Posts Tagged ‘Ohio’

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.

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Skeletonwitch Logo

…wherein we affirm the tautology of an age-old maxim: indeed, one never truly can predict from whence quality metal shalt spring. And of how a group of five unlikely but determined Ohioans leapt into the global metal limelight in the most unexpected of manners.

I’m from Ohio. I know very little about my home state in terms of relevant historical facts beyond our production no fewer than eight American presidents and uber-heart throb George Clooney. What I can tell you for certain, however, is that Ohio is a very metal state, and has steadily churned out increasingly brutal bands since some outcast kid with a tattered leather jacket and a fuzz pedal in Youngstown got a Black Sabbath import in the late 1960s. The list contains hundreds of almost-and/or-never-were groups but a few standouts with a degree of international renown, even historical significance. It begins with Necrophagia, formed in Wellsville in 1983 and credited as one of the first American bands to call itself by death metal’s namesake. Chimaira, from Cleveland, a band considered a major player in the reputed New Wave of American Heavy Metal (NWOAHM) in the mid-1990s, and whose former drummer Kevin Talley famously auditioned for Slayer in 2001 (the leaked videos for which are all over YouTube, and rightly so, since Talley decimated Slayer’s practice space that fine day). Mushroomhead, another Cleveland-based band (though of the industrial metal sort) whose masks and costumes never appealed to me but made them second-tier darlings of the average Slipknot fan, likely accounting for the band’s worldwide sales of 2 million albums. Underground death metal bands during the 1990s like Decrepit and Gutted, the latter enjoying a short-lived record deal resulting in one full-length album, Bleed for Us to Live, and a prime spot performing at New York’s DeathStock in 1994. A stack of metal-core bands are Ohioan: Miss May I, The Devil Wears Prada, The Crimson Armada, Attack Attack!, and other breakdown-offering groups of twenty-somethings with more tattoos than a super-max cellblock and faces decorated like a bait and tackle shop. The late Jani Lane of Warrant was born John Kennedy Oswald in Akron, and Brian Warner from Canton would one day morph into shock rock icon Marilyn Manson. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is in Ohio, and on a few occasions it’s done justice to music history by including rock and metal bands in its annals, most recently Guns N’ Roses.

And then there is Skeletonwitch.

From 2003-2005, I did grad school at Ohio University in Athens, a oasis of a university town in the Buckeye State’s extreme southeast.  Sprinting between classes one afternoon, I entered the Wendy’s on Union Street in downtown Athens to hook up grub with discount Skeletonwitchcoupons Santa had afforded me the previous Christmas.   On the Wendy’s door was posted a haphazardly sketched flyer, one clearly for a local metal gig that very Friday night. First came a minor sensation of shock: I’d been at school there nearly a year already, yet hadn’t spotted the first hint of metal in my college or surrounding community. Not so much as a random freshman roaming campus drunkenly in a Limp Bizkit tee – hardly passing the litmus test for metal but close enough for our purposes – outlandish when you consider there were over 20,000 students there from the lower-middle class backgrounds typically very friendly to the rock trend du jour. As for the flyer, it was minimally crafted with black pen on white paper, and lent the crude impression of having been fashioned by a 12-year old pimping every worn metal cliché – skeletons, pentagrams, and a nearly unreadable logo intended to convey evil. The artwork was scrappy at best, as though that 12-year old drew using his non-dominant foot, Sharpie squeezed tightly between toes, and with eyes taped shut. And so I thought: sweet! Kids getting outta the garage for their first real gig! I’ll make a showing, throw some horns, and support ‘em. They were called Skeletonwitch, which struck an immediate chord with in my balding rocker spirit, having played in the 1990s for a Virginia-based band called Witch Hunt.

And so Friday night came, I grabbed some friends, we went to The Union Bar and Grill in downtown Athens, and dicked with the billiards while awaiting show time. This was not the sort of venue I’d associate with metal, or live bands at all. The stage was nearly on the floor and looked as though it had been rigged solely for the occasion. There was no lighting rig, and I don’t recall even spotting a house sound PA. First, a teenage cover band playing Iron Maiden and Slayer songs went on and did a respectable job: “The Trooper” and “South of Heaven” were at least recognizable, and watching them struggle thru the leads transported me straight back to my own days of covering “For Whom the Bell Tolls” and thinking “War Ensemble” was the fastest thing I’d ever heard. I actually felt bad for the kids in this garage band Skeletonwitch: how would they compete with THAT?

And then Scott Hendrick and company hit the stage, forthwith undoing me of my pre-show, flyer-based impressions. They weren’t kids. All grown-assed men with facial hair and tattoos to prove it, Skeletonwitch were young professionals. Their songs were Skeletonwitch Live 2expertly structured and contained hooks both recognizable and infectious to my finely tuned metal ear. Each band member delivered his respective metal goods with a precision typically reserved for more seasoned acts. This was no minor feat considering the blast beats, dual-guitar speed riffs and harmonies pitching forth from Skeletonwitch’s sizable taken abyss and into the club’s poor acoustics were somehow all decipherable. The crowd loved them, applauding uproariously following the cymbal decay at the closure of every tune, and based on the studious looks and slow-spreading look of respect on the audience’s Abercrombie & Fitch wearing faces, I don’t think most present were the band’s friends or family. Instead, they were college kids who happened to be in the club for beer and pool and hook-ups, and didn’t realize Skeletonwitch were going to play or what they were about. And Skeletonwitch triumphed.  After they wrapped up the set and moved their gear out of the venue, I found Scott Hendricks at the bar cooling off, and introduced myself. He told me they’d formed only the year prior and hadn’t played many shows. But, he assured me, they wanted to get bigger, one day touring and recording. I wished him luck, and I meant it with all the sincerity I could muster, being a former metal musician and aspirant to touring greatness myself.

But did I realistically believe Skeletonwitch would snap the confines of the micro-cosmic and insular college galaxy of Athens, be catapulted into the broader metal universe, and attain acclaim amongst fans and musical peers alike? No disrespect to the guys, At One With Shadows Album Coverbut a resounding “HELLZ NO!” would have been my response were someone to query me for my sentiments on the topic. Your death metal band can be superior in qualitative terms, and yet you fail to keep your head above the waves, doggy paddle failingly in a tossing sea of exceptional sonic and resource competition. I’ve witnessed many solid bands never get beyond the bedroom, and prematurely chalked up an incipient Skeletonwitch as probable and unfortunate company among them.  Fortunately for everyone I’m not a gambling man, for my losses on that bet would have been gargantuan. Later that year, Skeletonwitch dropped their first album, At One with the Shadows, on the band’s own fledgling label Shredded Records. This release performed no miracles for the band in terms of international profile but did provide them an initial platform to make their first out-of-state concert appearances, though not properly touring. The greater United States and rest of the world would have to wait two more years before Skeletonwitch were unleashed for metal fans far and wide to behold. They best they could muster that would pass for true road work during this formational period was a three-day mini-tour in November 2006 with the band Cauldron, essentially a long weekend out of town, though this is hardly a strike against a band without a proper record deal and consequent label support.

In 2007, fortunes elevated rapidly and unexpectedly for Skeletonwitch, with the veritable flight velocity of a Napalm Death blast beat. After being signed to Prosthetic Records that year, Skeletonwitch released their third studio album, Beyond the PermafrostBeyond the Permafrost Album Coverand departed the comforts of home in Ohio to make their first protracted forays into the metaphorical metal frontline trenches. These trips underpinned the band’s simultaneous reputations as a nearly non-stop touring unit, and a group of affable, easy-to-hang-with and beer swilling Midwesterners who were uncommonly professional and organized in their approach to the business of touring. They played the New England Hardcore and Metal Festival, participated in consecutive tours with Weedeater, Withered, fellow retro-thrashers Municipal Waste and Toxic Holocaust, then ended the year on the Dying Fetus-headlined War of Attrition Tour.  2008 was no less exhausting for the band, by now a seasoned live unit. They hit the highways with fellow metal acts representing, with precious few exceptions, every genre of extreme music, even appealing to crossover audiences by performing alongside metal-core groups like A Life Once Lost and Veil of Maya. They slammed onto European shores for the first time on the Flames and Fury Tour, Breathing the Fire Album Covercriss-crossing ye olde continent with the likes of Hate Eternal and long-enduring Colorado weed and grind enthusiasts Cephalic Carnage. Closing out 2008, Skeletonwitch scored its biggest tour to date when they were picked up – amidst exceptionally stiff competition in the metal touring marketplace – for Danzig’s Blackest of the Black Tour, serving as one of four opening acts including Dimmu Borgir, Moonspell, and Winds of Plague.  2009 boasted much of the same, but with Skeletonwitch expanding its fan base and deliberately bounding its way up the package tour rosters in which they participated incessantly by this point. Spending virtually the entire annum in an extended touring mode, Skeletonwitch performed with a varied slate of contemporary metal acts from around the scene like The Black Dahlia Murder, Amon Amarth, Children of Bodom, and Kylesa, ultimately capping the year with another trip to Europe on a rotating tri-headline tour with Goatwhore and Toxic Holocaust. Late in 2009, Skeletonwitch released their third studio album, Breathing the Fire, which debuted at No. 151 on the Billboard 200 charts, evincing the band’s incrementing profile and amassing horde of fans.

2010 saw Skeletonwitch support Cannibal Corpse on the Evisceration Plague North American Tour (and scenes featuring Skeletonwitch were captured for posterity on Cannibal Corpse’s Global Evisceration DVD), kick a 10-day run on that year’s Ozzfest, return to Europe with Warbringer, and participate in a series of other runs across the United States and Canada Skeletonwitch livewith bands like High on Fire, Job for a Cowboy, Withered, and death-grind stalwarts Misery Index. 2011 brought Skeletonwitch’s fourth studio album, Forever Abomination, and witnessed the band touring relentlessly as ever, on what by this point appeared to be an inspired and eternal mission to bring Skeletonwitch’s staple variant of blackened thrash to clamoring audiences anywhere willing to receive them. Jagermeister-sponsored fellow Ohioans Chimaira invited Skeletonwitch to tour, then the band bruised through North America with Forever Abomination Album CoverArch Enemy, Devil Driver, and Taiwan’s own Cthonic, and enjoyed a major bonus illustrating both their recognized draw as a performing unit and the hard-earned respect they were enjoying from metal’s business powers-that-be: Skeletonwitch were finally asked to run Europe’s summer festival circuit. They continued supporting Forever Abomination throughout 2012, making extended touring runs through the same stomping grounds repeatedly, though they spent an increasingly portion of the year in Europe this time to avoid the curse of over-exposure in their homeland. Their final tour of the year saw them return to the United States, however, and featured a schedule utterly grueling by any standard: Skeletonwitch headlined 63 shows in 65 days.

Finally, after establishing themselves as considerably more than a fleeting flash in the pan of extreme music, Skeletonwitch spent 2013 on hiatus from touring, a break they’d earned after nearly six years of incessant road work. Their down time was not necessarily idle time, though, as the band wrote and recorded their fifth studio album, Serpents Unleashed, and climbed right back into their touring saddle in early 2014 supporting Amon Amarth and Enslaved in North America. They were scheduled to make their first run of South East Asia and Australia as well in 2014, but due to an unexpected illness in a key member of the headlining Skeletonwitch were slated to support on the road, the shows had to be rescheduled.

Had I only known, that Friday night in 2004, that I bore testament to the commencement of a metal phenomenon, I’d have offered to serve as a silent investor in Skeletonwitch’s band coffers.

At the tomb of my Metal Gramma, Dunkee, in September 2013.

At the tomb of my Metal Gramma, Dunkee, in September 2013.

 

At the Columbus, Ohio burial site of my Grandma Lumpkin, better known as “Gramma Dunkee” to all of us who loved her due to my inability as a little kid to pronounce her name accurately. Not since King Diamond’s “Them” opus has a gramma deserved so much praise and respect.

And why, asketh ye? Because Dunkee was my metal gramma. My Gramma Straight was the one who provided chocolates, who taught me how to play solitaire, who bought us Underoos emblazoned with the likenesses of our favorite super heroes and cartoon characters; she was the one, verily, to whom we turned for love and tenderness. My Gramma Dunkee was the one who doled out the brutality: this is both figurative in the sense that she could be cold at times, even against her own will; but also metaphorical, regarding how she provided me some of the best metal I ever heard, and certainly at a time in my teen years when it all meant the world to me. Dunkee hooked me up with Slayer’s “Decade of Aggression” boxed set, Cannibal Corpse’s “Tomb of the Mutilated”, and Entombed’s “Left Hand Path” between the ages of 14-16 in the early 1990s. This was in an era of splendor for extreme metal worldwide. Slayer had just sold out Madison Square Garden during the Clash of the Titans tour (though, admittedly, I think Anthrax actually headlined that gig since NYC was their hometown and it was only right they close the show) and had its own MTV special; Cannibal Corpse was demonstrating to the world that death metal – the bastard child of thrash and speed – was here to stay; and Entombed was spearheading the first major wave of Swedish death metal, establishing a template that would be mimicked by countless Scandinavian bands. Those groups had what could only be described as an otherworldly influence on me as a teenage headbanger and musician, and the musical direction of my band Witch Hunt would never have developed as it did were it not for my metal gramma benefactor. Ironically, even her passing in June 1994 was metal: we made it back from the funeral the day before going to see Pantera, Sepultura, and Biobazard in concert at the Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, Maryland.

This photo, taken in September 2013, was the first time I’d been able to visit her burial site since the funeral, paying respect to a grandmother uncommonly cooler than most. If “America runs on Dunkin”, then it’s safe to say that my metal ALWAYS ran on Dunkee.