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Rating: (Fundamental premise. All the events reported below are authentic. Happy reading).
Don't ask me why, but the world of us metalheads is built like a kind of Commodore 64 video game. There’s the first level, the second, and on and on until you reach the final monster.
Every metalhead has a certain amount of energy, and with each level, you lose a bit of it, and you have to be careful because if you run out of energy, the game ends, and you risk becoming a wannabe. Once, I almost risked dying; I already had little energy left, then a Swedish metalhead broke 3 of my teeth with a crowbar, and I went home with the needle in the red.
But all is well that ends well, and like any self-respecting metalhead, I reached the monster.
The monster is called "Deicide," and the final battle takes place at the "Mean Fiddler" in Charing Cross, London.
How I ended up here only God knows. I gather my strength, I'm scared, but I must make it. Tomorrow I'll be able to look my friend Tommaso right in the eyes. My friend Tommaso has already surpassed the monster; he’s already a black belt in metal.
I arrive at 8 PM, Jack the Brazilian (a Brazilian named Jack, go figure) tells me that here the concerts all start at this time.
The Mean Fiddler from the outside looks like grandpa's late cellar, but inside it's different, there's room for a ton of metalheads. In front of me, in line, a dozen terrifying guys, all twice my size, if not three times. I look at Jack, and I think of Dostoevsky who once told me: "If you can make it, hold on, if you can't, hang tough." But I'm scared, I'm about to give in. Then, behind Dostoevsky's face talking to me, here comes my friend Tommaso. Holding the Swedish metalhead's crowbar, he knocks out the Russian. Then he tells me: "Don't be afraid, friend: better a small but smart dick than a big but dumb one." My friend Tommaso is way ahead.
I enter. A band named “Akercocke” has already played, they change the instruments. The venue is really huge, there are thousands of metalheads here. A guy as big as a mountain looks at me and while almost crushing it, mutters something like "ghhh ghhh" and I think: he must know Tommaso. Then he does it again, and I tell myself: he must have thought I'm gay, but since I'm not, I can't do anything for him. For a moment I want to tell him it feels like a Bukowski tale, that I'm happy, but I look at him and seriously doubt Bukowski would interest him.
The band takes the stage. The guy who sings grabs the microphone and tells us all to shove it up our asses immediately. Some cheer, I appreciate his honesty. Then it seems he looks at me and shouts something like "what the hell are you looking at, son of a bitch" which honestly could have been read as a plural in English, but I opt for the more brutal solution and tell him to fuck off with equal honesty.
At this point, everyone cheers and I feel like a rockstar. Even the guy singing cheers. Then he tells everyone to fuck off for another 3-4 minutes, duly reciprocated, and then—thank God—this long-awaited concert can finally begin.
"This is Fuck your God, bastards!!!" and all four of them start off vigorously. A hell, the evil force takes over the Mean Fiddler and me. Here the metalheads don’t joke around; punches fly at each devastating solo. The guy singing plays the bass and seems to hit the four strings with a club. The voice is so deep and low it sounds like a groan. When it ends, he tells us they’ll play "Scars of the Crucifix," which is practically identical to "Fuck your Gods," only it lasts a bit less, and the second guitarist (the shaved one) increases the distortion even more. They’ll play for another good hour, always with the same rhythm, same guitar sound, and same pounding bass. Evil and devastating. I feel brute force taking over my diabolical spirit. Grasping the lyrics is impossible, I can’t understand a thing.
I fight the monster with all my might, I look around with the energy needle in the red, I look for Jack, but Jack is buried among millions of flowing manes and rotating studs. I only think I'm about to become a black belt in metal.
It’s over, I’ve won.
I exit. I also find Jack. He looks at me and I understand that he’s won too, Jack is a Brazilian black belt in metal. “Damn it ended too soon, these bastards 12 pounds and they played an hour.”
We go home, but it can’t end like this. We grab Khaled the Tunisian's Commodore 64 (the only being with a name you’d expect) and play a couple of games, and it feels like we’re still there.
Tomorrow when I wake up, I’ll be a different metalhead, and the world will appear different to me.
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