere Rock music here. You get kicked in the teeth from note one, and there is no respite until the close of the record. It is as purely unbelievable and as incredible as any of the Zeppelin or Sabbath records that we all (or many of us) cherish so much.

I could probably go on. I could talk about Phil Lynott's importance to music as a whole (and it is immense, believe me). I could talk about Thin Lizzy's approach to guitar playing, the currently cliche muscle of the duel axe assault (of course, for them it was ridiculously unique...they fucking invented it for Christ's sake), only topped by Lynott's on-spot, brilliant vocals and driving, back-bone bass playing. I could talk about Phil as a lyricist and a poet in a much greater depth, understanding Joyce and Rimbaud with the insight and expertise of a scholar, but ultimately being the spokesman of the working man. And then there's the way Phil sang; the cadence unbelievable, the voice, honest and real. You believe ever word he says, not because he's simply sounds "convincing", but because you can hear he lived ever word he sang, and every note he hit is a result of that experience.

Maybe Thin Lizzy never had the intensity of Black Sabbath or the mysticism and bravado of Led Zeppelin; maybe they didn't have the complexity of Rush or the unearthliness of E.L.O., but where they lacked in all of these areas, they made up for in honesty. Thin Lizzy was a band that made sense and kicked ass while they did it, and Black Rose is the exemplification of that. But frankly, none of that matters unless you're willing to go out and get this album. I could detail every idea and feeling I've had while listening to this record, but all of those details amount to a lump of shit unless you're willing to take my advice and listen to this record. Certainly, you'd be doing a solid to the legacy of Thin Lizzy by really delving into this one, and you'd be doing me a serious favor by seriously listening to it, but in the end, you are the only one who is going to really benefit. This is a record worth more than it's weight in gold, but you'll only know that if you choose to check it out.

An Introduction...to a Series Within a Series...?

About a year and a half ago (maybe it was more like two years...it doesn't really matter), I was presented with a unique opportunity. A friend of mine found herself the editor of an upstart magazine and wanted me to write a music column (I still appreciate the show of faith Liz). All I had to do was come up with a concept, and the job would be mine. Needless to say, this was a huge deal for me. This here, this whole "writing thing" is kind of "the dream". Oh, it's not like it's been lifelong or anything; I went through the childhood stages of Baseball player, Football player, Rock Star, but around the age of 13 or 14, I discovered that I not only had opinions I felt strongly about, but also liked putting those ideas down on paper. We should all constantly pursue thought and expansion of our ideas, but putting down those thoughts, even here in a virtual sense, made the ideas more concrete, more permanent. I guess it's like a legacy, some sort of proof that I was here, evidence I existed that will last longer than me and the people I know and love. Maybe it's a little self-centered, I certainly recognize that, that I should have something out there that makes me in some way immortal, but it's nonetheless incredibly appealing, and it doesn't hurt that I actually enjoy the physical act of writing. Although I wouldn't say any of that is beside the point, it is a bit left of center for what I'm trying to say right now, so I'll move on...

Liz wanted an idea, a concept, and that part was pretty easy. It took us about an hour talking in my living room to figure it out. Frankly, I still think it was brilliant. Criticism is my strong suit. I'm good at critique because I scrutinize the music I'm listening to. I would call it a passionate attention to detail. Mostly everyone else who knows me well would probably call it an obsession, but whatever label you want to slap on it, I hear things other people don't. I'm not saying that makes me special in any way, just different. Some people don't need to listen to things as intently and focused as I do, and more power to you if that's you're style. I'm not entirely convinced that I might actually find a greater and simpler joy in what I listen to if I could be that person. But, in the words of that spinach loving sailor, I y'am what I y'am and that's all that I y'am, so I have no choice; this is my plight, it is my lot in life to hear things the way I do, and even if I could enjoy things more, I honestly would have it no other way. So, when Liz offered me this chance, I knew I wanted to do something with criticism.

Answer: simple album reviews, right? Well, there were a few glaring problems. 1.) Reviews are not a column, they are simply a series of blurbs that make up a section, 2.) Album reviews border on news, so in order to stay relevant, you have to have them written and printed at least by the release date. But the magazine was only going to print an issue once every two months, so either you exclude a lot of music that should be reviewed, or you review a lot of stuff that is no longer current. Most print outlets review albums before they com out, worst case scenario, web outlets like allmusic.com and Pitchfork have the reviews up the day of the release. Why review something that's already old hat? 3.) (and possibly most important) A magazine that no one has heard of and has no physical copies in circulation doesn't really exist, so record labels were absolutely unresponsive, so advanced copies of records was simply out of the question. Where does this leave me? Fucked, that's where it left me. Traditional album reviews were not an option. So, if I wanted to incorporate criticism into a column, I was going to have to come up with something different. And, with the help of Liz, that's exactly what I did. If my only option was to write stale album reviews, why not write really stale reviews? Thus, the idea of "If you haven't already been listening to this, you should be" was born.

This idea seemed, well, is, golden. It works on so many different levels. I get to write about the music I really want to write about, but the sweet bus doesn't stop there. Let's face it, we miss shit. My best friend Tyler is music passionate/obsessive much the same way I am, and until about 6 months ago, he had never heard Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks". That album is arguably one of the top 10 greatest pop/rock records ever recorded (Again, thanks to Liz, she got me the beautiful 180g reissue of that one for my 30th), so if a music aficionado can miss one of the most rewarding records of all time for 28 years, it's easy to miss some fantastic records that are slightly less noticeable on the radar.

But what if you have heard it? Well, if you liked it, it's always great to hear other people's take on something you appreciate, and if you hated it, either you read it and decide to give it another listen (best case scenario), or the piece would give you more fuel for the fire. We always want our hate to be more focused, more searing, more evidential. Passionate hate is scorching, but you can usually drive holes through pure passion. This kind of column would give the opponent the chance to get their ducks in a row before the attack. Who doesn't want a stronger argument? I would wager no one.

Once the idea was in place, I knew what I needed to write about. Neutral Milk's "Aeroplane..." is the best record ever recorded. It's not my favorite album ever, but it is the best. Just to clarify the statement, "Schindler's List" is easily a better, more important film than "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy", but I've watched "Anchorman..." a hell of a lot more. "Anchorman..." is certainly more enjoyable to watch, a shit-ton easier to watch as well, but is it a better film than "Schindler's List"? My answer would be "Fuck no." "Schindler's List" is beautifully shot, compelling, life-altering. "Anchorman..." is pretty fucking hilarious. But as I've said before, art is not about entertainment, art is about pushing boundaries, re-writing history, forcing a re-evaluation of what is and isn't. "Schindler's List" does that, "Anchorman..." just makes me laugh my ass off. Certainly, comedy is in itself art, but if we're weighing the importance of one film being made over the other, in the grand scheme of things, the world is probably a better place because "Schindler's List" was made, but I'm not sure I can say that about "Anchorman...". I'm glad it was made, but there's nothing there that made me a better person, just a content one.

But that's really simply a side note. "Aeroplane..." is an indie phenom, and has sold impressive numbers for a truly "independent label" release, but certainly is nowhere near what could be regarded as a commercial success. It should be, though. So I wanted to do my part, no matter how minuscule it might be. I wrote my article in a fervor. I actually called in sick to my real job to stay up well past an acceptable bed time because it was pouring out of me. I finished in a little less than 8 hours and although I didn't say everything I thought should be said, I was proud of what I wrote. I submitted it, after an edit or two, it was accepted, and a few weeks later, the magazine tanked, and my article as well as my idea for the column tanked with it, and my dreams of writing about the albums I love seemed dead as well. (By the way, just another quick side note; although "Aeroplane..." is not my favorite album of all time, it is one of them, so...)

But then I started this blog, and the idea of "If You're not Already Listening to This, You Should Be" came flooding back. I had way too many records I wanted everyone in the world to love, and all of the sudden, I found myself with a forum again, albeit, one that I can only imagine is realistically a much smaller one, but hey, who the fuck knows, right? So, I decided a week or so ago that I needed to write this column in blog form.

It's funny, because the albums I intend to write about are albums that, in my head, I call "time and place" albums, but that title can't be more incorrect. These albums actually rise above a specific time or a specific place. These albums are, to me, timeless. They ring just as true now as they did when I first heard them. I call them "time and place" because they found me at "the right time and the right place" in my life. They mean to me what they do because when I first heard them, they spoke so intrinsically to who I was then, that I eventually fell madly in love with them. But as I grew as a person, they grew with me. Songs meant one thing when I first heard them, but when I listened a week, a month, a year later, they meant different things. The amazing thing is, because of what they essentially were (are) to me, I could remember what they meant upon first, second, tenth, seventieth listen, and they gave me the opportunity ignore the rules of the space-time continuum, and see through several different sets of the same pair of eyes. 14 year old Brandon could simultaneously exist with 17 year old Brandon, as well as 20 year old Brandon, 25 year old Brandon, and 30 year old Brandon. They don't transport me to a different time or place, they transport me to every time and every place I've been since I first heard them. Granted, none of this means they'll be as special to you, but I'm not sure I could feel okay with myself if I didn't at least try to convince you.

So, as sorry as I am that I haven't said anything of truly profound significance in this post, I felt it necessary prepare or forewarn you of what's to come. Oh, I'm not saying this is going to be the sum and total of what I publish here. If a particular thought burrows its way into my brain, I will without a doubt write about it, but by and large, I will tell you flat out that the albums I speak of, this idea, will dominate what I write on this here blog. So get ready because over the next few weeks, months, years, whatever, I'll be letting you know what I think you should be listening to if you aren't already. And if things go well, maybe we can all fall in love together.

The State of Contemporary Music?

How long have I been living a lie? I need to know, because for the last, I don’t know, 27 years I guess, I’ve been living with the assumption that music was art, something meant to compel us, force us to think and re-think, to challenge our ideas about the world, both seen and unseen, and to reevaluate what we believe to be unequivocal and universal truths. Apparently I was wrong. Apparently, music is simply supposed to entertain us. Fuck progression and evolution of thought, we want to dance! We want to feel good. The idea that we would actually choose to listen to songs that might make us even slightly uncomfortable is simply stupid; we want “feelin’ great” tunes that force us out of our seats, not out of our comfort zones. Personal growth, expansion of thought…unnecessary, bullshit in fact. We want to party and if that shit ain’t up-tempo, it better at least be a “slow jam” and not simply a slow song (well, unless it’s about how much we love someone, or how we loved someone a whole bunch but fucked it up, or maybe they fucked it up. And of course, it’s okay if it’s about how everyone, tall or short, skinny or fat, drop-dead sexy or mildly to extremely physically unattractive, is special and beautiful in their own unique and special way). That stuff’s cool, but we’d prefer it to be something about drinking booze (probably something expensive), “doin’ it” (probably someone cheap), or any other number of innocuous and cliché sentiments meant to insight groove and grind, because, let’s face it, we don’t have time to think. We need to feel right now, this instant, and in only the most base, animalistic way, lest we become too advanced, too intelligent, too uppity. Music that attempts to coerce us into becoming something greater than we already are is for the over-intellectual, the “art house junkie” perpetually stuck in the coffee house, wearing a black turtleneck, smoking clove cigarettes while discussing the merits of German film and engrossed in a rousing game of French Scrabble while sipping on their sugar-free, caramel-infused, non-fat latte.

I admit, this fella (or fellain’t) is quite possibly one of the most annoying individuals on Earth (even though I do enjoy a good game of Scrabble, drank a sugar-free, caramel-infused, non-fat latte courtesy of “The Bucks” this afternoon, and think the Djarum company makes a wide range of quality products), but to disregard the tunes simply to spite the kretek firmly planted between their index and middle is absolute lunacy. People, this way of thinking is a cancer, a disease of epidemic proportions that is eating us alive and it has to stop. We’re slowly dying inside, and we’ve decided it’s not only acceptable but desirable.

It is at this point the naysayer will choose to start babbling on about fun and “people’s right to listen to whatever they want” and, of course, I have to imagine the world “elitist” will be tossed around, even though my rant is still in its’ most infantile stage. So, in hopes of quelling any unnecessary comments (look at me, thinking anyone will not only read this but feel compelled to weigh in…aren’t I cute?), I don’t think the vapid entertainer/musician has no place in existence. I love a wide range of musical acts and artists alike. Find me a “Wham!” song that doesn’t kick at least this much ass (if you could see me right now, I’d be holding my thumb and index about one inch apart). Kelly Clarkson…shit, that chick can blow and she has this, I don’t know, this intangible that makes me need what she’s dishing out on a seriously intense level. And frankly, I’ve never heard a K-Ci and JoJo jam (trust me…I know) I didn’t want play at least once more. Without a doubt, this is the most appropriate time for the “exception to the rule” crowd to begin screaming their platitudes from the mountaintops. It is absolutely true, the Radiohead’s, Pearl Jam’s and Modest Mouse’s of the world exists, but as the statement in the previous sentence implies, they are not the rule, they are the exception to it.

The fact that this non-detrimental music exists is so fucking far from the point. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you were literally standing on top of “the point”, you wouldn’t even be able to see the vacuous jams that pollute our airwaves and haunt the dark recesses where songs get unintentionally wedged into our minds. If anything, it’s a great thing they’re there. Sometimes we need to cut loose. Sometimes we do in fact just want to dance. The problem is, we stopped wanting anything more. We’ve fallen so madly in love with easy that we no longer see any value in the complex.

So, come at me now. If you weren’t ready before, you are now. I hear all of the derogatory gems flying my way: music snob, over-intellectualizer, douche, maybe? Fine, maybe all of those terms apply (although they actually don’t. No one can think Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” is one of the greatest rock records ever recorded and be an elitist), but that doesn’t change any facts. The fact is all of the mass-production, over-produced, carbon-copy, cookie-cutter pop, rock, rap, and country music that has been shoved down our throats for who knows how long has become not only a viable commercial product, but the only viable commercial product in the U.S.

Think about it this way. Twinkie’s are delicious. If you don’t like Twinkies (I’m not sure how that’s possible, but whatever) then think of your own personal favorite sweet, high-fructose corn syrup laden snack that is inevitably filled with some sort of equally unhealthy, lard-choked filling; it’s probably at least related to the “cream” family, but it’s your goody, not mine, you envision it, and then insert that name every time you see “Twinkie”. The Twinkie is not evil. Twinkie’s are and always will be good. They’re sweet, always delicious; they always satisfy that nagging sweet tooth that just refuses to quit. You always know exactly what you’re getting when you grab a Twinkie; the one you are about to buy will taste exactly like the one you bought last week, or last month, or two years ago because every Twinkie is made in the exact same way with the same ingredients. One Twinkie doesn’t differentiate from another. Always the same, always good. The Twinkie is in fact a beautiful thing, but the Twinkie will never be a meal. As long as you choose to enjoy Twinkie’s in moderation, you will live a happy, fruitful, Twinkie-filled life, but once your diet begins to consist solely of Twinkies, the problems begin. You begin to gain weight, you begin to lose color, your arteries start to clog and harden, before you know it, you can barely lift your flabby arm to knock on Death’s door without breaking a sweat and getting winded. Live with Twinkies, live a happy life, live only on Twinkies, die out of breath and miserable. Guess what, when it comes to music, we stopped eating Tuna steaks and Couscous with Pine Nuts a long time ago and we’re about to keel over with a sweaty brow and a seizing heart. We’re trying our damnedest to live on Twinkies alone, and I think we may have already died.

I’m glad Twinkies exist, I’m glad Lady Ga Ga exists (well, maybe not glad, but I’ve made my peace). The problem is, just as mass-produced snack cakes should and do co-exist with brown rice, asparagus and acorn squash in our diets, mass-consumption pop music like Britney, J.T., and whoever else “the kids” are diggin’ on these days should co-exist with The Mars Volta, Wilco, and The Flaming Lips on the Billboard charts and the ever-decreasing space for music videos on the Music TeleVision cable network, but they don’t. Oh, these and other bands like them sell some records, fill a decent amount of seats at their shows and have a reasonably strong fan base, they will never sell records on the same scale that our contemporary pop stars do. Are they niche market bands? I guess I would say yes, because clearly the exist in a niche market, but that’s the problem, they shouldn’t. It shouldn’t take a special kind of person to hear Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love” or “Creature Fear” and find value in those tunes, any normal kind of idiot should be able to hear those songs, hear that voice and that guitar and think “Holy Shit! This is something.” But my guess is, Wilco could have released “Radio Cure” as a single, and no one other than the people who already had tiny hardons for Tweedy would have cared in the least. Radio stations wouldn’t have been playing it, no one other than Wilco fans would have heard the stark beauty and subtle complexities of that brilliant, touching, heartbreaking song. That sucks. Not only for Jeff Tweedy and the rest of the guys in Wilco, but for all of the music lovers out there who don’t get a chance to appreciate such a moving song.

So ultimately, this is my point, and I guess it’s a call to arms for all in agreement and a challenge to all those out there who disagree with me. Let’s attempt to push the artists that matter into the forefront with the entertainers that don’t. Let’s not wait for artists like Conor Oberst to make concessions with his music to start listening to him. Let’s not fear the challenge. Art (and music is in fact art, whether you want to agree or not) is supposed to challenge us. Art, or I guess in this case I’ll just say music, is supposed to challenge our views of life and society and culture and beauty. Music shouldn’t be easy. It should force us to re-evaluate what is compelling and wonderful about it, and in turn, force us to re-evaluate what we think of life and reality itself. Good music should remove us from our comfort zones and make us rethink what we know to be real and true. Let’s not fear the visceral experience or look at it with contempt. Let’s not allow albums like Neutral Milk Hotel’s “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” and The Flaming Lips “The Soft Bulletin” be niche albums, niche music. Instead, let’s challenge ourselves with everything we listen to, find the good, the beauty, the brilliance in music that isn’t necessarily easily accessible to us, but is truly worthwhile and thought provoking art. And above everything else, let’s stop just eating Twinkies.