#cymbals eat guitars

[emmanuelscastle]

Early 80s New York City Biblically filthy I was a child but still no door was closed to me Those men were my protectors and my family And the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen "Honey, let us color it so you don't look like a little old lady" Instead I rocked Herman Survivors and shaved my head clean I think It was Charlie who started calling me Bootsie Brown liquor, downers, and powders clouded out the bad dreams But not before I saw some shit I wish I didn't see

[tuuneoftheday]

Empty Country - David

[wintertrash]

Every decision I have ever made

Bred the branching future's mute howlers

With burst-vessel red eyes

Roaring inaudibly

On the freezing morning

Walk to the dim corner grocery

What hangs over big empty country

Reborn in negatives of photos of dusk

Regret so huge it's on a phantom axis

Receding beaches hissing hearing damage

And the miles-long column of cold moonlight cast across

Still seas when my nose begins to bleed

[major-toast]

Rosekiller Band AU // nsfw

Currently thinking about a rosekiller band AU, but they've recently broken up and are rather petty about it.

Evan has shaved off his blonde locks, knowing fully well how much Barty had liked them, but he doesn't much care. Especially not when Barty is standing only a few feet away from him, belting into the microphone with his pale skin and wretched tattoos gleaming ominously in the harsh green light of the spotlight above.

He's shirtless - because, of course, he is -, and sporting a new set of hickeys Evan cannot remember placing there. And how can he? After all, it hasn't been him, who made out with their lead singer only minutes before their gig. Looking at them alone makes his stomach churn in anger.

He really is a massive cunt, that Crouch. There is no denying that.

For the duration of their entire set, they are shooting hateful glances at one another; the tension palpable on everyone's tongue and skin. 

Smirking at him deviously, Barty doesn't refrain from playing with the crowd, hyping them up and flirting with everyone that catches his bastard-blue eyes. Evan wants to look away, but he can't. And Barty knows it too.

He leans down, grabs Sirius fucking Black out of all people by the chin, and shoves his tongue deep down his throat. Evan almost breaks his drumstick then.

Moron.

In retaliation, he starts messing with the rhythm, going sometimes faster and sometimes slower. Usually, the two of them are in cadence, being able to rely on one another, but no more. Growing bolder and much more creative with his fill-ins, he draws attention to himself, something he is sure Barty would hate. 

His head whipping around, he glares at Evan, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Evan shrugs it off, a mocking smile on his lips as he crashes the cymbals even louder. Barty picks up on his game rather quickly. Gripping into the neck of his guitar, he starts up a riff, one that wasn't planned. Scoffing, Evan matches him.

They build up on one another, trying to one-up each other, until their is no rhythm left. Regardless, the crowd still eats it up. Cheering and hollering, they urge them on. The adrenaline rush Evan feels then, it almost makes him forget about the need to punch that cocky fuck squarely across the face - or pierce his idiot skull with one of his sticks.

Inside the dressing room is where the tension comes crashing down on them like the outer shell of a volcano exploding. A hate-fuck long overdue.

"What the hell were you playing at, huh?" Barty snarls, shoving Evan into the door as he's just closed it.

"Oh, don't come crying to me now", Evan returns with a sneer, his blood already boiling inside his veins. "If it weren't for you and your constant need to stick your cock in-between someone's legs, we wouldn't have started late, and none of this would have happened!"

"You know as well as I do, that's not what I fucking meant, Rosier! If you got a problem with me, don't be such a pussy and spit it right out!"

Then, Barty huffs, his eyes narrowing as his lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Of course, you don't have the balls to do it."

"SHUT UP!"

Pushing him back, Evan is now the one to pin him towards the lockers, his expression one of blistering fury. Still, the smile doesn't leave Barty's lips. Evan wants to kiss that stupid grin right off him.

So, that's what he does.

It's harsh, ungentle. Teeth crashing and tongues curling. Barty's hands find his hips, fisting the loose fabric hanging there. Knowing no better, Evan grips the back of his neck until his nails start drawing blood. He wants him to hurt.

"Knew you wanted me", Barty pants as they part briefly.

His hair is dishevelled and his eyes half-lidded. Flushed and heaving with desire, the blood running down his neck mixes beautifully with red splotches of his skin. Evan hates him.

Before he can snark something back, Barty has already pushed him onto one of the benches, his head hitting the wood with a dull thump. Without hesitation, he crawls on top of him, sneering down at him as his hands pin his bare throat to the seat.

Trapped, Evan can only stare back in defiance, too angry to say anything. But as Barty's hand ghost over his body, lower and lower, until they've slipped underneath his pants, an involuntary shiver escapes him.

Barty smiles cruelly. "I could smell you're dripping cunt all night. What, Rosie? So wet and just for me?"

"You probably mistook it for your own cock, Crouch!" Evan bites back, fighting a moan as the other one presses down his finger on his clit already sore from want. "You're such a fucking whore, you cannot last a minute without fucking someone. That's how desperate you are!"

"Oh, I am desperate", Barty agrees easily. "Always desperate. Especially, for you. I can never not be hard when you're around. Now spread your legs, angel. You've been empty for too long, and it shows."

"I-" But the snarky remark dies within his throat.

He really is a massive cunt. But as long as it's Evan, whose legs he's in between, he doesn't much care.

[skinomyteethh]

to be or not to be?

pairing; kelly nickels x fem! reader

summary; thoughout kelly's newfound fame as bassist of L.A guns he had been acting different though you weren't sure if it was due to the restless nights they'd spend preforming or another aspect

contains/warnings; mentions of cheating. oral (female receiving). fingering. teasing. slight cum eating? little to no dialogue. may contain spelling errors :(

authors note; I need kelly nickels' magic stick in my mouth. also it deleted the damn ask so </3 anyways I hope y'all enjoy reading this!!!

cheating in the eighties or seventies rockstar scene was not at all unusual or taboo, it was extremely difficult to find a rockstar who hadn't cheated on their spouse. hell, robert plant not only had his wife maureen he also had a tour wife and a multitude of other groupies alongside him. these stories seemed to absolutely terrify [name], the thought of her boyfriend cheating on her while on tour was extremely stomach churning.

she sat on the sofa of their shared apartment, staring at the television emotionlessly and in deep thought until a phone call disrupted her thinking. a soft sigh parted her lips as she stood up and turned off the television, walking over to the phone in the kitchen, answering it.

"hello, this is [name]." she stated rather blandly, hearing the stumming of a guitar and clashing of cymbals as well as loud laughter. "hey babe, it's me, I just wanted to check up on you." his voice was somewhat raspy, it signaled that he had continued his excessive smoking habits. this whole rock 'n' roll scene seemed to be fueled off of addictions.

[name] hummed, maintaining her hold of the phone against her ear as she laid against the wall, fooling around with the coiled cord of the telephone before finally responding. "i've been alright, how about you? are you enjoying the tour?" her tone seemed curious yet curiosity was far from what she was feeling, she had her suspicions.

a short moment of silence came upon them, though it was shortly broken by the sound of Kelly chuckling. "it's been hectic, but i'm glad you're doing alright. we're heading back to Los Angeles later today!" just as she was about to respond she heard another voice, it was the voice of another female, she sounded extremely flirtatious and seemed to have a stupid valley girl accent.

"babe, sorry for cutting the conversation short but I have to go." he remarked, letting out a small laugh before hanging up. [name] stood still for a minute, the phone still in her hand, that whole predicament was strange, unsettling even. perhaps now Kelly was apart of the bunch of idiot rockstars who cheated on their partners/spouses.

she sauntered back to the sofa, turning the television back on. overwhelming thoughts began to fill her head as she leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. what if Kelly had been cheating on her during these past months? what if he had been cheating on her prior to those months? those thoughts filled her head as she slowly drifted to sleep.

at around mid-day the loud, almost uncanny creaking of the front door both opening and shutting startled [name] out of her sleep. she sat up, feeling slightly dazed, not fully awake. her eyes glanced back as she heard the rather heavy bass guitar case drop onto the floor. Kelly hummed placing a soft, quick kiss on her forehead, taking a seat next to her.

upon feeling his lips against her forehead all thoughts prior to his arrival began swarming back, causing her mood to sour. he noticed her sudden and rather drastic mood change, wondering what on earth could have caused it. "did you have fun with her?" her question caught Kelly off guard, what could've caused her to think he was with another woman, despite what others may think he was a loyal, committed man with no desire for anybody but [name].

"what are you talking about?" he queried, raising an eyebrow in confusion. [name] responded with a scoff, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "you think i'm stupid? I heard that girl Kelly." flashbacks seem to hit him like a wave crashing onto the shore. the girl whose voice she had heard was tracii's new groupie girlfriend, he would never and could never cheat on [name].

"that was tracii's girl." [name] rolled her eyes, her expression was tainted with judgement, she still thought he was lying. Kelly sighed, closing his eyes. he was somewhat irritated at her accusations, out of all the people in this horrid world Kelly thought [name], his girlfriend of however many years would know he would never even think of doing something like cheating.

and he was going to prove it.

Kelly was going to make her realize he still loved her. she was slightly by his abrupt actions as he somewhat roughly threw her onto their bed, haphazardly taking his clothing off. his eyes trailed down to her white lace panties, he trailed down and slotted his hand in between her thighs, tugging at the waistband of her panties with his pearly white teeth.

a soft, desperate whine escaped her lips as he tugged them down. he hadn't bothered taking them off of her completely, they were low enough for him to engulf in her pretty little cunt. his warm tongue began to eat her out rather messily, his chin was dripping wet with her arousal as he slightly nudged his nose against her clit, licking up and down her folds as if she were to be his last meal ever.

her hands roughly tugged at the roots of her jet black hair, moaning out random praises as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Kelly circled his tongue around her clit painfully slow, [name] glanced down at him, absolutely breathless, finally muttering a coherent sentence. "babe, please.."

desperation and neediness were clear in her tone as she quietly spoke. he hummed, bringing his pointer and middle fingers up to her lips. [name] shakily opened her mouth, enveloping his fingers in the warm of her mouth, coating them in her saliva so he could prep her and finally give her what she desired the most. after a minute or two he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, bringing them down to her entrance, inserting his pointer finger, then his middle finger.

[name] bit her bottom lip roughly, gripping the cool, white sheets below her as he slowly and rather gently fingered her. soon enough, one of her hands wrapped itself around his wrist, maintaining his fingers in place as she eagerly fucked herself against them like an absolute whore. Kelly simply watched her in amusement, placing soft, teasing kisses on her inner thighs.

her movements eventually became sloppier, less desperate and calculated, it signaled that she was getting extremely close to reaching the edge. he simply removed her hand from his wrist, pulling his fingers out of her. at that moment she seemed to despise the feeling of emptiness in her, whining as she took off his underwear.

Kelly desperately slotted his dick between her wet folds, the head bumping against her clit as he moved his hips back and forth, up and down. her arms reached up, and wrapped themselves around his neck, desperately holding onto him, loving the feeling. he halted his movements shortly after, grabbing the base of his dick, breathing heavily while he lined himself up with her hole, reaching his hand down, slapping her cunt before inserting himself into her slowly.

he moved his hips closer to her, watching as her soaking cunt absolutely devoured every inch of his cock. Kelly sighed euphorically as he finally inserted himself completely into her, bottoming out. [name] began to crave him even more than before, slowly moving her hips against him, his hands gripped onto her hips tightly, stopping her movements as he began to roughly thrust in and out of her.

each time their hips met her body felt an overwhelming wave of pleasure, her tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrust. Kelly leaned down, pressing his chest to her back, placing soft kiss on the back of her neck as she moaned breathlessly. he reached his hand under her, groping one of her tits, adding even more pleasure into the mix.

every thrust, every groan, every touch drew her closer and closer to her orgasm. her moans began to grow louder and her body became somewhat limp as she finally reached her high, cumming all over his cock. "that's a good girl.." he mumbled, continuing to thrust into her, overstimulating her sensitive cunt.

his hip movements became sloppier by the second until he finally spilled his load deep inside her. slowly and shakily he pulled out, once again slotting his head in between her thighs, spreading her folds open with his fingers, pushing whatever mixture of their cum spilled out back into her.

finally, Kelly sat up, laying his head against the headboard, breathing heavily. "I hope that showed you how much I absolutely love you and how I would never cheat on you hun." he mumbled, bringing her closer to him. [name] let out a breathless chuckle, laying her head down on his abdomen, glancing up at him.

"it definitely proved something like that."

[meowtalhead]

BEHOLD my new oc

Her name is Barry

She's a cat made of darkness and the concept of heavy metal with whiskers, tail, and claws made of fire (the fire doesn't burn things if she doesn't want it to, it's just really warm, and also red because that's a badass color)

She lives in a dimension of rock and roll, and emerges into this world through portals that exist within pyro at concerts to kick ass in the pit. She's like the guardian of the pit, she keeps people safe in there

She usually only reveals herself to one or a few people at a time, the rest are left with a vague, blurry, dream-like memory of another... human? whose features they can barely recall

If you leave your guitar case open she will sleep in it. She is way too big to fit. But that will not stop her. She's also going to eat all the snacks you have in your tour bus

If she likes a band she reaches into the musical currents of the universe and pulls out vinyl copies of their entire discography to add to her collection. She can do this even if the music in question wasn't released on vinyl, or was never even recorded in the first place

Purr sounds like a bass riff (think the second half of the breakdown in body bag by beartooth), meows sound like a guitar, hiss sounds like a combination of distortion and a cymbal crash, etc.

Very soft fur, but when you look at it from the right angle it's actually a swirling shadowy void full of glowing red sparks which are the manifestations of songs artists put their whole heart into

[sexhaver]

God damn I haven’t thought about Cymbals Eat Guitars in a solid decade. Indiana was such a banger.. “after driving you home once STILL HALF HI-IGH!”

Were you the blogger who would post les os all the time also

yeah that was/is me. it's really convenient how half the songs that still get stuck in my head today were doing the same thing in high school so i uploaded most of them before the copyright strike system happened

[may-attempts-to-write]

 Skullfucker Begins

That afternoon, my friend Hunter had invited me to play (and by that, to watch him practice guitar) at his house. I had no other plans, plus I always had a nice time with him, so I accepted. We settled in the basement, and after eating some snacks and chatting for a while, he grabbed his favorite guitar and started practicing.

He commented that he was writing a new song while plugging the guitar into the amplifiers. In fact, I didn't pay much attention, I was looking at the walls covered in posters.

  “Ugh! This pick sucks.” he said after playing a couple of chords and making a mistake, while I looked at his guitar collection. I fiddled with one of the drum cymbals, the instrument Hunter designated for me.

  “My strap's not right. That's…” Hunter clarified, pausing, adjusting it. I looked away to a secluded corner of the room, where a family photograph rested on a small shelf. In it, Mr. Sylvester smiled, putting an arm around his son. On the other side of the boy, a woman crossed her legs and rested her hands on her lap. The head had been torn off, leaving an incomplete corner in the photograph.

  “Okay. Okay, there we go.” he repeated the series of notes. I looked at the snake he had as a pet, I hated it. I didn't understand why anyone would want to have that in their home, with all the possible risks. Anyways, his father had to compensate for the divorce with something.

  Ozzy Osbourne, Metallica, Body Count, Baroness, Black Sabbath, I read the names of the posters I could figure out. Several of them used complex fonts, as if the point was to hide the band's name beneath extravagant letters.

  “Cocks!” my friend exclaimed, after having made another mistake. "All right, hold on. Let's scoop that midrange." he clarified, adjusting the volume of the amplifiers. "Nice."

 He walked back towards the practice area, hunching his back and letting his long hair fall, scratching the strings with precision.

  “One, two, three, four!” he marked the time, and then I joined. I gave the drums a few random hits with the sticks, and just a few seconds later Hunter stopped playing.

 “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.” With both hands, I grabbed the cymbals, muffling the sound. He frowned, tilting his head to his right “What was that?”

 “I was just-- You said ‘play something fast.’” I commented, waving my drumsticks in the air, emphasizing the point.

 “Did you read the music that I wrote for you?” he asked, nodding towards the music stand right next to me. I pointed at it with my right arm, reading out of the corner of my eye the title of the song, “Machinery of Torment”, written in letters… I couldn't describe them exactly, they possibly looked like Nordic runes.

  “Yeah”

  “Do you know what polyrhythms are?” He inquired, drawing his eyebrows even closer together.

“Yeah.” I murmured, positioning my arms like jugs and nodding my head.

 I don't. These aren't my drums; they belong to Hunter. And he came up with the band name. I don't play the drums, I play the drum, in marching band for two years. I do it to get out of PE, but Hunter says that doesn't matter. All it takes to be great is commitment and sacrifice, which is what metal's all about. Or maybe it's about power, or sticking it to the man, or denim, or motorcycles, or speed, or the devil. I don't totally understand it, but Hunter says I don't have to. All I have to do is…

  “Play something heavy, man.” He said.

  “Okay, Like, uh… ‘Rock of Ages’?” At my words he only made a confused face, bordering on mockery.

  “Heavy.” He repeated “. Play… something heavy.” He ordered, pausing between each word as he played the chords of the song. He then repeated the phrase again, smiling, urging me to comply with his request. I prepared myself, thinking what I could do.

 I gave my best, putting feeling into every hit towards the drums and a cymbal. The guitar stopped again, when I looked up I saw Hunter sighing. He scratched his head, meditating for a couple of seconds.

  “We need a bass player. A bass player will be huge for us.” We both nodded at his words. He was right, I supposed. Actually, I didn’t really know if the bass had an important role within a band, you can barely hear it most times.

  “Yeah, no doubt.” I commented.

  “No doubt.” Hunter rephrased, his cool confident voice seemed to fade.

  “No doubt.” I murmured, leaving the drum sticks aside.

On Monday, after some morning classes, at Glewnwood Lake High School, I had a marching band rehearsal. The wind instruments sang a somewhat distressing, but solemn melody. On one side, near the stands, a group of students in gym clothes finished their stretches after exercising.

  The band advanced through the American football field, at slow steps. I looked forward, keeping my back straight. Repeating the rhythm indicated by the director, I thought about the last time I saw my friend. He seemed a little disappointed, I felt sorry for him.

  Hunter seemed more and more erratic lately, desperate to hold on to something and forget the rest of his problems. I guess that's why he became obsessed with the idea of ​​forming a band.

  Behind me, one of the clarinets played a series of notes completely out of scale, higher and scratchier than the agreed upon melody. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as the director, a red-haired man with a gray beard, frowned his face revealing distress.

  “Stop, stop.” He indicated, moving one arm “. That’s enough for today.”

 I sighed, walking towards the locker rooms, wanting to put away the outfit I was wearing and change as soon as possible. The hat, which was mandatory to wear at all times, made me itch. I wish I didn't have lice, or something like that. I could ask my mother to wash it, although I wasn't sure if I could put the damn accessory in the washing machine.

  “Emily, can I talk to you for a second?” asked the director, his voice coming from far away. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, besides I had to help my little brother with his math homework. “The song you're playing is not the song they are playing.  I'm not sure you're even playing a march. We've talked about this. You have to listen and play. It's an orchestra, right? I know we're in a marching band, but… I see you’re upset. “said the man.

  “Fuck you!” the person shouted. I looked again, it was a girl. She bent her body in half, screaming “Fuck! I don't give a fuck about what I'm playing! I don't give a fuck about what they're playing!  Fuck you! Fuck your shitty band! “and with that said, she threw her clarinet with the force of a football player. The instrument flew across the field, and then plummeted, nailing the tip into the ground.

  “Too bad she can't play like she throws.” commented a classmate, as I turned my eyes towards the scene.

 The girl continued uttering obscenities, and as she left, she addressed the director one last time “Cunt!”

“You can't say that in America.” Replied the man, but she turned a deaf ear and continued on her way. So did I.

 I crossed through the sports grounds, entering the school’s building. While walking inside the mass of people within the hallways, I thought about the recent events.

 That seems pretty metal to me, but I'm not sure. I'll ask Hunter about it. He's been into many things since I met him, but he's stuck with metal longer than any of them. When his mom left in seventh grade, he decided it was the key to everything. If we devote ourselves to metal, we'll own this school.

  “Watch it.” reproached a girl, with whom I almost collided for looking at the floor.

 I remembered Hunter's words, looking at the variety of popular teenagers around me, “Everybody will see what we really are and worship us like gods.” I'm willing to give it a try.

A few meters from my friend, I saw a boy approach to greet him. I don't remember his name, but he and Hunter greet each other every day at school, making the horns with their hands. After smiling at him, he saw me coming and pointed his horns at me. How strange, he seemed to point out to me.

 He's been my best friend since he stopped Molly Levin from ripping out my hair in third grade. He always looks out for me. I smiled at him, but he just widened his eyes and continued pointing his finger at me, and when he noticed that I didn't understand his message, he moved his arm horizontally against the lockers.

 I fell to the ground, the books I was holding flew and scattered as well. I almost hit my forehead on the edge of the metal, but I used both hands, one on the lockers and one on the floor, to stop the impact. I sat up little by little, looking for my books with my vision restricted by my bangs, plus I lost my glasses in the accident. As I looked up, I noticed Hunter approaching quickly.

  “Skip Hoffman sucks pig dicks.” He sentenced, grabbing one of my arms and lifting me up with a sharp tug.

 “I don't think he was trying to hit me. I was just in the way.”

We both saw a group of popular people in the distance. The aforementioned Skip Hoffman bumped fists with another brown-haired boy, who had the company of his girlfriend.

  "Clay Moss." greeted Hoffman, the brainless.

"Ready for the game?" Moss asked. I put on my glasses and got a better look at Clay's perfect smile.

"Ready to party after homecoming, buddy."  answered the tall one. Clay's girlfriend looked at her nails, uninterested in the conversation.

"Yeah, my parents are in Ginebra. So bring the whole school if you want, man, seriously." said the brunette. At his friend’s dry laugh, he repeated "Tell whoever. Everybody’s invited."

"OK."

 With that, they said goodbye. Hunter practically dragged me to the cafeteria, he said he was hungry. As we walked, he told me about an argument he had with his father that morning, I didn't even understand why they were fighting now, but it turns out he couldn't have breakfast.

 Hunter was still in line when I took a seat at our usual table. I chewed slowly, looking for the clarinet girl, and there she was. Sitting alone, listening to music and looking at the ceiling. I couldn't help but look at her, there was something about her that caught my attention. Another girl, a friend of Clay's girlfriend, tried to sit at the same table, but her friend grabbed her arm and walked to the opposite side. Girls can be quite cruel.

  "Hello, what's up?" greeted my friend, sitting in front of me. He shook his head back, adjusting his hair. Sometimes he reminded me of Prince Charming from Shrek, because of his main character attitude and because he paid too much attention to his hair.

 "Did you ask your mom about the double bass kit?" I nodded, taking a sip of water. "What’d she say?"

  “She said she doesn't have a thousand dollars.”

  “Okay, well, what about a double bass pedal?” he asked, chewing “. Won't get the resonance, but we'll have that attack.”

  “Yeah, she said she doesn't have $150 either.” I murmured, avoiding his gaze for a while. Unconsciously I focused my attention on the clarinet girl again. She seemed like she was about to cry. Hunter took notice of my distraction, he turned his head to see her for a second. 

  “She's in my speech class. I think she's English, Scottish. I don't know.” I barely heard his words, watching as the poor girl left beside her the food because of her stress”. I heard she went apeshit on the band teacher.”

  “Yeah.”

 “That's one messed up chick.” Said Hunter, taking off his denim jacket, revealing a t-shirt from the band Slayer, its name written in cuts on an arm, crimson blood flowing from them. Sometimes it was unbearable being with Hunter, everyone except of him noticed he was one messed up guy.

[catchyhuh]

If each of them would ever have YouTube / Tik Tok account... What would their content be?

i tried so hard to really and truly answer this but i just kept thinknf of this throughout

lupin: started as a joke but he IS having fun with it. he’s mostly just fucking around there’s like NO production quality there it’s just. viddy oe. and thats the case whether its youtube OR tiktok, either way it’s going to be quick cutesy spur of the moment junk. if he ever really went all out, he might make some kinda digital calling card (he has made video cards before to inform his targets he’s about to rob their asses lmao) but it’d be some stupid hilarious shit. like imagine those video wedding/graduation invitations with the poorly animated stock resources and generic acoustic guitar music. text slides in that says “i want that statue dumbass” (cymbal fade sfx) “so yeah i’ll be taking that” (dramatic text pan) “seeya thursday, can’t wait :)”

jigen: no profile pic no real username. just like jigen76943 with the blue j icon. NO tiktok. NO tiktok for our guy. insists lupin shouldn’t be using tiktok either as its shortening his already horrible attention span. jigen doesn’t really post videos too much, but if he does it must be something very important to him, really only uploaded so he doesn’t lose it. there’s a handful of videos from some of their vacations (whether its an intended vacation or just ‘oh shit we’re in spain. we should have fun with this’ type deal) but it’s almost all privated. he’s not really showy about stuff like that

fujiko: she had a momentary lapse of judgment when making it, because she thought, easy way to sucker in idiots and make some money off that ad revenue. but also… do you REEEALLY want the world knowing exactly where you are, what you’re doing, at any given moment? well. no. but if you heavily screen every tiny fraction of your video before even THINKING of posting it, maybe nobody will be able to tell you’re literally sitting inside the taj mahal. posted a makeup tutorial once while she was already wearing a full face of less obvious makeup just because it was funny to her to see comments insisting she was so much prettier “without makeup.” so yeah like everything else in her life she’s found a way to rig this for money and her own personal entertainment

goemon: Nay. you know i don’t personally subscribe to the “goemon cant understand ANY technology he’s so archaic teehee” philosophy, but this ain’t even about that, it’s about the fact that goemon is the only one who’s initial reaction was “you want me, a wanted criminal, tagging the people i have been around and locations i have been to? for ‘clout’????” at best he just uses jigen’s phone to watch random stuff that interests him, and like, he’s not PHYSICALLY RECOILING when fujiko tries to show him a funny tiktok, he enjoys the fun of it. but he’s not making one, and if he has anything to say about it, he will not be featured in lupin’s bullshit

zenigata: doesn’t even have his own. he’s like a background feature when (SURPRISE YATA SNEAK ATTACK) yata posts. yata will be like “wow the louvre!!! look!” and take a lil video and zenigata’s just in the background looking bored out of his mind. in the louvre. he’d never BULLY zeni into participating, but once yata becomes aware of the fact people are playing where’s waldo with his stuff, he might try to have fun with it. q&a with the inspector. share some life advice with the audience. and the whole time zenigata’s like “um. uh. don’t break the… law?” and the commenters eat it UP. zenigata thinks its stupid but he tells yata he’s doing it because yata enjoys it, and that's it. however secretly you know he’d fucking love the attention

so final verdict: unfortunately i believe all of these people would be baffled and horrified if i explained how many times i've rewatched defunctland's disney channel theme video in full. but they could have a little fun with it

[makarovni]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @corvosattano and @adelaidedrubman to share some shit I've been writing this fine Wednesday. Thanks!! It was a toss up whether I shared a bit of Bianca's Nice Guys introduction or her first meeting with Driver, but I don't think I've written enough of the Nice Guys fic that even contains Bianca just yet so I won't be doing that one. However the Drive fic is really an effort bc if you've seen the movie you know the way he talks and behaves, and it's difficult to put into writing (I haven't and don't intend to read the actual novel bc apparently its pretty different so don't tell me to do that lmao), as is just having him go by the name Driver, so I'm still getting used to it and figuring things out. But it's something!! So take it!!

For a split second, their eyes meet, but just as quickly they dart away, and her eyes are back on her textbook. Driver returns to his food, just as good as he'd imagined it would be, and he's finished eating all but the ice cream fairly quickly.

Now that he's only eating the soft serve, he wants to approach the girl. His eyes are attracted to her phone, where he can see she's listening to some album with a cover featuring a girl in a bikini. Even though she's listening through earphones, Driver can hear it ever so slightly through the one that's not in her ear, and he's intrigued again.

"What are you listening to?"

Startled by his shadow over her and the sudden burst of conversation, the girl jolts a bit, but settles down when she realizes that it's just him.

"Oh, uh, I'm listening to Deftones," she replies in a soft, high voice, a small smile on her lips. "You like them?"

Driver smiles back at her. "I've never heard them before."

She tilts her head and picks up the free earbud, offering it to him. "You wanna listen?"

He nods silently, his smile widening, and he sits down next to her and puts the earphone in. The song that plays begins with a cymbal-heavy drum intro with breathy vocalizations peppered in, before the guitar and proper singing begin. The two listen together, as if they've been friends for years.

"I like it. What's it called?" He asks after the chorus concludes.

"Around the Fur," she replies. "It's the title track."

"It's good. Can I keep listening with you?"

"Of course." She nods, and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

The two return to silence as they enjoy the sound of Chino Moreno's voice together– he eats his soft serve, she continues to skim her textbook and scribble notes, and he watches where she looks. It's a nursing textbook, which makes the fact that she's wearing scrubs make a lot more sense. Her handwriting is somehow simultaneously messy and neat, and she's writing something down about wound care.

"Are you a nurse?" He asks suddenly.

She jolts again, somehow startled by a simple question. "Um, yeah. I'm just working on some continuing education."

"That's cool," he replies, taking a quick bite of his ice cream. "What's your name?"

She brushes her fringe bangs out of her face and looks at him with big, brown eyes. "Bianca. You?"

His eyes dart around nervously, and he hesitates. He doesn't have a name, he can't afford to have one. But she has to call him something, right?

"Well….they call me, um…Driver."

"Driver?" Bianca asks with a giggle, taking a bite of her own ice cream. "Really?"

"Yeah. 'Cause I drive." He stares at Bianca, wondering why this doesn't make sense to her. It makes sense to him.

She snorts. "Okay, nice to meet you, Driver."

[emmanuelscastle]

A flat affect But I really care I see some far-out shit that isn’t there

[asknarashikari]

Kamen Rider Geats (Fanmade Imaginary Alt. Turn of Events): Ditch Pt. 2

https://asknarashikari.tumblr.com/post/722104305835982848/kamen-rider-geats-fanmade-imaginary-alt-turn-of#notes (Follow up to this story.)

Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch, Pt. 2 (Could not think of a better title)

Azuma: … -_- *grumbling because he’s been stuck lying in the ditch in his prison cell for hours with his handcuffs and beating*

Azuma: I’ll kill Punkjack and Geats for this humiliation… =_= *muttering under his breath*

*Footsteps can be heard*

Azuma: ?!

Azuma: Who is it now! Show yourself! =_=

DGP Staff Recruits: *a couple newly hired recruits would walk up to azuma’s prison cell and sees the bullhead stuck in the ditch inside*

DGP Staff Recruits: XD *They start chattering and found this most amusing indeed*

DGP Staff Recruit #1: So that’s the Buffabutt that we’ve heard so much about from our superiors (Ace, Keiwa, Neon, Tsumuri, Win, and maybe a few more?)…doesn’t he look silly? XD

DGP Staff Recruit #2: Serves him right! He’ll never get out… XD

DGP Staff Recruit #3: XD *restraint snickering*

DGP Staff Recruit #4: That’s what he gets for all the horrible things he did…a zombie asshole is not worth an execution. Good riddance to him… -_-

Azuma: =_= *offended growling*

DGP Staff Recruits: *all glance at one another…but then they start to smirk as they all have an idea*

Azuma: …What’s with those looks, are you mocking me?! =_=

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmmOXxa0g7I DGP Staff Recruits: XD *they began to sing (imagine a parody of this weird song)*

“Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch!

Fell in a Ditch! Fell in a Ditch!

Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch!

All on the Sunday Morning!”

Azuma: What has my life gotten itself into…? =_=

Day 2

Azuma: … *snoring*

DGP Staff Recruit #1: ^_^ *clashes some cymbals*

Azuma: GAH!!! O.O *jolted awake*

Ace: Rise and shine, Buffa… *smirks while eating some cooked steak*

Azuma: Geats, YOU….! =_=

DGP Staff Recruits: XD *start singing “Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch” song again*

Azuma: Oh no…not again…not now… =_= *muttering*

“Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch!

Fell in a Ditch! Fell in a Ditch!

Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch!

All throughout Monday Morning!” (only that the final line is being changed up)

Azuma: =_= *angry buffabutt snorting*

Geats: XD *chuckling*

Azuma: Okay, now you’re just taunting me, Geats… =_=

(This annoying song would continue to be sung to Buffabutt about two to three times daily, and the final line is constantly changed almost every day)

Day 7

Azuma: *is having a good snooze*

Win: ^_^ *loud electric guitar riff*

Azuma: ! O.O *loud buffabutt screaming*

Azuma: No…oh no, not again, when is this ever going to end?! =_= *sees the DGP recruits with Win*

Win: … -_- *shrugging*

Win: Hit it boys! *smirks as starts playing his guitar*

Azuma: Don’t you fucking dare, Punkjack! =_=

DGP Staff Recruits: *They began to sing once again just to clown on Azuma as Win plays his electric guitar*

“Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch!

Fell in a Ditch! Fell in a Ditch!

Buffabuttface Fell in a Ditch!

All because he’s shitty and boring!” (Ngl, I actually think Buffabutt is also one of the most boring characters in the show tbh.)

*Oh yeah, there are also surveillance cameras in Ace’s DGP supermax solitary confinement prison recording all this.*

Azuma: =_= *raging buffabuttface screaming and cursing Geats and his newly established DGP staff*

(Okay…this might one of the dumbest shit I’ve ever typed up. Eh, but then again I’ve came up with and seen worse. Anyways, I don’t think anyone would let Buffabutt live this down… XD)

Wow this is practically torture... let’s see how much of this nonsense he can withstand before he really loses his marbles��

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #12:

Mickey Newbury's Live at Montezuma Hall / Looks like Rain

I don't recommend you storm your local Dollar Bin in desperate search of this double album from Mickey Newbury.

Rather, I insist that you do so. Now.

You're still sitting there, so I'll explain what you'll get for your dollar: a seemingly unedited concert from 73 on Disc 1, and a full reissue of Newbury's 69 studio record, Looks Like Rain, as a bonus disc.

Today, on its own, copies of Looks Like Rain cost $30 to $100 or more. And that's if you are lucky enough to find a copy. As near as I can tell, just about all of Newbury's catalog is stone cold out of print in every purchase format from download to 8 track. Newbury's grandkids must have Ph.D's in economics and some kind of master plan; or they're just pissed.

But fret not. No one need pound the pavement or their discogs keyboard. No one need take out a home loan for a copy of the original record. Looks Like Rain is waiting for you in the Dollar Bin, attached to the Montezuma concert. I saw four available copies last week alone.

And so, let me now declare that this double album Is The Soundest Investment Of 2023. You heard it here first day traders: don't buy low; don't sell high. Buy Mickey Newbury.

Let's start with Looks Like Rain.

1969 was a pretty big year in music, yes? Astral Weeks and Electric Ladyland came out in late 68, so let's start the countdown of epic greatness there. The Velvet Underground, Five Leaves Left, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, Dusty in Memphis, Abby Road, The Band, Songs from a Room, Let it Bleed, At San Quentin, In a Silent Way, Clouds: 1969 is not a good year in music, it's The Best Year in Music. Fairport Convention managed to release not just one, but three timeless records all in that one year.

You won't find Looks Like Rain listed alongside those albums on any best-of lists. But that's only because people are dumb. After all, look at the current presidential polling.

Newbury's 69 record offers glorious space between every note, much like Van Morrison's phrasing in Astral Weeks' or Young's soloing in Down By the River. Take a listen to She Even Woke Me Up To Say Goodbye. The percussion and choir are barely there; a song that could be 45 seconds long, start to finish, gloriously stretches itself out to shimmer and glow, then gives way to the pulsing rain.

Newbury's lyrics throughout this record are often timeless, much like Leonard Cohen's own writing from that year. Sure, no one, short of T.S. Eliot with his patient etherized on a table, can stand alongside Cohen when he compares a bird on a wire to a drunk in a midnight choir, and no one else in that, or maybe any, year could rewrite Genesis's story of Issac as an updated Masters of War complete with a peacock waiving its fan, but Newbury offers us miniaturized perfections that set the stage for Kris Kristofferson's imminent arrival the following year. Just listen to him describe a lost love:

It's not her heart Lord, it's her mind.

She didn't mean to be unkind.

Why, she even woke me up to say goodbye.

I could go on and on. The album, with its sitars, sound effects and transitional whistling, is as experimental for country music as Abby Road or In a Silent Way were for pop and jazz respectively. Newbury's vocals ache and individualize - no one else will ever sing like this - in ways Lucinda Williams, Tom Waits and Tom Petty would spend their entire careers emulating. Nothing here is dull; everything is wholly original. I'd happily eat Newbury's poison red berries any day; and I'd chase them down with Van's cherry wine.

Just listen to T. Total Tommy. The rain gives way to a Fotheringay-like guitar piece that merges with Kenny Buttrey's insistent cymbal work (which he'd forever cement in all our minds through Heart of Gold two years later) and a beautifully bent bass line. Newbury overlays this lovely tension with his own midnight choir, finger snaps and lead vocals that are somehow wise, sad and joyful all at once. Some men kill with bullets, Newbury tells us. Others, use a pen. I'd happily listen to 16 more verses of this song but Newbury shuffles off early as we rush to flip the record.

And remember: this is just 1/2 of what you get from this Dollar Bin diamond.

Live from Montezuma Hall finds Newbury playing the part of Jerry Jeff Walker's wise uncle. At the same time Walker was guzzling Sangria in Luckenbach, Newbury was greeting his audience with humble, often incomprehensible, hilarity. But sides of the record start with Newbury rambling, first about a pot smoker halfway up in the audience, then second about a neighbor of his parents' hound dogs. I have no idea what he's saying some of the time but I love every moment, and I can understand why Kristofferson, Jennings and Nelson all bowed down to this guy even though the record buying public largely ignored him.

Both of his side opening rambles give way to foot stompers, then we dive straight into some of the best white guy soul music I know of. But there's a problem lurking on Side 2...

I imagine that one of the biggest reasons Newbury's music hasn't taken off this century is the nature of his most famous song, An American Trilogy, which Elvis co-opted throughout the 70s. I'm a dad to three cool kids and they always perk up when Newbury is playing in the house. But every time American Trilogy starts up on the turntable I rush to turn it off. It's 2023. Black Lives Matter, and no one reasonable, including me, is real excited to hear Confederate marching music, even if Newbury is doing the singing.

It's a shame. If Newbury, who died over 20 years ago, had lived to see the present moment, he'd have had the chance to speak about the song and put things in better perspective. Gordon Lightfoot did a wonderful job with this kind of thing at the end of his life by frankly apologizing for the mysogenistic nature of many of his early songs.

Not everyone gets this kind of thing right though. Stephen Stills is still alive and well, and he has yet to apologize for his entire body of work. He should do so.

Now, I know nothing about Newbury's politics or attitude towards people of color. But, happily, a full listen to Live At Montezuma offers a strong potential defense against the idea that he was a racist through and through. His intro to Cortelia Clark, and the song itself, offers, to my privileged white ears anyway, the strong hope that Newbury could be deeply thoughtful and caring towards people less privileged than himself.

Okay, we talked all that through. Let's go out on a high note, shall we? Take a listen to another of Newbury's timeless classics, this one from Frisco Mabel Joy, then go spend all your hard earned cash on every Newbury record your local Dollar Bin offers. I promise great returns on your investment.

Hope you all are well. Thanks for reading.

[proserpinewrites]

Assorted headcanons about Hekate ‘Katie’ Talbot:

Taught herself how to play guitar using a very old leftover guitar from a prior Vault 101 resident and some guidebooks that Jonas found for her. Left said guitar behind in the vault, but retrieved it after the massacre. Did not take it north with her to Boston and absolutely has had a special order in with Daisy for ages seeking another one.

Enjoys sniping intact cars until they explode for stress relief and/or to scare the living daylights out of raiders. Also enjoys prank calling Brotherhood soldiers via ham radio and then scarpering before they investigate.

Hates monkeys. Doesn’t matter what kind, be it the cymbal wielding raider alarm variety or Jangles the Moon Monkey. Uses the latter for target practice in the shooting gallery at Railroad HQ.

Has an extensive holotape collection of music, film, and any other worthwhile media she can get her hands on. Has been trying and failing to construct her own homemade headphones for years. Brought the entire steamer trunk’s worth of holotapes up north with her. After her plasmacaster, that trunk and it’s contents are her most prized possession.

Leery of dogs, likes but has little experience with cats, but has a strange affection for Deathclaws, Brahmin, molerats, and radrabbits. Would try to domesticate the latter two creatures if she had the time and energy.

Cannot and will not dance. Well aware of her limitations in that area, and given her lack of proprioception it's probably for the best.

Autistic, like her father before her. Has substantially better communication skills, mainly self-taught and earned through past bad experiences. Prefers written communication or ham radio communication to face to face, but can handle herself in person.

Sometimes wishes she was a synth, if only to be freed of the continual burden of remembering to eat, drink, and etc. Has only told Glory this after half a bottle of wine.

Has a great number of small scars in odd places due to her 'fuck it, why not' attitude towards experimenting with electronics and mechanical objects.

Lies about the source of most of her scars, except for the burn scar on her left shoulder. That one is due to a badly aimed shot from a Brotherhood soldier during the retaking of Project Purity, and she's still bitter about it.

[bloodybells1]

Heavy Metal is Not Your Mascot

The modern recast of heavy metal as salubrious societal analgesic comes at the price of its originally subversive appeal.

This video came across my algorithmically determined online television viewing streaming platform—otherwise known as YouTube—earlier this afternoon and watching it made me think some more about a topic I’ve been meditating on now for a long time: 

As someone who grew up in the 80s and 90s listening to heavy metal, who is now an adult living well into the 21st Century, I’ve often found the ongoing evolution of the public perception of this most idiosyncratic music genre rather puzzling. 

You see, I actually remember when the now laughable moral panic around heavy metal was in full swing, when the news show 2020 aired an episode about Ozzy eating a bat, about Judas Priest supposedly causing a couple of kids to shoot each other in the face and about Mötley Crüe being Satan worshippers because they put a pentagram on the cover of their second album. 

I mean, anyone who was born after 1990 has got to look back at that saga and see something truly surreal. How is it that such caricatures were so compelling, so effective in scaring the well-to-do, those bourgeois patriarchs and matriarchs who today, in the age of Internet pornography and 5,678,987 television shows, are way too inundated with imagery to really be scandalized by these bespandexed dudes with long tongues? At least the McCarthy Hearings can be seen as a national security concern and therefore seem somewhat believable that it occurred, so long as you consider the country had only recently come out of a world war and its principle ally had now become a world power with a diametrically opposed economic system. 

But some mumbly long haired white dude who chopped off the head of a bat in his mouth? 

If a dude in America bit off the head of a bat the way Ozzy did decades ago, he’d be commandeered by the feds for gain of function research (drumroll cymbal crash I’m here all week, folks), not become the subject of a scandal. Actually a dude who chops off the head of a bat with his teeth would today more likely have a reality show than become the subject of Senate Hearings. In fact, eventually, that dude did have a reality show (more on that soon).

But the truth is that heavy metal did in fact scandalize. The satanic imagery and long hair festooning the average metal album back in the 80s, funny as it may seem to modern sensibilities, did actually have the power to shock, no matter the quaintness of the moral panic by today’s standards. For myself growing up as a teenager in the late 80s, the sight of a grown man with a big mane, an electric guitar and a leather jacket signified an authentically antiauthoritarian pose and an effective political tool that communicated independence and freethinking. But the only way that it was actually able to signify all of that relied on its counterdependent effect on pearl-clutching conservative adults. Without the ability to scandalize, disturb and deregulate the affect of the authoritarian class, we teenage underlings had no power. If we couldn’t scare anyone, it’d be like a milquetoast haunted house, not anything to worry about and therefore not worthy of notice.

But this ability to serve as the bugbear for conformist interests could also acquire a specifically dialectical manifestation. You didn’t just have to turn it up to eleven to get people’s attention, you could also speak your mind, something that some of the more articulate members of the “movement,” if we can even call it that, like Dave Mustaine and Alice Cooper, made a habit of doing during interviews. I have a vivid recollection of being moved out of my seat in 1985 at the sight of Dee Snider, curly mop swinging from his head, entering the committee hearings that Tipper Gore put on for the purpose of those warning labels that are now ubiquitous on extreme music catalogs, mostly on hip-hop records (perhaps an early version of the now common trigger warning). He entered a room full of suits and politicians and on national television read aloud his prepared notes, decrying censorship and governmental overreach. In the following interview conducted by the committee—which, funnily enough, included Al Gore—Snider was charming, funny and intelligent, totally comfortable in front of DC legislators and, more importantly, persuasive in his defense of the moral imperative of his way of life. 

The importance of that particular moment for me is difficult to overstate. More so than even the weekly diet of videos on Headbanger’s Ball every Saturday night, the event of Twisted Sister’s frontman speaking truth to power on network television transformed my sense of what it meant to stand up for personal autonomy. Something about the juxtaposition of an articulate voice with a rebellious mien, like a Hell’s Angel with a PhD, floored me and shook me deeply: it made me believe in the necessity for heavy metal to be undergirded by an ideology, one that needed to be clearly defended using the lexicon of the “oppressor” against the oppressor and deployed by a member of the tribe. From that point forward heavy metal was for me a political device, not just a fantastic type of music, but a rhetorical quiver in a bow, a language and style comprising a disruptive affect designed to incense the neighbors. 

And it worked. After I grew my hair, stuck some pins on my denim jacket and ripped my jeans, I started having the impact I so desired. I made all the adults around me angry. All the teachers hated me. Every single grown person’s eye looked at me askance and clutched their children when they saw me walking down the block. And the reason why this all worked was because, back then, before our pop culture became recycled and regurgitated and remixed and mashed up over and over again, before the Internet made every new thing only yet another layer on a cultural palimpsest, heavy metal still had the ability to shock. There still were pockets in every suburb of every state suffused in middle class propriety with nary a flower pointing in the off direction, a purist fantasy more than easily defiled by the angry decibels of a car stereo blasting Iron Maiden. 

But what happens when this all changes? What happens when the Pope of Evil himself, the chiropteran eater, the Pablo Escobar of the offense cartel, one Ozzy Osbourne, reinvents himself as a lovable, hapless, perfectly innocent pater familias within that most innovative medium known as the reality show? What does it say about the political device of heavy metal when its chief icon, who for a whole decade was seen as the black void of all morality, becomes normalized, through one of the most commercial mediums in television, as merely another version of modernity’s companionate figure, the flawed-but-well-meaning father?

I think what happens is what’s in that video I started off this post talking about. What happens is the evolution of a once disruptive force into a kind of medicinal compost, a panacea for the legions of stressed subjects littering the manifold of capitalist relations in the new millennium, a political device turned into a therapeutic regimen. In the world of this video, where psychologists may opine with straight faces about the salubrious properties of heavy metal music, Ozzy Osbourne is no longer the archetype of evil he once truly represented, but an avuncular wizard with John Lennon spectacles, promising peace and harmony, all while—quietly—socially reproducing the specter of the beloved nuclear family. 

You might say that heavy metal is an example of that over-referenced business phenomenon, that is, the proverbial “victim of its own success.” It so captivated a whole generation of people, mostly Gen Xers, who’re by now all grown up, that these people have successfully, through shows like Stranger Things, influenced the subsequent generations’ curiosity for analog culture and managed to keep metal alive as a hotbed of durable cultural properties, though with the necessary consequence of deracinating it from any of its originally subversive potential. 

It’s true that authentically subversive metal continues to live on in the diaspora of micro-niche territories for which YouTube, SoundCloud and Spotify serve as the main platforms. Metal lives on, chiefly in the form of an extremely diversified field of thousands of new artists, many of whom have serious artistry and talent. 

The video above is in fact accurate: metal doesn’t so much as shock or disrupt as it catalyzes self-improvement through extreme ritual. There’s a very strong case to be made for the spiritual benefits that extreme imagery have on society. In Hinduism, the displays of icons of evil gods in front of one’s homes is encouraged, something poet Robert Bly calls “embracing the Shadow.” By this reading, an embrace of the lifestyles and rituals in heavy metal fandom constitutes a successful invitation of the darker energies inhabiting all spheres of human experience and which we ignore at our own peril. 

But the real sting is gone. The heavy metal of my adolescence was not a normalized construct which could be favorably documented for its restorative and spiritual potential. It was a terrifying and disruptive weapon that’d been placed in the hands of youths who were in desperate need to announce their personal autonomy. In my own case this took on the aspect of a need to set expectations around the adults in my life. I was to be understood not as a normal kid but as a self-described hellion and my manner of dress and musical taste reflected this desire to offend and frighten for the purpose of stating my preferred manner of being treated by adults, as someone who would not follow their prescriptions, values and career recommendations. 

Maybe I’m just falling victim to the natural tendency for older folks to chafe at the loss of their beloved value environments. “These kids,” and so forth. I will say that if you haven’t yet, please read Freddie DeBoer’s essay on the 90s because it makes a very strong case for why this might not actually be the case. It is true that the innocence of several decades ago looks positively embarrassing by today’s standards, especially when coupled with the decadence and optimism of new media in the 1980s (see “Looks that Kill”). Furthermore, the notion of heavy metal as an authentic political device is severely problematized by the hegemonic impact of its mostly white, male and, way too frequently, nativist, affect. It can be said that the primary maxim in heavy metal of the freedom to flout the rules is merely a reproduction of a Eurocentric, masculinized “freedom” to thrive in the patriarchal caste system it relies on for its special privileges (see Disco Demolition Night). Kaleefa Sanneh has written compellingly about how the rockist critical analysis that dominated music criticism for so long is another reproduction of this narrative (click here for my review of his book Major Labels). Interestingly, this problematization itself also needs further problematization through a class lens, as heavy metal has hardly been hegemonic in its role of providing a soundtrack for working class solidarity (it’s true that, in the overwhelming majority of cases, we’re talking about a white working class solidarity, but let’s save that conversation for another post). 

The idea that the public perception of heavy metal has been degraded from its originally revolutionary aspect relies on a certain element of the status quo that, since that time long ago, has greatly shifted. Cultural historian John Higgs has written powerfully about the exact nature of this shift, what he characterizes as an increase in emotional intelligence on the part of Gen Z. Read this piece he wrote about his experience watching one of the most beloved Gen X cultural properties, one that is situated perfectly with the zeitgeist of heavy metal’s classic 80s period, The Breakfast Club. To Higgs, having watched the film with a bunch of Gen Z kids led him to believe that this film, whose Bender protagonist so represented the deepest aspirations of nonconformists like myself, “no longer makes sense at all to modern teenagers.” It’s difficult to disagree with his analysis. Please do yourself a favor and read it (it’s short). 

The meaningful difference between the two eras being discussed here, the era of my adolescence and the era of the microdoc YouTube video I posted above, lies in the fact that adults are no longer being treated suspiciously by adolescents. This makes perfect sense when you consider that those of us who grew up during the 80s were experiencing a transitional period in between a paternal model of development and our modern companionate model. Heavy metal music was a perfect vehicle to defy the paternalistic encroachment of the adults who were still stuck in a pre-Elvis era of puritanical conformity. This isn’t the time or place to fully flesh out what I believe might be troubling about some aspects of the companionate model. But I think it’s beyond doubt that, in sheer terms of critical awareness and empathic response, Gen Z are miles ahead of Gen X, and that is something to take note of, especially for what it says about family relations. Interestingly, this advent has done little to stay the epidemic of mental illness among this cohort, though the causes and correlations of that are likely found in different arenas than in the family (ahem, Instagram, ahem). 

I will admit that it’s pretty clear that the revolutionary affect of the heavy metal of my teenage years appears more like a counterrevolutionary force in the present day. For a truly revolutionary art, punk music is a far more effective entity than heavy metal. Perhaps it was heavy metal’s more central provenance within the historical line of rock music that I found so persuasive back then. Unlike the zine pamphleteering and Xerox iconography of social unrest directly visible in punk music’s propaganda, heavy metal made a more mainstream case: it was a broader movement than anything punk could hope to muster. It’s interesting to consider that punk was popular only in its more tepid incarnations in college rock and Grunge while heavy metal could attain wide popularity with relatively less devaluation of its subversive content. 

But it’s this more broad appeal that also complicates the picture of a heavy metal music as a truly revolutionary force. 

At the same time, it’s hard for me to take seriously the idea that heavy metal today is to be lauded for its spirituality and therapeutic effects. The zeitgeist might have shifted to better, more humanistic environs. But heavy metal should not be regarded as the feisty commercialist mascot to a self-help movement.