The drums start up, rolling a fierce, fast marching pattern
that lingers until the first riff hits. Soon the second guitar kicks in along
with the bass. The drum pattern picks up, matching the intensity of the riff.
Then come vocals: harsh, guttural, powerful. Another riff slams into you, and
then another. A solo comes flying through, screaming and burning. And then
another solo, riff, verse, riff, outro, In the meantime, all hell is breaking
loose around you. You’re leading an army into battle and soaring through
mountain ranges and running through brick walls. There’s an overwhelming sense
of strength and vigor running through you, a feeling akin to being
indestructible. Like the guy who walks slowly away from a fiery explosion bursting
behind him and doesn’t blink.
In reality, I’m just sitting on my bed. I’m wearing a
bathrobe, haven’t done my homework, and I’m really hungry. I have some
Eluveitie playing, but somehow the combination of sitting on an Ikea bed frame
and listening to “Your Gaulish War” isn’t quite one that screams “metalhead,”
whatever that term means. Other times I might be sitting on the bus, wearing
khakis, a white, collared shirt, and a Star Trek jacket. I just sit there,
watching the same boring scenery pass by as I take the same route I always do.
Even when Thor, Hlodyn’s son, protector of mankind, rides off to meet his fate
while Ragnarok awaits him, I’m merely Matt, John’s son, protector of very
little, and I’m riding off to class while the j-school and student union await
me.
But during that ride, I sink into the music pounding in my
ears. I’m only sort of on the bus. Another part of me is far away, in some
other world that I’m not exactly sure of. It’s definitely a place I like to
visit, and sometimes I stay there for hours. It’s great: the music’s there, I’m
there, the book I’m reading is there, and nothing else is. It’s like my own
private beach, except it’s right next to an active volcano, the natives are
Uruk-hai, and the sea’s filled with sharks with freakin’ laser beams. Most importantly,
the music’s all around, pouring out of everything, omnipresent and pulsing with
life. And all of that is flowing through me, while I sit on the bus and while I
sit on my bed wearing a bathrobe.
There are other types of music that generate strong feelings
and emotions within me. There’s the raw honesty of folk and heartland rock, the
rebelliousness of protopunk, and everything that is Led Zeppelin. There’s music
that will bring tears to my eyes, plop me to the top of the world, or pick me
up regardless of circumstance. But I never get to the beach that way. I don’t
know if it’s possible to get there any other way, or if the numbers 4, 8, 15,
16, 23, and 42 mean anything. But that beach is a damn nice place to be, and
it’s where I’m having my most intense musical experiences. There’s something
comforting about slipping out of the moment for a bit and taking a breather
elsewhere, where it’s you and only you and you’re a god thundering music down
upon the waves.
I’m eager for Wintersun’s “Time I,” which is supposed to
come out in two weeks. I’m excited to listen to it as I sit in the Union and
read whichever Wheel of Time book I’m on. I can’t wait to play The Sword’s new
album while I do laundry, and the next time I go grocery shopping I’ll be sure
to rev up some classic In Flames while I glance through the produce section.
I’ll save Amon Amarth for the gym, Moonsorrow for when I’m walking home at
night, and Deafheaven when it’s particularly autumny outside. And I know a lot
of black metal focuses on the cold, frigid nature of Scandinavian winters, so I’ll
pull out some Agalloch and Darkthrone when it starts snowing.
