Music is making me miserable this Friday evening. I hear bang-bang-blasts and strangled whispers and all I can think of is, this ain’t poetry to my ears. (I know I am missing the whole point).
But my point is. Heavy metal sounds like screeching rabbits on whose bum non-vegan cosmetics are being tested out.
Rabbit bums burn. And the heavy metal crowds cheer to infinity. Hurrah to the hand raised in self-contained hatred. Cheering with the eyes closed and smiling with their blackened teeth.
Sarah seems to be enjoying herself watching my red eyes bursting with harmonic disgust. She’s taken me to this dark and smokey joint and with sincere eyes she has conferred, “I think you will like this”.
The darkness. The silence before my storm. I cough and the concert gets started. I have braced myself for the best. And since I am a strong woman, I will survive whatever is thrown at me. I like funky experiences.
Some dark-maned-dark-t-shirt-clad guy turns around. “You alright, love?”. Or maybe he has said “love” only in my imagination, not that it matters anyway. Every now and then he cheerfully taps on my back, encouragingly, yet careful not to break my spine, which curves up like a cat’s. I am ready to jump and fly away, ready to die a rather more symphonic death.
I love musical metal, of the kind that is used in jazz bands and the like, just not of the heavy musical variety. I really, honestly, would not consider myself oddly conservative. I like to think of myself as open-minded. But yet.
Yet when I die, I don’t want my tombstone to read “she died a glam death as a heavy metal chick”.
Screeching sounds make me feel unnerved. I prefer loud humming, jazzy impro and symphonic blasts.
In the meantime, and while death is still not lingering unnoticed, hail to the rabbit who died a largely non-harmonic death. Heavy metal fans keep paying tribute to you with their strangled cheers, on this dark and smokey Friday night.