Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Iron Maiden
Published on May 27th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
Are the Metal Kids still a thing? I don’t know, because I’m not in high school. My son listens to metal, but there are so many different kinds of metal now, I can’t tell what he’s into from week to week. Bands like Aversion’s Crown or Sutekh Hexen with unreadable logos that look like lightning blood and vocals all growls and squeals, like a Deliverance fan convention.
In 1986, I had to take a home economics class. It had the potential to be bad. We were divided into groups of four, all seated at the same table. I was the new wave/punk/goth kid (because you could be all of those things at the same time in the Eighties) and I was placed with the Metal Kids. I was terrified. These were the pothead kids, the ones who got into fights after school, the ones that probably carried switchblades. They also listened to Metallica, a band I had never listened to because their name sound like a terrible factory where babies were crushed into a fine powdery substance called cocaine.
I knew they listened to Metallica because they had the logo copied perfectly onto their Trapper Keepers and notebooks. They also had the Judas Priest logo, transcribed exactly. How did they do that? Were the Metal Kids draftsmen on the side? And why do they all listen to this band called Iron Maiden?
Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Ratt, “Lack of Communication”
Published on May 22nd, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
The second and final time I saw Billy Squier was at, again, the Cincinnati Gardens. He was a giant star by that time, with videos on MTV and albums that smelled like gold and platinum. He looked like a combination of Michael Beck, Michael Paré, and Jim Morrison. Girls noticed this, like they do, propelling Squier to sex symbol status. He used this to his advantage, too, particularly with this video. Ripped T-shirt, crawling around on the floor like some particularly rabid Tennessee Williams character, Squier had it all.
Even though some had relegated Squier to the realm of “girly rock,” I was a true believer, an old-school hardcore fan. When he came back town, I was ready for a good show. He was headlining, which was exciting, because I was ready for more than 45 minutes from one of my favorite musicians.
Squier’s light show was top-notch. His band was tight. Billy seemed a little off, though. The voice quavered a bit. The hands on the guitar neck seemed a little lax. I was confused. I wasn’t sure why the show seemed out of whack when it occurred to me: he didn’t care anymore.
Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Billy Squier, “In the Dark”
Published on May 20th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
The Cincinnati Gardens was a gorgeous wreck of a multi-purpose hall, all crumbling ramps and parking garage architecture, redolent with the faint scent of circuses past. It was the “B” venue at the time; if a band couldn’t sell out the mighty Riverfront Coliseum, then they were relegated to the Gardens. Mid-South and Mid-Atlantic Wrestling came there, and I saw one of the greatest matches of my life there when I was eight (Rowdy Roddy Piper vs. Greg “The Hammer” Valentine, for the curious). The Gardens was also the site of the tragic concert by The Who, where nine people were trampled to death in a rush to get to the festival seating on the floor. The band wasn’t told about the deaths until afterwards. I was glad not to know anyone who went to that show, and the whole region was deeply affected and saddened by that event.
They talked about banning rock and roll from the Gardens after that, but that seemed too ham-fisted, even for Cincinnati, the town that later on would recoil in horror at something as mildly raunchy as a Robert Mapplethorpe photo exhibit. Instead, they banned festival seating, choosing to reserve all seats, including the ones on the floor. It was a good move, even though I was never able to afford seats so close to the stage, those magic spots where you could reach up and touch whatever god happened to be performing that night.
The first big rock concert I saw was at the Gardens, and it was a damned fine one. I saw Queen.
Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Judas Priest, “Hell Bent For Leather”
Published on May 15th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
Except for Kelso in that one episode of That ’70s Show, there is no one whose looks cannot be greatly improved by the addition of a leather jacket. Now, I’m not trying to piss off any animal rights groups by saying that. I know there are leather alternatives. I don’t know what animal pleather comes from, though, and vinyl is horrible to have wrapped around your package on a hot Tennessee afternoon. Therefore, it is with leather we remain.
Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Dangerous Toys, “Sport’n a Woody”
Published on May 13th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
Eighties metal was nothing if not hyper-sexualized, as men who looked like women objectified females as simply holes to be filled. Were they glorifying bisexuality or simply echoing the glam rock stylings of Bryan Ferry and David Bowie? Were any of them smart enough to make that kind of conscious decision? It’s hard to say.
The sight of longhaired bottle-blonde men wearing mascara and codpieces was strange enough. Hearing them spout metaphorical lyrics about their sexual conquests was difficult to take seriously. Who can forget Warrant’s immortal paean to sensual cooking, “Cherry Pie?” Def Leppard wanted ladies to pour some sugar on them, which I never found to be attractive at all. That just sounds messy.
Leave it to a band from Texas to be straightforward about the whole business. There was no make-up to be found on these guys and certainly no beating around the bush (snicker). Dangerous Toys, in the span of one song, both undermined and cemented the comically retarded machismo of the hair metal era.
Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Mötley Crüe, “Looks That Kill”
Published on May 8th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
Gather around, children. The following is a true story.
The year was 1983.
The most popular band in the world released the biggest album of their career. It was also, arguably, the worst album of their career. How they went from songs based on famous novels to bad poetry about dinosaurs is still beyond me. At the same time, a little metal band from Los Angeles was making waves by not only cranking out killer riffs, but by painting themselves as Satan-worshipping post-apocalyptic satyrs.
I was thirteen years old, a sweet church-going boy, and I had cleverly squirreled away enough money to purchase both of these albums on cassette. I was far too concerned about the coolness issue involved with these new additions to my musical collection. I had to have Synchronicity because everyone had it. I wanted Shout at the Devil because “Looks that Kill” was stuck in my head, slowly driving me mad.
This was the beginning of the Satanic Panic era. Heavy metal was coming under attack from concerned groups of parents for its sexual content. Religious groups were mortified by the licentiousness in the lyrics and perceived glorification of violence and sexual perversion. Ozzy and Judas Priest would end up going on trial. Frank Zappa would appear before a Senate committee, telling them to keep their white-gloved hands off our rock and roll. They were dark times for heavy music.
I was on the path to becoming a Christian minister.
Waxing Nostalgic: METAL MAYHEM! with Night Ranger, “Don’t Tell Me You Love Me”
Published on May 6th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
When did the Eighties really begin for you? I like to think that, if you were alive then, you had a musical moment when you knew that decade was going to be different. Maybe there was some kind of herald, a psychopomp guiding the Seventies to its disco-dug grave, a ray of strange black light that entered your ears and dug into your soul. Maybe you had an epiphany.
Waxing Nostalgic: Martini Ranch, “How Can the Labouring Man Find Time for Self-Culture?”
Published on April 25th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
The Eighties were self-referential as soon as they began, simultaneously creating and copying themselves, everything instantly ironic and dependent on everything else. The determinedly plastic and disposable nature of most American New Wave music showed this better than most things; helium songs, with the fluffy substance of a dandelion spore, floating through the earholes of bright girls with side pony-tails and chunky necklaces.
Cleverly, the band Martini Ranch took this aspect of the genre to task in their 1986 single, “How Can the Labouring Man Find Time for Self-Culture?” The lyrics take a firmly humanistic, proletariat stance. I am a human, I am not a number, yet the demands of the modern work-a-day world keep me from ascending Olympus and becoming the god I am destined to be.
Waxing Nostalgic: Roger Waters, “5:01 AM (The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking, Part 10)”
Published on April 17th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
Here’s a bit of rock and roll heresy for you on this fine day. I don’t care a whit for Pink Floyd. I believe them to be overexposed, overplayed, and overrated. Their music is the background of every “classic rock” radio station, mostly because of people whose parents were fans, folks who still think it is astonishingly weird and semi-artsy to hear machinery noises and people speaking backwards on a musical record. I don’t think smoking pot has anything to do with it and you don’t need hallucinogens to be bored by Pink Floyd. We have been told for decades that the Floyd is an amazing band, one to be treasured, and we believed it. There must be something in our brains, some incredible desire to hear an open D note, staccato plucked, over and over and over again.
To hell with The Wall, to hell with Dark Side of the Moon, and to double hell with The Final Cut. I am reasonably sure I am not alone in this opinion. I’m also sure the comments section will let me know if I’m wrong.
Here comes the big “but.”
Waxing Nostalgic: Cliff Richard, “Wired for Sound”
Published on April 15th, 2013 in: Music, Waxing Nostalgic |
I posed a simple question on Twitter to my British friends. “Friends,” I asked, “what is a Cliff Richard?” My friend Sam, who runs a film blog in the UK, answered, “(noun) A type of person, not from The North.” I feel this answer is much funnier if you’re British, which I am not, but Sam’s a good man who has made me laugh before. I’m sure this response is hilarious.
It’s vague, though, and I get the impression the Britons are afraid to speak of him aloud, like he’s some kind of demon. What happens if you say Cliff Richard’s name five times while staring into a mirror? None have lived to tell.