..whereupon the author proves that even when penning an ode to his new wife, he’s still able to cram in references to Testament, Motley Crue, and Kreator.

On June 12, 2014 I married Maria, and have the ring to prove it. Not being a jewelry sort of guy, I was 15 the last time I attempted sporting phalangeal adornment. ‘Twas Christmas 1991. At the apex of an incipient thrash metal obsession, and desirous to bear likeness to Chuck Billy of Testament, Santa Claus gifted me a set of chrome-cast heavy metal skull and spike rings. My flirtation with them lasted the better part of a week, ’til I tired of cleaning cheese and sesame seeds off the spikes every time I ate a Big Mac, a frequent occurrence in those chubby mid-teen days. Even at age 15, I was practical if nothing else. I retired those metallic accouterments, therefore, in early 1992 and until the moment that I committed my life to Maria during a discreet ceremony at the El Paso Country Clerk’s office three days ago, no further rings weighed down my lil’ digits.

The marriage itself was a simple affair. On the morning of June 12, Maria and I conjured ourselves from bed, got ourselves and Zuli ready, dropped Zuli off with the suegra (we’re waiting on her American passport, so our daughter can’t cross international boundaries just yet), and crossed the border from Ciudad Juarez to El Paso. We made a beeline directly to the El Paso County Clerk’s office. We applied for, and were granted, a marriage license, then took it to the 11th floor to seek a judge who would marry us that same morning. The first one whose chambers we knocked accepted. A brief ceremony followed: a few words, quick tears, and then it was official and we were legitimate before The Law. The whole enterprise required less than an hour from the time we arrived at the clerk’s office, and that includes bathroom breaks and administrative processing time. On the surface, it was the single most monumental input/output disequilibrium when you consider the nature of this lifetime commitment. Even if I’m fortunate enough to reach the life expectancy of the average American male, Maria’s got a good 40 years of me to put up with. I ask this question to anyone pretending to possess the answer: how the hell do you get the next four decades from 45 minutes?

Well, THAT’s easy: I love Maria for being the most bad-ass chick ever to take a breath. Not that I’m a checklist kind of guy, but were I to have one, Maria would have long satisfied every romantic and practical prerequisite on it.

We met shortly after my arrival in Ciudad Juarez in April 2011. At the time, it was still the world’s most murderous city. 230,000 people had fled the city (a fifth of its pre-cartel wars population) and an estimated 10,000 small businesses shuttered their doors due to lack of commerce, extortion, or both. The city’s main thoroughfares evinced scant life of any kind. Really, Juarez felt like a ghost city. It was in this context that, my second Saturday in town, I went out site seeing and ended up at a Starbucks after a few hours. And there was Maria, lipstick staining the edge of the hot chocolate her lips were pursing, rayon hair pulled back into a tight bun, laboring studiously on her laptop. Each impressed that the other was actually out unguarded in this most murderous of villas, we struck up a quick friendship.

In the ensuing months, Maria opened a side of Ciudad Juarez to me that few outsiders were privileged to see in those dangerous days. She spirited me away to my first parties locally, drove me to all the lookout points in the mountains ringing the city, took me to my first Day of the Dead celebrations at local pantheons, and invited me to an incessant spate of mom-n’-pop eateries and cafes off the beaten path. She was never one to brag about her accomplishments, and I had to learn to ask pointed questions to draw her out. I discovered quite a bit about her once I figured this out. Chipping away at her PhD, at age 27 she was already an art professor at a local university (by far the youngest in her department). An artist in her own right, her paintings featured in local exhibitions. She had also been volunteering since her teenage years at a local school for blind kids, teaching them to paint and then putting their work on sale at exhibitions and pushing the proceeds back to the under-funded school. Her involvement in art extended beyond the classroom and canvas, though, and she was a semiprofessional ballet dancer to boot, performing throughout northern Mexico. And she did all of this not with the snobbish manner I’ve frequently noted of folks deeply ensconced in the art scene; instead, she was modest and understated, having simply found something she was passionate about and pursuing it full-tilt. Maria’s one of the only artistic types I’ve met more interested in essences than recognition.

Emotional intelligence being her forte, Maria understands interpersonal dynamics and thinks before speaking or acting, conscious of how words or deeds might affect another person adversely, even unintentionally. She treats everyone humanely and courteously, and I’ve never known her to gossip or speak ill of anyone. That simplicity and self-confidence translates into innumerable virtues in her personal life: Maria is low maintenance. She buys clothes on the basis of utility, not style. She is wholly unconcerned with image and I’ve not once seen her preoccupied with people thinks of her. A careful spender, she is loathe to purchase impulsively, and makes sure every penny counts when she does. We keep the same rhythm, preferring to take advantage of the day and hit the sack early instead of hitting the club or bar scene. She’s perfectly content to stay home on a Friday over Netflix and pizza. We read, write, paint, talk, or even sit silently together. The activity matters little; her simple physical presence has always been sufficient to sate my spirit, calm my nerves, and keep the demons – the ones that eventually come to all of us who spend far too much time alone, living as human islands – from creeping under the door.

She had no previous marriages, and had no children, so was not tied down emotionally or otherwise to any past commitments. Like me, she had zero debt, so financially we could start with a clean and healthy slate. She already had a US tourist visa and went frequently on her own, so didn’t need me for her “docs”. She was highly educated, could talk about her own subjects of interest in depth, but was always open to new themes and ideas and never approached them with prejudice of any kind: she took me to see the ballet and art shows, but accompanied me enthusiastically to see Kreator and Vince Neil. She had a solid career already and was making a good living. She held my hand with pride, laughed at my bad jokes out of respect even if she didn’t think they were funny, and looked past the cosmetic features that I despise about myself. Maria viewed in my character a palate of core values and personality attributes she appreciated and identified with, and decided to be with me on that basis alone, without consideration for my career, status, or the laundry list of superficial stuff assuring a broken foundation and wobbly future, at best. She always had time for me, and from the outset of our friendship treated me as an urgent priority in her life. In fact, Maria showered me with dignity and respect far superior to that I’d been afforded at an point in past relationships. Though she was always respectful of my space and never opposed me living a life apart from my relationship with her, from an early stage in our relationship I seldom felt the inclination to spend time with anyone else but Maria when not at work.

It was therefore a natural and logical corollary of this – the two best years of my life, spent in Juarez at Maria’s side – to begin discussing a future together when I departed Juarez in mid-2013. Her dedication and faith made it work even during the long-distance phase, and I owe her a lifelong debt of gratitude for sticking it out and believing in me. She was under no obligation and would have been just fine on her own – and I have to imagine many men would have been honored to make her acquaintance – but Maria cashed in her chips on me. Thank God, for in Maria I have found salvation from solitude and self-deprecating loneliness, the kind wrought from living as a human island far too many years.

But the path was not always so clear. Until Maria, I’d given up the ghost on the notion of marriage. All my relationships prior to her were the romantic equivalent of vampire felching, and consequently marriage was a word I spoke amidst dismissive snickers as the punch line to bad jokes about some other unlucky sucker who took his bad romance a bridge too far. On the pre-Juarez path to Maria, I dated every phylum of basket case out there. I had no luck with American women; the ones I dated were riddled with financial and personal problems, certainly more baggage than I was comfortable taking on. I remember one – a high school educated bank teller who’d never left the US – dropped me off at Dump Street for not being “cultured enough” since I didn’t drink wine or peruse publications like Cigar Aficionado, ordered a sandwich instead of pasta on a previous date, and most importantly, “you don’t wear those cool glasses with thick rims like the guys in DC… Yours are just, so ‘80s!” Another racked up college debt greater than the GDP of most small countries, and it occurred to me that sticking with her for the long haul would likely be an exercise in dodging collection agency goons sent to repo her meager possessions. And the last American woman I was seriously involved with taught foreign forensic teams how to catalog evidence found on corpses; which was fine by me, until I saw the effect that working with stiffs the day long had on her emotional state. One of her dogs died and she spent three weeks holding funerals and remembrance gatherings for it, and frequently awoke during the night bellowing for hours about wanting a time machine, that the flux capacitor might permit her leap back a few days and save the poor mutt. It struck me that she was not the most emotionally stable person, which would not bode well for a life together. My fortune in the international marketplace was likewise poor. There was a Salvadoran who, clean out of sick leave at her job but wanting to take time off to see me, yanked a molar to justify calling in sick. And she GAVE me the tooth as a gift. Then there was a Guatemalan, who feigned affection long enough to gain my trust, then went for broke, offering me $5,000 for nuptials. There was a Bolivian who informed me – on our first (and only) date – that she’d been arrested earlier that day for driving recklessly. Why was she doing that? To get to her shrink. Why did she need a shrink? Well, ‘twas court-mandated, since the previous year she’d tried to commit suicide but also killed someone else in the process. I was afraid to ask any further follow-up questions, since I envisioned they’d invariably lead to incriminating evidence on the JFK assassination. There was a Colombian who, after three reasonably decent dates, squinted at me through suddenly malicious eyes and said she couldn’t see a future for us if “you don’t start spending more money on me.” And how could I forget the Dominican feigned exclusivity until I chanced upon her in a nearby bar, gussied up as if at a Daddy Yankee gig and her hand on the thigh of a mulleted man with a porno ‘stache and trucker cap?

The list could go on indefinitely; the above examples are merely the salient ones. Close friends – some reading this, doubtless – in whom I’ve confided past tribulations of the heart were wont to gawk at me in sad comedic awe, heads tilted to one side like confused puppies. How could one guy dork his way into so many problematic relationships? Nothing realistically explains why an accomplished man with a bright professional future, loving parents and loads of great friends, routinely found himself in such dire romantic straits.

And then there was Maria. So I’d like to thank Maria for being so awesome, and my exes for being so lame; for giving me confidence and believing in me; for letting me be myself; for showing me that it doesn’t have to be hard and, in fact, can be quite easy and enjoyable if you’re with the right person. The result of her patience, devotion, affection and investment in me has been the assurance of a wonderful future with the greatest human being ever to grace my life. Te amo, mamacita.

…whereupon a gushing progenitor sounds a trumpet in proclamation of his newborn daughter’s impending inclusion in the next X-Men film based on the hue, shape, odor, and consistency of her poo. And wherein you, dear reader, shall learn of the proud family history baby Zuli has inherited. All of this and more in what has grown to be an unanticipated, but heartily welcomed, break from living Brazlishly now that your scribe is on paternity leave in northern Mexico.

Zuli’s legal birth name is Azul Eileen Straight Vega, but for our purposes here only the first name counts. Azul is Spanish for “blue” (her artist mother’s favorite color on the palate), so despite the felicity she’s indisputably felt to her baby core since daddy launched her alluring likeness into the digi-age milliseconds after birth, you might say she’s a blue, or indigo, child. Wikipedia describes indigo children as ones that, “according to a pseudoscientific New Age concept, are are believed to possess special, unusual and sometimes supernatural traits or abilities. The idea is based on concepts developed in the 1970s by Nancy Ann Tappe and further developed by Jan Tober and Lee Carroll. The concept of indigo children gained popular interest with the publication of a series of books in the late 1990s and the release of several films in the following decade. The interpretations of indigo children range from their being the next stage in human evolution, in some cases possessing paranormal abilities such as telepathy, to the belief that they are more empathetic and creative than their peers.”

With this definition, the pickle morphs into how, precisely, might we distinguish an indigo child like Zuli from her peers, those snot-nosed sucklings of the sniveling masses? While assuredly no expert in these matters, I’m inclined to believe you can predict greatness in the consistency of an toddler’s poop, uncannily similar to Babe Ruth calling his left field homer, a shaman interpreting tea leaves, or a santeria practitioner tossing chicken bones.

Bowel movements being a predictive mechanism for future performance is hardly a novel barometer to the Straight family. Truth be told, our gatherings normally devolve into scatological sideshows, particularly once my father and Aunt Jo lock into one of their staple reminisces about a random toilet clogged yesteryear. All specimen of chortle and guffaw perennially supplant decency at such times, but we’re a of blue collar background and don’t purport to uphold the heightened standards of a finishing school grad, so whatever. The lightness and blessing of these comedic commode communions has trailed me my whole life, even into the bloom of adulthood, hence I am gleefully attentive to the occurrences of my lower intestine. Sometimes, though, it is a curse, like the time I messed my drawers twice in a day my freshman year of college, or losing 40 pounds during my first six months of Peace Corps in El Salvador due to an unbroken chain of parasitic infestations.

Lest you, dear reader, find thyself getting high n’ mighty about the standards of public decency you believe I’m defiling here, keep something in mind: it ain’t just me. As one particular best-selling illustrated children’s book is titled, Everybody Poops. I am oft warmed at the recollection of a RIP Magazine interview with Motley Crue in 1990, released at the zenith the LA bad boys’ commercial conquest while eating hearty at the trough of their Dr. Feelgood album. The interview revealed that newfound sobriety hadn’t dissuaded Motley from their core distasteful principles, nor had pregnant bank accounts after selling millions of records rendered them upstanding young men to you could intro mom. Before every gig, as the interview detailed, they’d gather in a circle while bassist Nikki Sixx shat into a Kleenex. And if it was chunks, they’d rock.

And so all of the foregoing – the strew now brought to a steady boil – brings me to my point. Last night, I awoke to find Maria changing Zuli’s diaper at 4 AM. By the dim light of a street lamp slithering through a crack in our curtains, Maria’s eyes scarcely hovered open and alert while executing what have already become muscle-memory motions. I intervened, assuming charge of the scenario, judging the culprit to be a pissy Pamper. The velocity with which I was dispossessed of this spurious conceit was prompt: without realizing ’twas a literal shit-show into which I marched, poop was suddenly smooched between the chubby digits of my fingers. Still lingering half slumbered myself, I had a fleeting itch on my chin and reactively lifted a feces-filled finger to scratch, besmirching my goatee with a goodly poo. But was I disgusted? Hellz no, amigos. For my daughter’s log was brown and solid. I say: BROWN and SOLID! A harbinger, an omen, heralding grandeur itself foretold.

Of what will presumably be a multitude of majestic moments in my daughter’s life, this may be my eminently proudest one, after her actual birth. For in just five days of life, Zuli’s already abandoned the incipient green purges of her accumulated pre-natal waste, repositioning herself atop the plateau of The Real Human Dump. I know nothing of children, but this doesn’t seem the normal course of events; I’m inclined to believe that, indeed, Zuli is a true-to-form Indigo Child. I won’t be shocked when the begins communing with defunct relatives, bending forks thru mind power, and telepathically warning her mother and I about traffic jams on highways yet unseen as we travel on family vacations. Someone call Professor X; I’ll be sending her to the academy, that he might assist my daughter in honing this mutant-like power.

Conventional wisdom dictates that a baby is a miracle. I understand the sentiment behind that, but really, it isn’t. I’m very much a literalist on this point. A miracle is, like, changing water to wine or feeding thousands with a single fish. While being a dad is a great gig and I’m stupefied I waited so long now that I see how awesome it is, getting here has a simple scientific explanation: a baby is what happens when sexual organs convene without contraception. Hardly the stuff of supernatural thrillers. And yet since Zuli’s birth, I’ve already had to recount at least a portion of my non-miracle platform, for there is one aspect of babies that defies every tenet of modern science: in the name of Creation, how do they shit diapers so thoroughly and unapologetically?

I’d only pondered that as a theoretician until becoming a dad yesterday, when sodden diapers became an objective and routine condition of life. This child has proven herself a worthy heir to her daddy – who can’t keep his own ass clean half the time – with bowels possessed of a fluidity not unlike Travolta on a dance floor. I didn’t sleep ’til 6 AM yesterday since Zuli wouldn’t go lights out, and ’twas all indelibly connected to her Pampers running incessant and pungent green, and the certain discomfort this provoked for my poor daughter and her chaffed cheeks. So rapid was the outpouring that at one point I changed her and folded up the diaper mat, but Zuli erupted again before I got the mat into the diaper bag. I was damn near both insanity and repetitive motion sickness, like the guy working the cold-cut slicer all day at the Carnegie Deli.

When I finally got her intestines to grant Zuli’s old man a brief stay of execution, I had to get her to sleep. But how? The sole apparent solution lay in singing her the metal power ballads of yesteryear, of which I have some knowledge. My initial offering was Motley Crue’s “Home Sweet Home”, which to my astonishment (and, I must admit, disappointment in my child’s clearly poor taste) elicited an immediate pucker and crying. Thus I traded it up for Mr. Big’s “To Be With You”, Cinderella’s “Nobody’s Fool”, and a Poison medley blending “I Won’t Forget You”, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn”, and “Something to Believe In”. I proceeded through Steelheart’s “Never Let You Go” and Van Halen’s “Can’t Stop Loving You” before trotting cross home plate with Bon Jovi’s “I’ll Be There For You”.

…whereupon the omniscient gray-bearded gods of good husbandry and fatherhood grant one gringo’s petition of relief from bad Brazilian weather, extortionately priced Panamanian airport chicken wraps, and an encroaching swarm of Mexican airport mosquitos, behind the soundtrack of the world’s finest trampoline-pouncing epic metal.

Flying from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil to Ciudad Juarez, Mexico on Saturday, May 24 has been a day of precipitated and inexplicable awesomeness. A 50-megaton downpour engulfed Rio this morning, strapping up every taxi in town. Three hours before my flight departed, and I still hadn’t left my apartment. My hand wringing was well underway. Then a one-legged man (another story altogether) stepped (yes, with one leg) into the street on my behalf and, his kindly and knowing booger-pickin’ finger jutting into the inundated avenue (where I spotted a robed man gathering two of every mammal and leading them toward a wood-framed flotilla), hailed by Divine Providence an unoccupied cab. That taxi-hailing finger served as a figurative weather vane for the good fortune to come, for we got to the airport in 30 minutes. No traffic, no delays, the taxista driving at a steady and legal clip, peppering me with inspired queries about (!!!) the ease of handgun purchase in the United States, Stand Your Ground laws, and how he wished that Brazilians could shoot each other when, you know, “one feels threatened”.

At the Galeao International Airport in Rio, then, a series of fortunate occurrences transpired, each one compounding into the next like interest accumulating in a cleverly selected index fund. First, my flagging self-esteem got a long-overdue boost. While in line at the Copa counter to check my luggage, I met a Colombian dermatologist who assured me the vitiligo spots on my head are barely visible and probably “all a figment of your imagination”. Next, said Colombian and I went for cafe before heading to our gate, and whereas I generally despise the Brazilian devil bean for its overly-robust roast, this was actually a cup I’d take home to mom, my beseeching lips seizing upon it greedily with two big-assed buns of pao de queijo. Third, our gate was practically devoid of human presence and our flight to Panama City consequently empty, so I had an entire row to myself. I spread out and read Pantera’s ex-bassist Rex Brown’s autobiography in its entirety. Find me a better way to begin a long trip.

In Panama City, I have to admit, my mood soured somewhat. I paid 11 bucks for a spring chicken wrap, the terminal’s air conditioning was on the fritz (I invite you to try this in tropical Panama; ‘tis an unpleasant experience by any measure), the announcement system may as well have been a Motorhead concert for its ear-shredding volume (even the Brazilians present were covering their ears, so you KNOW it went to 11), and my connecting flight to Guadalajara was delayed due to an electrical failure on the plane’s navigation system. Once in Guadalajara – into which I rolled bleary-eyed at nearly 2 AM – I stood in line at customs and immigration being eaten alive by famished mosquitos, an invading swarm of Biblical proportions, and watched Mexicans slap at the air and each other amidst comments regarding the pinche dengue we were all sure to contract in the aftermath.

But just as with the morning’s sudden taxi luck, the gods of good husbandry and fatherhood, those ageless graybeards grinning down from their benevolent diaper changing thrones, smiled upon me when I reached the customs/immigration x-ray and declaration point. I presented my tourist passport and explained, when queried why I’d be two months in Ciudad Juarez, that I’m here to wed the hot tamale to whom I am betrothed and assume charge of my demon seed. She examined me dubiously, and I thought perhaps she required additional identification, at which juncture I produced my diplomatic passport with a sheepish grin and shrug of the shoulders. She waved the diplo passport away, informing me that her shock was merely over the fact that I have come from a continent away to do something which, in her words, “I couldn’t even get a guy in my same barrio to do.” And so she waved me through without x-ray, body cavity search or further ado on a tourist passport.

Emerging on the other side of the electrical door to the terminal, what should greet me but a Starbucks. Whereupon I presented the Starbucks gift card my mother sent me last Christmas (which the Brazilians will not honor), ordered a white chocolate mocha (which the Brazilians have not yet made correctly for me), and noted that on the Starbucks house sound system was playing “Through the Fire and the Flames” by DRAGONFORCE, sending me into spasms of Guitar Hero.

Next stop in a few hours is Ciudad Juarez, where I’ll be received by the hug-starved arms (and kiss-starved lips) of one Maria Vega. We’ll proceed with all haste to the Chulo Vista Hotel, whereupon I shall slumber after 26 sleepless hours in airports and on planes. Tonight I shall sup loudly at a plate of nachos, my first in 13 months, for a long-anticipated return to living Mexicanishly.

It is April 2014 and I’m living in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Not the metal epicenter that teeming 24-million strong megacity Sao Paulo is, Rio still has enough to brag about in terms of extreme music culture. Definitely some solid local outfits – the all-female three piece Nervosa being the latest to grab metal headlines – and enough concert tours come through to slake one’s thirst for all things extreme.  Just this past week, in fact, both Obituary and Hypocrisy played on different nights. Yet I went to neither show. The tickets were too expensive ($80); the taxi to the venue too long (nearly an hour in traffic, and in Obituary’s case, in torrential rains); and show times were unclear based on the venue’s website, but in Rio you can bet they commence consistently late, frequently around the witching hour. Both shows being on weeknights and your bedraggled scribe knowing he’d have to labor at the office the following morning made neither show especially attractive. And on top of it all, I’ve been having lower-back problems, so standing for a prolonged period of time was out of the question.

Rounding third base and chugging toward age 40, I’ve been sluggish in my metal of late. And it begs the question: WTF, peeps? A lifetime devoted to the world’s most tasteful musical art form, yet has the wind has gone still from the flag I once so defiantly waved? The air seeped out of my once-oversized metal tires? The flame gone ashen in the torch I once held aloft in more youthful days? How can I sleep knowing that I’ve missed two of the most important and enduring groups in death metal’s illustrious and esteemed history over some back pain, a bit of a commute, rain, and a ticket price, when I get paid more than I deserve and don’t even pay rent in this acclaimed Cidade Maravilhosa? Bellow blindly unto the heavens, beseeching an answer to this existential torment, and thy response cometh in pained whispers from disappointed gods on high: thou art aging, old fart, and soon the hour may be nigh to retire thy metal jersey.

If I’m being truthful, this is not the first time I’ve contemplated retirement from the metal scene. Once I left my band, Witch Hunt, in 1997, a series of false starts followed in the 1990s and early 2000s, yet none were serious contenders and I continued buying music, going to concerts, and supporting the music at all turns. The most serious talk of retirement crept under the door in August 2008 following a night with Judas Priest, Heaven and Hell (Sabbath sans Ozzy), Motorhead, and Testament at the Nissan Pavilion in Manassas, Virginia. Were a soothsayer to have read the tealeaves prior to the show, indeed all signs would have pointed toward mighty metal triumph. Indeed, the summer concert experience was always a milestone on which I once judged the worth of entire calendar years. It’s how Motley Crue made 1990 the first best year of my teenage era, and Jane’s Addiction kicked 1991 in the ass (literally, since it was their final show of the original era, having announced their scheduled breakup weeks prior). It’s how Overkill made 1992, Suffocation/Dismember/Vader made 1993, Cannibal Corpse made 1994, and Death made 1995  have summers of distantly outstanding merit.

Thus it was that hopes were high on the afternoon August 11, 2008, while inching through Beltway-area traffic and on the brink of an Exxon-styled bladder spill from too much Mountain Dew, I arrived at Nissan Pavilion in Manassas, Virginia. I parked my Honda Civic in the dusty mega-lot and made sure I had my e-tickets. Featuring Judas Priest, Heaven and Hell (Sabbath sans Ozzy), Motorhead and Testament, the gig would be my first since returning from Iraq a month prior. THIS was to be my summer concert for 2008, so it HAD to count. Gazing out over the tailgating headbangers in the parking lot, barbecuing and already libating themselves into pre-show oblivion, it seemed to me this was more than a simple gathering of metal fans, something grander than the collective reliving of an outdated adolescent soundtrack. My post-Iraq readjustment had been an awkward process, and I needed an elixir, a metal feather to Dumbo’s magic one. Indeed, so robustly did I believe in the restorative capacity of the Metal Masters that I was certain the gig would set my world a-right. With all this swirling in my mind, for a moment, I took the sweet birdbath of memory, awash in a humid trickle of nostalgia. But the joy did not last long.

As harbingers go, ominous signs were already afoot, obstacles in the path of all enjoyment, even from my vantage position in the parking lot whilst I sat in my car’s air conditioning and demurred entering the late summer humidity for that long walk to the gate. Forgetting a cardinal protocol of platinum membership in the old school Metal Club, I neglected to recall that book-smart headbangers are still sometimes regarded with skepticism by our otherwise beloved cohort. Perhaps this explains why, as I read The Economist in my car before the gates opened, black-shirted passers-by eyed me with the jaundice Khmer fighters once reserved for bespectacled middle school graduates. On come accusations of selling out and being a preppy, despite the best Iraq mission-ready “mean mug” I could muster to shoot them as they passed and stared, jutting out my jaw line to its physiologically feasible limits. Not even inside the venue and I’d already been pushed from the litter of my brethren, a defective puppy never again to suckle at the metal sow’s guitar-shaped teat. Then getting inside the venue was a task in itself. I stood in line for half an hour, then stomped back to my car when denied entry due to my camera (“…by the artist’s request…”). I got back in line and waited, finally entering. A non-recoverable hour of life surrendered unto the abyss of venue bullshit bureaucracy.

Once inside, the open hand of extreme hunger guided my drift to the concessions booths. The deep-friend sirens on Chicken Finger Shore bade I partake of their greasy legged, white breasted wares. The hypnotic spell they cast is the only rational explanation for why I paid $13 for a tiny paper trough of three chicken fingers around a midget’s handful of soggy fries. The hand and fingers clenched tightly into a figurative fist that punched my wallet in the pie-hole. It still hurt even with knowledge that Iraq had treated my bank account decently, my genetic cheapness and sense of fair economic play both egregiously offended. My attempts to extract sympathy from the hag at the refreshments window amounted to nothing: the pearl of sympathy long stripped from her soul’s oyster, her dead-pan stare told me she had nothing left to give. I was thus left to sulk alone in my poverty. Urgently needing reaffirmation that things would be okay, especially after accidentally dropping my chicken fingers to the ground, I went to my seat under the pavilion and waited impatiently for the bands to start, naively certain that redemption lay on the impending horizon.

There was certainly enough to convince me this was the case based on a few superficial observations before the show began. The climatic conditions were as favorable as one can get on an August day in Virginia: the sun still shone brightly but the punishing humidity was at a late-day lull under the amphitheater’s cover. It was too early in the show for the smell of sweat and urine to flog my nostrils. The lighting trusses flickered blue and red and greens as the crew ran a few final checks, and smoke billowed side-stage. The crowd – at this early hour still filling few of the venue’s seats, was on Bud Light-heartened feet screaming mostly-coherent praise to whoever was preparing to go onstage, an eruption not generally afforded opening acts, certainly not before they’ve even begun their set.

You can tell how a show will go by the first band. This is not dissimilar to how the first kiss foretells a couple’s long-term compatibility. And in the world of metal, that first figurative kiss is everything.

Testament was on first. I stood in respect when the undisputed thrash metal titans confidently strode onstage. Let’s be honest: yeah, they had a few rough points along the way, but their classic-era work is scandal-proof, and you can’t lay claims against Formation of Damnation, the disc the band was road-dogging throughout 2008. Fully clad in black, their tattoos seemingly newly retouched and waist-length locks as lion-like as in their horn-raising heyday of the early 1990s, vocalist Chuck Billy made metal faces at us old-school style, serpentinely flipping his filthy-old-man’s tongue at the crowd, perhaps in homage to groupies who once were. Unabashedly pirating a whole chapter from Ozzy’s call-and-response playbook, the front man exhorted us to “get fuckin’ crazy” whilst the other band members took their positions. So far, so good.

But it was markedly downhill from that high water point, a musical disaster gathering momentum until control was surrendered wholly. As the intro tape for “Eerie Inhabitants” drew to a crescendoed close, Testament slammed into the first brash cords of opening salvo “Over the Wall”. Oh, how totally awesome would this first song have been if only Testament had simply played the tune from which the intro was culled, the first track of 1987’s The New Order, still the band’s finest work to diehards. The cognitive dissonance created by starting with one song’s intro, only to play an entirely different one, left me, in the spirit of the toked-up crowd, dazed and confused. And I’m the sober smart-ass reading The Economist. I can only speculate as to the confusion felt by the rest of the audience, all now cocking their heads to one side like befuddled puppies.

There was barely time to sort it out. Testament only played 30 minutes. They were squeezed onto a small space onstage, barely moved without bumping into one another, and experienced frequent sound trouble, including the magical vanishing of Greg Christian’s bass during, of all inopportune moments, his intro to “Souls of Black”. Vocalist Chuck Billy was too chubby to be headbanging. His insistence on wearing a cut-off tee merely added to the offense, revealing not a conquering metal god’s six-pack abs, but an unmanly muffin-top. In fact, my discriminating eye spotted the unsightly jiggle of belly fat all the way from Section 101, seat G-23. He flailed about in his oversized flesh and played air guitar on his mic stand during all the guitar solos, tummy truffles flapping in defiance of all coolness. And speaking of guitar solos, they were incredible, the highlight of the band’s performance. But every time he deftly executed one, fingers skitting across his Ibanez’s fret board, axe-man Alex Skolnick’s knees buckled like a girl in a mini-skirt for the first time, sheepishly hiding her hoo-hah from public scrutiny. It sapped the macho right out of Testament’s chest-beating theatrics and posturing.

Motorhead was up next. Before they began, I noted their road crew bore the hallmarks of crest-fallen Ultimate Fighters scraping for work. I thought I spotted Ken Shamrock sauntering about with cables and amps at stage right. And I’m pretty sure Tank Abbot – in his requisite shaven-headed, bearded thuggery – was the guitar tech. Personally, I wouldn’t let a dude who was last dispatched with by a toe-hold in under 30 be responsible for my guitar in front of that many people. As for Motorhead themselves, after 35 years in the business, they just didn’t seem to care. This was reflected metaphorically in their inclusion of select uninspiring songs like “Killed by Death.” While we can all agree it’s tough to break Cannibal Corpse’s monopoly on grisly ways to perish, I simply must believe that a $60 ticket price entitles me to a higher caliber of lyrical ingenuity if you’re going to sing about death. Moreover, all the songs they played were slow, decidedly bluesy and bereft of energy in their execution. And since when do the Metal Rules allow for even well-known opening bands to perform lengthy drum and guitar solos? Understandably legendary frontman Lemmy Kilmeister remained physically muted and stationary for most of the gig, and his occasional wobbles at the mic made me sense the lovable codger either couldn’t hold his liquor as deftly as in younger years, or was experiencing the onset of serious health problems (the latter being confirmed just a few short years later, I’m sorry to say). It seemed the entirety of Lemmy’s energy was expended on merely remaining upright, holding up that heavy Rickenbacher bass, and keeping his mouth firmly planted before the mic, clearly now feats of great concentration for the man. He evinced no energy the 45 minutes the band was playing, not even when parading out staple classic “Ace of Spades” (mumbling “…it’s time to play THAT song again.”). I know, I know… I ought to cut him some slack. Lemmy’s well past 60 now and he must be tired of life on the road. In a way, I feel bad for him, despite the joy he’s brought to millions and his admittedly unabashed torch carrying for rock and metal over the decades. But he knows he can’t stop. They don’t make 401(k) for aging rockers.

Heaven and Hell were third on the roster, the final band before Judas Priest. They had a massive stage set, something out of metal mockumentary This is Spinal Tap. The whole setup had a plastic feel to it, like Castle Greyskull for grown-ups. A rusty graveyard fence surrounded the band’s backline and the drum riser. There were full-blown gargoyles with red glowing eyes. The gargoyles blew smoke, choking the stage, and the first 10 rows with thin grey fumes for a full 20 minutes prior to Heaven and Hell taking the stage. The gargoyles’ gnarly, clawed paper mache talons supported light-up crystal balls, and every time they ignited bright yellow, ostensibly with some variety of mystical metal magik, the gargoyles’ eyes burned crimson, they belched smoke, and the crowd roared in apocalyptic – and one might assume inebriated – approval. Despite my expectation that the band would show their true renegade-ness by storming onstage and pretending to slay the gargoyles or jumping the faux-fence, they emerged as proper English gentlemen (with the obvious inclusion of one Ronnie James Dio, a metal gent for the nations), casually strolling onstage and smiling ever-so-politely. It is true: to be in their presence of the masters, the forefathers, is mind-blowing at the outset. Yet Tony Iommi’s guitar was muddy, nearly beyond comprehension. There was too much bass in the mix and Geezer Butler’s every hand-slap-on-heavily-gaged-strings was audible even on the law, creating an annoying clicking not in-time with Carmine Appice’s kick drum. Dio crooned and gestured broadly, and his voice wavering with a diva’s emotion. But ‘twas not sufficient to save Heaven and Hell from an overall sound more befitting of an opening band on poorly-run club PA, not guys with this much experience on state of the art equipment in one of the Washington, DC area’s biggest premier live music venues.

Four songs into Heaven and Hell’s set, during “Children of the Sea”, with the sloppy sund and the house still only three-quarters full, something came over me, a sadness of some inexplicable kind. Agitated by the previous months in Iraq, unable to stand or sit immobile for too long or concentrate for the length of time required of a musical performance, ill in the innards from the pounding yet muddy amphitheater sound, dismayed that my heroes could be so lackluster, I knew that, at least for me, the end was neigh, that my retirement from metal was on deck. I could not bear to witness the death throes of this entire performance, and would not stick around to see Judas Priest, who I’d wanted to see live since I discovered them with Painkiller in 1990 as a 13-year old. It was only fitting that my final act would be to walk out while Tony Iommi, the man who started it all, was onstage. As I departed my seating section, I halted occasionally for an uncomfortable pause and nervous deliberation, glancing over my shoulder at the stage. Was I really gonna do it?

I made it to the lawn area. I surveyed the sparse crowd seated around me. I looked for the loneliest face. Judging from the forlorn grills surrounding me in the lawn, I knew it wasn’t just me who needed a miracle at that moment. And then I found a special one, the one to be the recipient of my True Metal Miracle: probably 14 years old, pimply and alone, squinting to see the figures performing at a great distance, sipping a lukewarm Mountain Dew, likely on the lawn because his parents were too cheap to purchase him a seat under the pavilion, or his allowance and yard-mowing cash simply didn’t suffice for a more expensive ticket. Yes, I was once like him, and if he remained in the Washington, DC region then statistically he would one day indeed be me: a member of the walking dead, a government employee, relegated to his cubicle and subject to dancing to The Man’s unpredictable whims, wondering how glory had so easily escaped him and sadly reflective on his metallic teenage glory era. Yes, the boy would one day grow painfully aware that the magic does not last. That this time of musical discovery in his life will one day draw to an abrupt close, sooner than he anticipates and much faster than he is prepared to accept. His guitar gods will be revealed as nothing more than men, and they would someday pass from this life, their corporeal beings withered, their souls drifting unsung into the ether of rock history. There they will be celebrated on tee-shirts and posters and shitty mall kitsch that will NEVER do justice to the greatness of the men themselves, the wonderful contributions they made to lives of their fans who adore and love them, the dreams they inspire and the memories their music creates.

It was time to pass the torch.

I tapped the boy’s shoulder. He wheeled to face me. Not defensive, just curious. I could tell the band transfixed him and that my contact jolted him from another world. Maybe this was his first concert, and though I was angry about its outcome for me personally, I fully understood how it was likely the proverbial Big Deal to the kid who didn’t have 25 years of metal concerts under his belt as a barometer for separating chicken shit from chicken salad. I forced a smile, attempting to conceal the heavy woe in my heart. No, I would have no one pity me in this final act. I gave him my ticket, pointing to the seating info on the page and giving him a quick thumbs-up. I patted him on the back paternally, my palm thudding soundly a few deliberate times, and I hoped each one would convey to him the gravity of the moment and the charge now upon him. A perceptive young man, he was already well ahead of me: if anything counter-balanced the sob welling in my gut, it was the sudden and unadulterated joy in the boy’s eyes. He jumped all at once and sprinted down the hill, all pretense of detached coolness gone from his exploding teenage heart. And for a moment, I was happy. I was free. I marveled at how we never exchanged a word, yet we both had said so much. The communicative power of music, I thought.

I began walking again, stopping only once to peer over my shoulder and deliver a silent goodbye to Tony and the boys. Thank you, gentlemen: I owe you the best of my youth. It was a good run.

At least since that obscure era of the neoliths, societies flung to the furthest reaches of the globe have debated what constitutes the essence of the human race. And in our enlightened modern era, as a society – with the lamentable exception of hardcore religious types still emphatic that the triceratops was a damned lie and the earth was created merely 6,000 years ago – we’ve come to accept that some folks are simply born a certain way. Just ask Rob Halford. Scholarly debate regarding nature-versus-nurture has forever attempted to calibrate the importance of one’s innate qualities relative to how one’s personality and character are shaped by experiences. Though nowhere close to possessing expertise on the topic beyond what I’ve skimmed on Wikipedia, I’m personally markedly inclined toward nature, which in large order accounts for why I was born METAL.

A hindsight-boosted analysis ought usher into clear focus the fact that while Paul McCartney, Elton John, and The Manhattans were sweeping the American music charts in that miraculous annum of my birth, 1976, an incipient me bellowed forth into the delivery ward of Mount Carmel Hospital in Franklin County, Ohio already hard-wired to march to the (blast) beat of a distinct percussionist. Though no one would have wagered such a bet at the time, a series of antecedents during my first 11 years of life served as the smelly, toothless roadies setting the stage for what would ultimately become my lifelong metal fandom.

For starters, I was born in Ohio, a Midwestern province forming part of the ill reputed American Rust Belt and once particularly renown for its heavy metallic industrial output. Not only was the general ambience of Ohio therefore one of figurative metal, but I’ve heard that literal metal found its way directly into the my corporeal being, owing to the weighty levels of lead (quite a heavy metal) in the tap water quenching my thirst in our home on Sibley Street in the sleepy agricultural hamlet of Van Wert. Thus it ought have shocked no one when, as a budding four-year old in pre-school, I once colored the rainbow black, failing to comprehend or acquiesce to the complaints of the headmistress.

Like all metal fans, so too was I preternaturally obsessed with image quite early in life, donning all manner of costume and uniform regardless of how ludicrous to distinguish myself from the lesser humanity surrounding me. For their part, my parents did their utmost to encourage such experimentation, likely without realizing its eventual destination. One of our family’s photo albums contains a snapshot of a butt-ass naked and grinning me sitting soapy in the bathtub, baby blond hair shampooed and teased into devil horns adorning either side of my noggin. Me and my brother Ben routinely dressed up as Batman and Robin, baby blankets draped over our shoulders serving as capes and colored leotards, cowboy boots, and masks our mother fashioned from scraps of cloth completing our respective ensembles. For authenticity’s sake, we also made thorough use of Underoos, a type of children’s underwear with a matching top and bottom featuring a superhero and mimicking the character’s distinctive costume. This was metal in its most youthful and elemental form, for the difference between a Shout at the Devil-era Nikki Sixx and either me or Ben decked out in such duds was, at best, negligible.

Heavy metal is an expressive and, when correctly executed, brutally honest art form. Metal speaks its mind, consequences be damned. In keeping with the maxim that honesty is always the best musical policy, throughout my first decade of life I was exceedingly outspoken and – to the dismay of my parents, neighbors, and anyone else haphazardly within earshot – often in the most wholly inappropriate of fashions. I was always intelligent enough to avoid being too outlandish at school, thus evading the wrath of grade school teachers, who to me always seemed to simmer just below their superficially cool surfaces. But I tackled themes verboten with self-satisfying reckless abandon as soon as I successfully cleared the radius of the authorities’ status-quo enforcing clutches. While one could argue my fascination with taboo topics was a natural product of childhood and its concurrent sense of inquiry and experimentation, I cannot readily deny that I frequently took things waaaaay too far.

And so nothing was off limits for me conversationally. By age 8, I gathered that my father – a Marine officer whose government-mandated propriety usually kept his words few and disciplined in the workplace – found great reward on the home front in all things scatological. And for my old man, that meant discussing in exquisite detail every aspect, both theoretical and practical, related to his daily bowel movement. That his treatises on crap might be adorned with the fig leaf of legitimacy for the sake of his own parental self-image, he reminded us of the hard science undergirding them: where else would an eight-year old get an advanced lesson in the difference between solid, liquid, and gas? At certain points during my childhood, the old man’s work schedule was so busy that the only time we had to catch up was often while he took a dump; we would load into the bathroom and tell him about our days while “stinkin’ and thinkin’ ”, as his euphemism went. And so feeling fully justified in emulating daddy dearest’s example – not understanding that other kids didn’t hang out with their shitting fathers – one day I rushed into the front yard declaring to our neighbors what indeed was celebratory news to the 8-year old me: not only had I just flipped the scoreboard on Atari 2600 standard Asteroids, but moments earlier I’d successfully utilized the same two squares of toilet paper during seven consecutive folds, gleaning a solid wipe with each one.

Tending to my image and speaking my mind weren’t the lone hallmarks of metal I was showing from an early age. Like the glam metal groups that would shortly become my heroes, I was enthralled with girls. Verily, from a young age I felt perfectly comfortable in the company of females. I recall not being panicked about cooties in pre-school, when I sat next to a lass named Carissa during weekly show-and-tell. The ante was upped when in 3rd grade I dreamt that I was at school finger painting with Punky Brewster – in that era the most metal of television’s pre-teen female personalities. In 4th and 5th grade I regularly received, while in a state of slumber, celestial visions compelling me to actively seek a girlfriend. Bearing a halo, flowing white robe, effervescent aura and levitating off the ground, an angel would appear to me, its only human feature the face of a girl at school I had deemed prettiest. Then she would speak unto me: “Briancito, asketh of me tomorrow my hand, for love thee doth I!” Under what I considered divine providence, the following day at school I’d propose to the young lady in question. I even did so while on crutches after foot surgery- did Noah turn down God’s request for the Ark simply due to physical hardship? Invariably, she’d decline. And so a few days later, whilst slumbering anew, the second prettiest flower at school would appear unto me in a similar angelic fashion, the heavenly cycle repeating until I’d worked my way through every female prospect in class, including the ones who barely spoke English, like Anita Medina, Laurel Bay Elementary School’s sole 4th grade representative of the Mexican nation.

Like every metal band I would later love, I found nothing more satisfying than challenging the norm, from an early age taking some perverse personal pleasure in contravening convention and being consequently recognized for doing so. Being normal bore scant interest for me. In a manner akin to how many of the era’s glam rocker dudes took pride in looking uncannily similar to women, so did I invest myself in a brief period of cross-dressing around age 7. With a towel draped over my head to simulate long hair, and blanket wrapped ‘round my waist for a skirt, I also wore my mom’s nail polish and occasionally even her lipstick. Sometimes I’d even attempt sneaking one of her cigarettes, though never actually lit, convinced that smoking would speed my conversion to woman. And my fascination with womanhood wasn’t confined strictly to mere trappings of fashion: when the neighborhood kids played house, I’d duly assume the role of mother (and relegate my brother to family pet, usually a dog).

My intrigue for alternative lifestyles didn’t stop there; political movements defying the mainstream likewise endlessly fascinated me. At age 10, after watching way too many episodes of the GI Joe cartoon series after school, and relating far better to the evil genius of Cobra, I declared myself a terrorist. Enlisting two friends from school as my sinister cohorts, I ran them through homemade obstacle courses in the backyard as part of their training. Once I deemed training complete and began planning the next stage in our plot to global domination, I broke the cardinal rule of membership in a terrorist organization when disclosing our plans to my mother. In one of the rare instances in which she struck a firm heel into the dirt and crushed my creative impulse, she informed me in no uncertain words that if I wanted to be a terrorist, “your father will have to kill you. Because that’s what your daddy does. He’s a Marine. He kills terrorists.” And if obscure political movements captivated my imagination, then religious ones were not exempt from experimentation. At age 11, after watching Ghostbusters far more times than would reasonably be considered healthy by any practicing psychologist, I decided to become a devotee and worshipper of Gozer. Upon warning my father that his lack of piety for the Supreme One would land him squarely in the merciless crosshairs of Zul the fridge deity, he got up, bade me stand at attention, and in his finest formation voice ordered me to cease and desist all worship of any god but Jesus Christ in his house, thus abruptly curtailing my flirtation with alternative lifestyles.

Heavy metal’s predilection for dark subject matter also became an interest of mine during those formative years. Sadly, however, my introduction to the macabre was not through a harmless scary movie. Instead, a traumatic incident to which my family was subjected one summer evening in 1986 was the culprit. Without delving into every lurid detail, we saved a woman who had been raped, savagely beaten, and left for dead in the woods. Regaining a state of semi-consciousness, a miracle given how much blood she’d lost and that her skull was fractured in three places, she emerged panting and desperate from the woods precisely as my family passed while returning home from a movie; we were the only vehicle on that desolate stretch of road. My mom pulled into her the car and held her tight in the passenger side in front while my dad floored it, spiriting us to a nearby military base while the woman went into shock and began a descent into expiration. We made it to the base in time, and the gate guards served as first responders while the ambulance was on its way. But before we reached the base, from the back seat, I reached out and touched her shoulder, was frigid and wet despite the 90 degree South Carolina summertime late night heat. Drawing my hand back, I beheld my fingertips stained with blood and dirt. This was my first contact with evil, an overwhelming experience for a 10-year old. The experience morphed, for a brief time, into an intense fascination with death lasting well into my teenage years and manifesting itself first in drawings I made in art class, later as lyrics to songs I’d write.

Before I turned to metal as a full time lifestyle, I made a valiant stab at achieving the dream that society does its utmost to inculcate into every young boy: becoming a star athlete. And yet being a baller simply wasn’t inscribed upon my parents’ stars nor my own. Ever the self-taught artist, my mother’s orientation was that of loner. My father’s last year of organized sports came on the Tays Valley High School football team in rural Ohio his senior year in the early 1970s; while he played ball with my brother and I, the activity was never mandatory and he always encouraged us to find our own passions and deliver on them fiercely. From the ages of 6 to 13, I played an accumulated three seasons of soccer, three of baseball, and one of football. A multitude of elements conspired to turn me off to sports, though. I was genetically poorly equipped to do much of anything on a baseball diamond, football field or soccer pitch. I had a touch of asthma in childhood, combined with my general chubbiness, I was not physically equipped with the hustle required to round bases, kick goals, or speed triumphantly into the end zone. This problem was not the least remedied by having undergone a series of feet surgeries between ages 9-10 to correct an osteo-structural abnormality. I can’t say I liked most of the other kids I played with, largely of the uber-competitive variety and hysterical about winning to the exclusion of every other consideration. Nor did I care much for the coaches to whose whims and seesawing temperaments I was subject. I should not neglect to mention that along the way, I experimented with martial arts: initially karate and followed by a gingerly brush with tae kwon do. The fixation with chops, kicks, and anything that might involve throwing a ninja star into someone’s eye was the immediate and fantastic byproduct of living in northern Japan during three years of my youth, being exposed to the samurai and ninja culture which subbed for Japanese kids’ game of cops and robbers. But once I got my clock cleaned by most of the females in the dojo, and didn’t like hitting other people in general, I learned I was not long for the world of combat sports.

So metal really did come along to save me, to provide me a purpose and a mission. Unlike my infatuation with Cobra and terrorism, metal would not get me sent to Guantanamo Bay. Dissimilar to my flirtation with Gozer worship, metal would not result in my hasty ex-communicated from the Church. Metal’s sometimes-violent subject matter allowed me to embrace some of life’s unspeakable horrors, aiding me in a quest to make sense of the dark places from which those horrors sprang and the chaos they engender. Unlike sports, I did not need to depend on angry coaches and judgmental teammates. Metal, in its way, was simpler, more reliable and infinitely more rewarding in every respect: I could do this music on my own, independently and from the comfort and security of my room, and any gains I might make were directly proportional to the time, energy, and love I invested in it. This is why music is the savior of many a wayward young soul, for ‘tis an investment in, and fortification of, oneself. Not to mention death metal guitars are badass.

…on how a chance encounter and short-term friendship with a female bassist in early 1993 led to important life lessons, not to mention a two-degree separation from a popular CBS reality show.

Witch Hunt, six incipient months into existence, finally graduated from playing the Teen Hut in Quantico, Virginia to an actual club gig. Witch Hunt, still consisting only of me and my brother Ben, got slated to play an uninspired venue called the Tiki Fala sign 1994Tiki Fala in the dingy ville of Dumfries in February 1993. A novice at these things, I’d assumed locking down the chance perform there would be a touch more complicated than actually ‘twas. And yet miracles of the metal variety transpired on a frequent basis in those olden days of my teenage years: verily, indeed, I called the club, spoke briefly to the manager, and while pitching her on the virtues of our fine musical ensemble uttered a word meant to penetrate profoundly into her cheap-ass soul: FREE. Yes, Witch Hunt would perform for FREE. That Witch Hunt was an underage death metal band lacking a complete lineup, with but a single poorly-recorded demo tape to our name, and zero profile outside of the Marine Corps base on which we lived, mattered not to the madame of the Tiki Fala. And bless this woman’s bottom-line scrutinizing soul, she booked us to play two sets on Tuesday, February 23, 1993, opening for an all-female act out of Minneapolis cleverly called No Man’s Land. A short article on them ran in a recent issue of the then-reigning supreme overlord of American monthly metal publications, RIP Magazine. So I justifiably considered the metal stars shining upon Witch Hunt, for our first real gig would be sharing the stage with people mentioned in a major music publication.

We played the show, but despite our efforts failed to deliver the goods in a fashion that would bring new fans a-calling. We had so few songs down at that point that we had to play all of them twice each during each set. But on the fundamental assumptions that no one pays attention to opening bands (who opened for Motley Crue at the Blaisdell Center Arena in Honolulu in 1990?), and no one knew our songs in the first place, we worked through numbers like “Cryptic Death” and “Nothing Survives the Fallout” a baker’s dozen times, taking the precaution of introducing them under different titles every No Mans Land 1993time we recycled the songs. To no small dismay of the club’s manager, who heckled me between sets about why we didn’t have a full lineup, I had nothing to offer by way of excuses beyond shrugging shoulders and faking the sudden sickness of an imaginary bassist who hadn’t been able to make the date. But professionals that we were, I explained, the show must go on. As for No Man’s Land, they signed my issue of RIP Magazine in which they were featured, took photos with me, and handed us a free copy of their debut album. They spoke to our parents – our immensely supportive mom and dad who made it to every show we played in the early days – and provided advice about how Ben and I could beef up our musical chops. Sarah, No Man Land’s bassist, took a particular interest in us and I remained pen pals with her for a short period after the show. Sarah’s sudden presence in Witch Hunt’s death metal micro-galaxy quickly shaped one of the innumerable tangents we would take over our eventual decade of existence: I decided what we really needed was a girl in the band.  (Keep mind mind, this was well before it was common for women to be in death metal bands: Anneke hadn’t yet joined The Gathering (who were hardly death metal, but still…), Angela Gossow wasn’t even a mere itch in Arch Enemy’s crotch, and groups like The Agonist might as well have been the Jetsons.)  And so we’d find a female bassist… Who was around our age… Who could play death metal… Who had her own transportation… And could drive 2-3 times weekly onto the Witch Hunt First Club Show at Tiki Fala 1993military base where we lived to practice with two underage boys writing songs about slaughter and pillage.  Despite what you accurately assess as a broad base of inhibitors to pulling off a plan as zany as ours, the decision wasn’t entirely a senseless one. I believed then, as I do now, that sound logic undergirded that fateful choice taken in early 1993. First, prospects for a two-man band were limited. This was well before Local-H and the White Stripes blazed a new minimalist path in the alternative universe. And anyway, neither of those groups was metal. So I knew we’d need to flesh out our lineup if we were ever to be taken seriously as a contender to our local metal throne, let alone attain recognition on a grander scale. Second, watching No Man’s Land’s sound check and the first song or two of their actual set, I took note of something: people pay more attention if you have a chick in the band. It’s not like No Man’s Land had sold a lot of records, and in fact the band didn’t even have a proper record deal with tour support and promotion. And yet the Tiki Fala was gills-stuffed with bikers and all manner of local machista rabble that I estimated were not there to absorb the ethereal quality of No Man’s Land tunes. This newfound mission in mind, in March 1993 I fleet-footed my way to Music City in Woodbridge and posted a small ad on the musician’s bulletin board seeking our bassist. And right below ours was one posted by an 18-year old female bassist, into metal, seeking to join a band.

So I made note of the number, rushed home, and excitedly dialed. She answered. We talked. Jennifer Arroyo was a blend of contradictory elements. She was of Puerto Rican ancestry but did not speak Spanish. She was legally a Virginian who considered herself spiritually an offspring of Brooklyn or maybe Queens (though realistically any of the boroughs would do). Such was her mania to pass for a New Yorker that after seeing Biohazard live on the Urban Discipline tour a few months prior she even began feigning a New York accent identical in octave, attitude, and vehemence to that spoken by Evan Seinfeld himself. A few weeks before we met, Jennifer quit a northern Virginia-based hardcore/metal crossover outfit dubbed Open Defiance, hence the posting of her ad at Music City. I am not falling prey to selective memory when I say that Open Defiance were outstanding. As Jennifer played me the band’s first demo over the phone during our initial conversation, I sensed that had it not been for what I later learned were the exceptionally conflictive differences of personality betwixt the band’s members, Open Defiance could have risen to the top of the heap. With cutting thrash guitar work and thuggish, skippity percussion set against socially conscious lyrics about judicial corruption, the deplorable treatment of Native Americans, and decriminalization of cannabis, Open Defiance were a musical force of nature, the likes of which I scarcely imagined possible in suburban Virginia.

We never actually brought her over to practice with Witch Hunt, but did develop a friendship of sorts in the coming weeks. In March 1993, she took me to an Open Defiance house party, where I witnessed a young pre-While Heaven Wept Tom Phillips jam with members of a long-defunct called Parasitic Infestation. I took Jennifer to my high school’s Sadie Hawkins dance in Brian with Jennifer Arroyo at Quantico HS Sadie Hawkins Dance 1993April 1993. We talked of bands and compared notes, and I went to see Open Defiance play live when possible. Ultimately, in summer 1993 Jennifer brought me into the band’s fold as a second guitarist. I even disbanded Witch Hunt to do so, playing two shows with Open Defiance in June 1993 before they imploded. Thereafter, Jennifer and I attempted putting our own project, but my lily-white vision of our shared musical affinity vanished into the thin air once we attempted jamming in the utility shed behind her mom’s townhouse. We just couldn’t write music together: it was as though I was auditioning for Testimony of the Ancients-era Pestilence, and she for any era of the booty-licious Suicidal Tendencies side project Infectious Grooves. Our musical collaboration would not, sadly, be a long-enduring one.  It did not matter, however, since Open Defiance reformed yet again in August 1993 and did not invite me along for the ride. Which was fine by me, as I’d opted to get Witch Hunt rolling anew, laying all my chips on Ben and myself. Open Defiance’s unpredictable on-and-off shenanigans, volatile personalities, and wanna-be thuggish hangers-on were apt to drive me into premature baldness were I to stick around a moment beyond my tepid welcome. I learned to appreciate the simplicity of Witch Hunt while I was away from it. It was much easier practicing with Ben at home than having to borrow our mom’s Jeep Cherokee and drive into Woodbridge for a rehearsal that may not happen if the members of Open Defiance blew it off. I liked the music Witch Hunt was doing more, preferred playing my own songs over someone else’s, and most importantly, loved my brother and trusted Ben intrinsically to do the right thing by me and our band.

Thus it was that both Jennifer and I settled happily into our respective grooves. There existed a certain kind of interaction between our bands over subsequent years, and we supported each other mutually. In early 1994, we invited Open Defiance to play with Witch Hunt at the Teen Hut in Quantico (though it being a military base, I had to make vocalist Chris Briton Jennifer Arroyo with TattoosPROMISE he wouldn’t swear or promote marijuana legalization in his between-song banter).  Once Witch Hunt completed its lineup mid-year with the addition of Erik Sayenga on bass, we began playing throughout the northern Virginia club circuit, and in September 1994 our two bands shared the bill one evening at a club called Maxim’s in the fine Nascar-supporting semi-metropolis of Manassas. By then, Open Defiance had a radically different lineup and was musically all over the map; they’d even re-written their “classic” demo-era songs in a manner that struck me as blatant pandering to the rap-metal style soon to become the rage du jour.  When I graduated high school and began university studies in autumn 1995, Jennifer and I fell entirely out of touch, the unintentional byproduct of people with different lives and distinct priorities.  From then on, we saw each other sporadically. In 1997, I ran into Jennifer at Ozzfest at the Nissan Pavilion in Manassas. In 1998, before I flew to Guatemala for a summer of volunteer work, we had a chance encounter at a Taco Bell in Fairfax. In 2001, fresh upon my return from Peace Corps service in El Salvador, Ben and I went to see Vince Neil play a solo Jennifer Arroyo livegig at Jaxx Nightclub in Springfield, and spoke fleetingly with Jennifer as she passed out fliers for Spine, a industrial metal band she joined on bass. Whether owing itself to so much time passing or my appearance being very different than in my metal glory days I will never know, but at the Vince Neil show Jennifer didn’t seem to remember me, even when I reminded her that we had once played in a band together.  That was the last time I saw her in person, though periodically I glean metal grapevine tidbits suggesting that “Lady J” (one of her multiple self-nominated noms d’guerre) has done well for herself, achieving on some level the success and recognition we both dreamt of a decade prior. While in graduate school in Ohio in 2004, I snatched a copy of Metal Maniacs at the university bookstore. And in its glossy pages, who should be photographed slapping away on bass for Canadian all-female band Kittie but Jennifer herself. The article mentioned that she had moved to New York, started her own music production company, and even joined a side project band formed by one of Biohazard’s guitarists. In 2008, after returning home from a tour in Iraq, I watched the Get Thrashed documentary – suitably titled for its long-form telling of the history of thrash metal – and noted Jennifer’s inclusion in one of the interview segments.  I looked up her awhile back online and learned Jennifer was on season 14 of CBS’ flagship reality show Big Brother.  And last week, while getting my daily dose of Blabbermouth.net news, I saw her featured in an ad for the Kickstarter campaign supporting Kittie’s 20th anniversary biopic documentary, currently being filmed for eventual DVD release.