happiness. “Yay! I knew I could convert you.” She pulls her phone off the dock and points at me. “Your turn. Play me something you listen to.”
I think about putting something really hard on, like Spineshank or something, but I don’t. I turn on “The Sadness Will Never End” by Bring Me the Horizon. As the slow, melodic intro plays, I tell her the name of the song and the band, and I watch her expression shift to surprise when the guitars and drums hit all at once. Her features turn tight with focus, listening. The song ends, five minutes of screamo angst-driven glory. I love that song. I cue up another song, a little harder: “In Place of Hope” by Still Remains. She remains focused, listening, dissecting.
When that song ends, she’s quiet for a few minutes. I let her sit, let her process. “There’s a lot of anger to that. A lot of…bitterness.”
“Yeah. That’s the point of it.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “It…I don’t know, I’ve never tried to explain it before. Um. It’s about understanding. Someone else understands how you feel. Understands how anger can be…in your fucking blood. Part of you. How bitterness and rage and sadness can be all-consuming. They get it. They express it. It’s commiseration.”
She nods. “I can see that.”
“And really, that kind of music, it’s not as deep as it goes. It’s not as hard as it gets. There’s more melody and a variety of emotions and sounds and styles to it. You get into stuff like death metal and black metal, it’s just…rage. Pure hate made into sound.”
She frowns. “Show me.”
“Really? Why? It’s…”
Kylie’s response is almost angry. “Stop thinking you can tell me what I like, or what’s not good for me. That’s as bad as Ben trying to tell me who I can hang out with.”
“He means well.”
She gapes at me. “Why are you defending him ?”
I wish I knew. “I’m not,” I say. “It’s just true. And fine. If you really want to hear something truly hard and dark, then here you go.” I scroll through select a song. “This is Amon Amarth. The song’s called ‘A Beast Am I.’ They’re actually a lot more melodic than most other death metal bands.”
She listens, and her eyes are wide, the edges of her mouth tight. She doesn’t like this. The other stuff, it’s not as bleak and fury-rife. There’s no lightness to this music, nothing redeeming. It’s unrepentantly black and edged and bloody.
She’s visibly relieved when the song ends. “Jesus, Oz. That’s…wow.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Told you.”
She bobbles her head side to side. “I can see the talent, though. I mean, to play that hard, that fast, for that long? Every song? The amount of sheer energy it must take to play that way is…just staggering.”
I’m impressed that she can see past her initial, visceral reaction. “You should see a live show of that kind of music. People leave bloody. For real. Broken bones and shit. It’s brutal. But you’re right, it takes a sick amount of speed and technical precision to play like that.”
She shudders, making a face of disgust. “I’ll pass on the live show, thanks. I can imagine.”
I laugh. “No, I really don’t think you can.” I lift up the sleeve of my shirt to show her a thick ridge of scar running along my left bicep. “I got this at a death metal show. It was…shit, I can’t even remember who was playing. I was a little…blasted, I guess. Some local band at a dive bar in the back end of Denver. I shouldn’t have even been allowed in, ’cause I wasn’t even seventeen yet, but security was a little…lax. Anyway, this guy in the pit had spiked bracelets on his wrists, the spikes were wicked sharp and two inches long, and he was flailing around, kicking, thrashing. He must’ve slashed a dozen people to ribbons, and the band was egging him on. The harder he thrashed, the harder they played. The bouncers had to finally throw him out because he was getting little too psycho
I think about putting something really hard on, like Spineshank or something, but I don’t. I turn on “The Sadness Will Never End” by Bring Me the Horizon. As the slow, melodic intro plays, I tell her the name of the song and the band, and I watch her expression shift to surprise when the guitars and drums hit all at once. Her features turn tight with focus, listening. The song ends, five minutes of screamo angst-driven glory. I love that song. I cue up another song, a little harder: “In Place of Hope” by Still Remains. She remains focused, listening, dissecting.
When that song ends, she’s quiet for a few minutes. I let her sit, let her process. “There’s a lot of anger to that. A lot of…bitterness.”
“Yeah. That’s the point of it.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “It…I don’t know, I’ve never tried to explain it before. Um. It’s about understanding. Someone else understands how you feel. Understands how anger can be…in your fucking blood. Part of you. How bitterness and rage and sadness can be all-consuming. They get it. They express it. It’s commiseration.”
She nods. “I can see that.”
“And really, that kind of music, it’s not as deep as it goes. It’s not as hard as it gets. There’s more melody and a variety of emotions and sounds and styles to it. You get into stuff like death metal and black metal, it’s just…rage. Pure hate made into sound.”
She frowns. “Show me.”
“Really? Why? It’s…”
Kylie’s response is almost angry. “Stop thinking you can tell me what I like, or what’s not good for me. That’s as bad as Ben trying to tell me who I can hang out with.”
“He means well.”
She gapes at me. “Why are you defending him ?”
I wish I knew. “I’m not,” I say. “It’s just true. And fine. If you really want to hear something truly hard and dark, then here you go.” I scroll through select a song. “This is Amon Amarth. The song’s called ‘A Beast Am I.’ They’re actually a lot more melodic than most other death metal bands.”
She listens, and her eyes are wide, the edges of her mouth tight. She doesn’t like this. The other stuff, it’s not as bleak and fury-rife. There’s no lightness to this music, nothing redeeming. It’s unrepentantly black and edged and bloody.
She’s visibly relieved when the song ends. “Jesus, Oz. That’s…wow.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Told you.”
She bobbles her head side to side. “I can see the talent, though. I mean, to play that hard, that fast, for that long? Every song? The amount of sheer energy it must take to play that way is…just staggering.”
I’m impressed that she can see past her initial, visceral reaction. “You should see a live show of that kind of music. People leave bloody. For real. Broken bones and shit. It’s brutal. But you’re right, it takes a sick amount of speed and technical precision to play like that.”
She shudders, making a face of disgust. “I’ll pass on the live show, thanks. I can imagine.”
I laugh. “No, I really don’t think you can.” I lift up the sleeve of my shirt to show her a thick ridge of scar running along my left bicep. “I got this at a death metal show. It was…shit, I can’t even remember who was playing. I was a little…blasted, I guess. Some local band at a dive bar in the back end of Denver. I shouldn’t have even been allowed in, ’cause I wasn’t even seventeen yet, but security was a little…lax. Anyway, this guy in the pit had spiked bracelets on his wrists, the spikes were wicked sharp and two inches long, and he was flailing around, kicking, thrashing. He must’ve slashed a dozen people to ribbons, and the band was egging him on. The harder he thrashed, the harder they played. The bouncers had to finally throw him out because he was getting little too psycho
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