[Metal]

We’re rejects, hardcore, the kids who scream and bash about and tip their heads up and down like a little plastic dog in the back window of a station wagon with wood paneling. All in front of a cheap stereo that turns the bass into static–whatever’s available to pray to our gods. Or a stage, to get close, and see the long-haired or shaved beasts of favor.
But it’s not just about seeing the band. It’s about hearing them. Being there, in the moment, to FEEL the music. To sit within a yard of the marshall stacks and knowing that we’re not going to hear a damned thing for at least two days afterward. We want to press against the stage, each other. We want to butt heads, run in circles, body-check our friends, and pat each other on the back for taking the beating.
It’s about irreverence and rebellion within a ruled society. We idolize Satan and abhor religion. We profess ideologies and theories of profoundness right before that next shot of Jack. In fact, make it two.
Are you drunk, yet?
No?
You’re not doing it right, then, douchebag, try harder.
That’s it. You getting it now? You know, I love you, you motherfucker. I really do.
But that’s beside the point.
What is the point? What’s behind our fierce loyalty? Our desire to see our music succeed, but hate it when it hits the charts. We hate to see the girls in Hollister, the guys in Abercrombie sticking their index finger and pinky up like they know what the hell it’s all about. Mouth the words like they’re really angry in between Britney, ‘Lil Wayne, and a commercial about the Hills.
We see them. They look ridiculous.
This isn’t fashion, this is life. We wear these jeans because they’re comfortable, not because having gaping holes at your knees is suddenly ‘in’. We don’t put on these shirts because black is slimming. We love these bands, so fuck you if you don’t know what they’re about or who they are, or heaven help you, don’t even like that “screaming” stuff.
It’s not for you, anyway.
It’s for us. The disenchanted. The misfits. The loners who had no voice before we heard the guttural growl spitting into a mic, out through our speakers, into our ears, and sinking into our brain forever. This isn’t a phase. We’re lifers.
We’re metal.