I'm reading Nikki Sixx's "Heroine Dairies" and it has made me feel a good deal healthier about my measly nicotine addiction. Favorite quote so far, (as he is sharing his bed with a porn star):
"The only problem we had was that my dick didn't seem to be aware that she was there. She kept asking me what was wrong, I was so out of it I though she meant wrong with the world, so I started talking about global poverty and shit."
Nikki's crazed diary entries are truly saddening, but I mention it mostly for it marks another notch in my return to metal, a love last abandoned somewhere around 1991 when hip hop took hold.
It started a couple of years ago, Iron Maiden, Metallica and ACDC on tour and picked up again with a Kiss concert in April and series of festivals over the summer. There I punch danced my enthusiasm to, amongst many others, 'Girls Girls Girls' by the mighty Crue themselves. And by mighty I mean fat and bloated.
"He looks like a pig in leather" Sam drawled with her delightful Sydney twang, pointing to Vince Neil who was surely vaselined into leathers that laced up at the sides, exposing small squares of exhausted flesh.
The metal fans have not fared better, gone are the hair teased big titted slut groupies of yore and in trudge the overweight big titted purple velvet wearing hordes. I am watching Motley Crue and simultaneously attending a village fete in Middle Earth.
As a direct consequence of this unsightly affliction to the scene, myself, Kristen and Sam were hand selected to attend the Rammstein after party admitting even to ourselves how sad it was that we represented the best.
Naturally, we accepted our fate insisting that token boy Jamie remain in the fold. And herded like groupie bitches after the show we were, weaving backstage behind the tour buses and kept in lines before being released into a frigid tent with an open bar and welcome collection of leather couches. I blame heavy intoxication for my shameful attempt to slutify, knotting the loose white beer stained tank top above my naval in a provocative display of somewhat flat belly. The substances wore off when the cold of night took hold, bringing with it an acute awareness of my ridiculous state.
The band arrived and made polite conversation in clipped Germanic brogue to all those who approached, all aside from the lead singer Til who disappeared shortly after myself, Sam and Kristen hovered around him with our mobile phones held aloft. This respectable gathering is far removed from the debaucherous sleaze of a Motley Crue backstage fuck fest. There were no speed balls, unripened bananas or heroine infused psychosis. Just delightful chat, my knotted tank and "Bigmouth Strikes Again" easing out of the speakers.
These succession of events were for the most part free passed through a reputable contact I had befriended at a certain heavy metal magazine with which I never spent an advertising dime. Love of metal was my currency and remains a formidable relationship builder, a guaranteed acceptance to the club. This connection allowed me the privileged entry into the Classic Rock Music Awards a few weeks ago where I got to breathe the same confined air as Jimmy Page, Slash and Alice Cooper to name but a very few.
And it was at the second after party in the smaller hours of that night that I finessed my way onto a certain man's lap, whose gentle nature so beguils his formidable size and impressive long haired metalness. A passing acquaintance whose conversation and eyes had an effect that landed as unexpectedly as I had on his lap. Promises to meet again in a couple of weeks proved a gestation period of affection only to be cut down in of all pathetic ways, a celebratory Facebook relationship status update.
In a weakened emotional state I blame on late office hours, I decided to send him this note:
"Pain. So much pain. x " I typed repeating his hangover claim to me the day after the Classic Awards. His return was prompt assuming a physical injury had motivated my random communication. The response I hastened professed heartache and merited the void that followed.
Shame woke me before my alarm the next day and burns bright in the bottom of my somewhat flat belly these four days later. It seems as though this return to my adolescent music of choice has brought with it adolescent behavior as well.
Well, I've recently also started buying jazz on vinyl for the turntable I am getting this Christmas so who knows, the Motley Crue T-shirt I am currently sporting may morph into a tweed jacket and composed demeanor before long.
But fuck that shit.
your fan,
a.
/m\
