[From the Voice, June 18, 1985]
WHITE NOISE -- HOW HEAVY METAL RULES
(By Deborah Frost)
It's Friday night at L'Amour, Rock Capital of Brooklyn (well, that's what it says
on the awning). The smell is smoke and damp, black lipstick and black leather.
God -- and maybe the fire marshal -- knows how many bodies are packed shag to
shag, Bud to Bud, in front of the oversized video screen and overworked P.A. Fists
jump, jab, and pump as the crowd screams the catchphrases to songs you probably
won't hear on contemporary hit radio: "YOU CAN'T STOP IT, YOU JUST CAN'T
STOP IT, YOU CANT STOP ROCK & ROLL! PLAY DIRTY! BALLS TO THE.
WALL! SHOUT AT THE DEVIL! I'M AN ANIMAL, I FUCK LIKE A BEAST!
HEAVY METAL, HEAVY DAYS!"
Judging by the photo buttoms [sic], pins, and cloth logo patches splattered liberally
across sleeves and bosoms, just about everybody here loves Ozzy Osbourne, Van
Halen, AC/DC, Irn [sic] Maiden, and Mötley Crüe. Also popular are chains, dog collars,
and the latest in welcome-to-my-nightmare gear -- spiked gauntlets whose only
purpose is give a nice whaap to anyone who inadvertently gets too close.
Onstage, the band's got problems. Then again, offstage, this band has problems.
Its name is Saxon, and their resemblance to the fictional Spinal Tap is not entirely
coincidental. Spinal Tap's creators could hardly have imagined that the balding,
inept bunch they parodied so perfectly would have become a commercial prospect.
Halfway through Saxon's first song, just as the zucchini-shaped bulge in frontman
Biff Byford's white tights begins to wilt noticably, "The Power and the Glory"
becomes "The Power Failure" and L'Amour, Rock Capital of Brooklyn, is plunged into
darkness. "Oh, this is nothing," says Saxon's publicist. "In San Francisco, they blew
out two city blocks!"
The technical difficulties are eventually conquered, enabling any interested
person to discover that the solos sound the same whether the guitar player is using
his fingers or bouncing the instrument off his head. There is also an endless drum
solo, a couple of feeble swipes at the cymbals with flaming drumsticks, fireworks,
and between-song patter during which Byford addresses the audience as "you
fuckers" and "you rabble" and raises such weighty subjects as big tits.
The crowd reaction might be summed up by the exuberant whoop of one boy.
"Jesus, I'm psyched!" he shouts, as he and his buddies head out after the last
encore, unzip their flies, and take long leaks outside the door.
"It is now 1976" mourned Lester Bangs in The Rolling Stone Illustrated History
of Rock and Roll, "and heavy metal seems already to belong to history."
It is now 1985, and heavy metal is bigger and more profitable than ever. Despite
the predictions of critics, trendsetters, and parents everywhere, heavy metal refused
to roll over and die. Around the world -- in London, Paris, L.A., Brooklyn -- it's
ALIVE! And it's still rock's crudest, grossest extreme. Which, of course, has just
about everything to do with its appeal.
But no matter whether it's mass appeal (like Van Halen) or limited appeal (like
Mercyful Fate, Exciter) what distinguishes new metal from old metal (like Led
Zeppelin) is its debt to punk. True, punk failed to reach a mass audience, but thanks to
its influence new metal is faster and shorter and played with more conviction than
old. To paraphrase Def Leppard's Joe Elliot, punk failed not only because it was
heavy metal with nonsoloing guitarists, but because it was heavy metal without
heavy sex. Although other ever-popular topics for metal rumination are power,
death, revenge, and madness, most male, teenagers -- still metal's prime audience --
are not particularly interested in any product that does not offer the promise of
getting laid, or at least clues of to how to go about it.
One of the oddities of heavy metal is how many bands dress up a [sic] women's
clothes -- in high heels, fishnet, heavy makeup, and dyed long hair -- to deliver their
abuse. What's even odder is the number of girls who line up to take it. Ten years
ago, females were scarce at most heavy metal shows. Now, even the most stereotypically
"macho" bands -- like Judas Priest -- are drawing more sexually integrated
crowds. And though metal has yet to produce a major female star, the few women
in the genre -- Lita Ford, Rock Goddess, Girlschool -- are accepted as a matter of fact,
something that would have been unthinkable a decade ago, when women with greater
gifts (Birtha) faced far more audience hostility.
"Heavy metal is a very necessary kind of music in terms of emotional needs for a
certain group," says Mötley Crüe/Twisted Sister producer Tom Werman, an MBA
from Columbia who sold soap for Proctor & Gamble before becoming an A&R man
and producer whose acts have sold a total of 100 million records.
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