Word has recently come down the promotional pipeline that Germany’s Morgoth — in addition to airing their cadaverous smell (see what I did there? 100 scene points to anyone who did) for the first time on American soil in two decades at this year’s upcoming Maryland Deathfest — are set to issue a 20th anniversary DVD/CD compilation entitled Cursed to Live in ongoing celebration of the release of their 1991 debut, Cursed. As I was explaining to a colleague, I’ve always been what you would consider a fan of Morgoth, but seeing as how I have none of my fingers on the pulse of the metal world I have no real idea how much lasting impact the band had on metal-at-large. Sure, they were part of that whole death metal movement of the late ’80s and early ’90s and Cursed reportedly sold shitloads, but I can’t honestly say I’ve heard much chatter about them or their pending MDF performance, and the next time I see someone wearing a Morgoth shirt will be the first time. Really, the only people who really seem excited about the band are the people responsible for releasing, promoting and selling compilation works like 2005’s 1987-1997: The Best of Morgoth and Cursed to Live, but that’s because drumming up excitement is part of their job description. You gotta think that if they have two “best of” works, someone somewhere must care? Right? The quintet has been kicking the bricks on various parts of the European festival circuit for a couple of years now and when you add it all up, someone must be giving a shit about the Cursed era they’ve been reanimating.

In my humble opinion, however, what they should be doing is cranking out the hits from their best and most unique work, 1996’s Feel Sorry For the Fanatic. Yeah, yeah, but before, or while, you pillory me for crimes against metal orthodoxy, I want you to watch this:

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It would appear that the circumcised types who run this website were so enamored with my recap of one of the most non-metal metal tours that anyone in the history of metal has ever participated in that I’ve been asked to show my ugly mug around here again in the guise of the “Bravest Man In Metal,” talking a bunch of smack about some of the shit that sets our little world apart from those of other musical genres.

Thusly, I say unto thee: Fuck you, mosh pits!

To paraphrase a great song from a great band’s great album: fuck off and die, mosh pits. Just fuck off and die. Sure, calling out this most sacred of down-front show activities — an activity loved by so many both on and off the stage for the energy it brings to the live experience — may not be the most outlandish position one can take, but seriously, fuck mosh pits. Maybe it would be more appropriate to have the statement read “fuck what mosh pits have become.” But still, fuck ‘em.

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Can I make one thing clear? The debut Bravest Man in Metal column wasn’t designed to be provocative. Nor was it designed to make fun or denigrate those of you who enjoy the mind, body, personality and sexual function altering properties of alcohol. That came more from the title that Ol’ Neilstein saddled said entry with. Granted, coming on to the internet to not rip on people for who they are, what they do, the choices they make and the music they listen to is like breathing to most people, but not something I like to spend my time engaging in. “Fuck, dumb ass, why even log on to the ‘net then? Dumb ass!” I hear a number of you ask. Good question! But my little corner here isn’t designed to point fingers or rip on anyone but myself and my like-minded friends so as to possibly display to the prejudicial part of the world that still believes metal is all about blood, guts, lawnmower decapitations and listening to records backwards that metal isn’t about blood, guts, lawnmower decapitations and listening to records backwards (well, not entirely, anyway) via my own nerdish and geeky proclivities. And those of KEN Mode, the Winnipeg noise rock/metal band I roadied and slung merch for on a recent North American tour.

If you read the first instalment, you’re already aware that the amount of drinking on this tour clocked in at a humiliating low. This should be an indicative hint that the amount of drug use was even less. Actually, it was nil. I don’t know about the circles you roll in, but I don’t really think any of my drug-addicted friends aren’t drinkers. One kind of goes with the other, like a doctor’s office and waiting or public figures getting caught in “sex scandals” and denial. But this pairing of myself and KEN Mode was a boring dude’s match made in heaven. In fact, one of the first questions I was asked by the band’s members upon hauling myself into their van the first morning of my tour tenure was if I wished to partake in a wolfing down ritual of a couple gummi vitamins and vitamin C tablets. Granted, getting sick on tour is a recipe for being sick for a long, long time and one should take whatever measures possible to avoid illness, but group morning vitamin chugging in the parking lot of a rainy suburban Buffalo, NY motel doesn’t exactly scream metal the last time I checked. Not only that, but even after having only first met me about 12 hours earlier, the band were genuinely expressing concern about my decision to scarf a day-old muffin and donut. Caring for your fellow man, having empathy and compassion? What the fuck?

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THE KEN MODE TOUR EDITION – PART 1

The overlords here at MetalSucks have on at least a couple of occasions referred to me as the Bravest Man in Metal. Not because I sit around in a fur-lined loincloth in a metal-themed man-cave (pictured above) chewing the legs off Cornish game hens while pining for the days Manowar wrote cheesy metal and not cheesy symphonic metal. Nah. Here, for your memory refreshment and finger pointing fun are exhibits #1 and #2.

My head would have to be buried in the sand and a good halfway to China for me to say that I don’t get why Neilstein and Rosenberg refer to me as ‘brave.’ At the same time, I don’t get what the big deal is. Okay, it’s not a surprise that the metal scene en masse is conservative, about as conservative as a Sarah Palin rally in the town of Stepford, Connecticut (and believe me, she’s probably asked her campaign manager more than once about the possibility of giving a speech there), and there are moments more independent thought came crawling out of 1933-1945 Germany than from your typical gathering of the denim and leather set. So, when some ass hat comes along who’s doing shit that falls outside of metal’s heavily prescribed box, the proverbial shit of steel hits the fan. I just happen to be one of those people – or so I’ve been told – with the added bonus being that my position as He Who Writes About Metal means that my goofy opinions have the (un)fortunate luxury of being in print and on display lo these many years.

So, it was thrown on the table: let’s see just how brave I can be. Let’s take this ‘bravest man’ thing and run with it like Usain Bolt chasing down a dude he just caught fucking his girlfriend. I have no qualms in letting anyone know how un-metal I am in my metal-ness. Why not let in the expanse of the interhole on my poser-ific ways? Basically, MetalSucks has agreed to give me the space to talk about other maligned albums I enjoy, not having long hair, why drinking sucks, skipping out on shows to stay home with my wife and kid, how I’ve never been near a moshpit despite being a regular attendee of shows since the mid-80s, and all the other un-kvlt behaviours I routinely engage in while still managing to love the music I’ve loved since the cover of Iron Maiden’s debut freaked out my punk-ass nine year-old self.

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