A 300 lb narwhale talks of war and Satan and 88 with cartoonish glee. A man-child with poor bone formation holds his fist up against the backdrop of Belsen concentration camp, in tribute to the gods of war metal, but little does he realize that his thumb best not be sticking up alongside the index finger if he gets into a fight. A crust/death band frontman from the capital says his project is influenced by Julius Evola and Pete Helmkamp, but I wonder what Evola or Helmkamp would make of this person’s avowed anti-casteism and all-around liberal-secular humanism. The two Jews running Metalsucks prostrate themselves most shamefully to clicks and hits, and live up to every cliche ever leveled against their community, but then are only too happy to act the victim when someone points out there is no smoke without a fire. Kim Kelly, that desperate CUNT of a hag, talks like she is God’s gift to “metal journalism”, but in what self-respecting company of hessians would she not be eviscerated to shreds within seconds?
It’s enough to make me feel like I’m inhabiting an alternate dimension. All subcultures have their rites of initiation; once past those rites, a certain psychological empowerment takes place; in an individual already assured of his place in the world, this empowerment presents new doors and opportunities for further self-improvement. Conversely, in a person who doesn’t amount to much to begin with, this empowerment is an entirely synthetic one and even assumes a deleterious character; it rushes in to compensate for the void which has always existed in the center of this shell of a human being. It breeds an obnoxious confidence with no basis in reality; this person in essence still remains chronically incapable of forming an opinion of any substance or standing up for what he purports to believe in, but he has now gathered an assortment of coolness around himself; little street trifles and gewgaws with which he can project an impression of authority.
I wonder whether he believes in it himself. I think he must; he is simple-minded enough to convince himself; God knows he has enough reinforcement at all times from people of similar calibre. The funny thing about him is that he never crosses paths with those he perceives with animal instinct as his intellectual superiors, but he is always more than eager to demonstrate his prowess with rude abandon before people he feels lie lower in this strange rabbit-hole hierarchy he has built for himself.
This cognitive dissonance thrives amidst heavy metal’s bombast. I think of it as a trickle-down elitism of sorts, where I shit on you but since you can’t shit right back up at me – unless you’re a monkey flinging turds at people randomly, and who’s to say you aren’t? – you defecate on the ones directly beneath you. And so it trickles ever downward. I’ve written about what I think of elitism, in metal and in life, before; some of those times I was drunk, others not so much. I don’t know what I am right now, it feels a little silly to talk of a subject that should be beyond the purview of words. It also feels surreal to see people you wouldn’t give the time of day adopt a pose which flies in the face of all their past and present actions.