Posts Tagged ‘Virginia’

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.

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…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.