I’ve been wanting for a little bit here to get a blog up about two new dinners and some outward thoughts about the new wave of CrossFitters, but between being busy and whatnot, I haven’t gotten around to it. Then my mind became preoccupied last week when a tragedy (not Sandy) struck.
I am a music lover. I love pretty much any and all genres. I listen to the words, I feel the beats, the guitars… I do not, and will refuse to, by into that bubble gummy crap on the radio right now (One Direction, Nicki Minaj and that Bieber kid). I’ve always been a rock and metal chick. Over the years, I started to steer myself into the “harder” and “darker” stuff. I still nostagically rock out to the stuff of my high school days. I’m still passionately in love with the rock of the late 60s and early 70s, but my heart is held by metal. Not the media version of metal, but mine. I’m very picky and I’m very specific. I’ve got my own defining factors that put a certain band in that genre (or the sub genres).
I love the fast, pounding beats of a double bass pedal. The driving guitars. The heaviness, the grinding of the lyrics. People call it “angry” music, but it puts my mind in a mellow or a euphoric state. I keep my focus better when lifting at the gym when I’ve got some good metal, metalcore or deathmetal cranking in my ears. I’m not a hooligan. Yes, I’m tatted and pierced (oh, and I have a pit bull too). I work 70 hours a week in a high profile position at a local paper, and I also own my own business. I own a home, I pay my bills. I am a taxpayer. People are actually shocked when they hear snippets of what I listen to. I, as someone once said to me, look like a Back Street Boys lover. I am walking proof that you cannot judge a book by its cover.
Last week, Mitch Lucker, lead singer of one of my favorite bands Suicide Silence, lost his life. My younger sister knew I was a huge fan and called me when she heard a DJ on SiriusXM’s Octane station talking about it. As weird as it sounds, I felt genuinely heart broken over the loss. I follow Mitch on Twitter. I’ve watched interviews with him on TV and YouTube. In my eyes, he was an honest person. What you saw was what you got.
I’ve read a lot of crap (yes, it’s all CRAP) about Lucker and SS all over the internet in the past few days. And just like I do when people shit talk bully breed dogs and their owners, I felt myself getting angry. Blood boiling, adrenaline pumping angry. There is such a misunderstanding of the people who create and listen to metalcore. They all live dangerous lifestyles. On the edge. They’re only asking for it. They’re bad people. I’ve read quite a few comments to online stories about how horrible of a father Lucker was. Go to his Twitter feed, he was madly in love with his little girl. The worst was a comment saying “Glad he only killed himself.” Remember folks, his family, his friends, they see and read this stuff. Take your high horse and your opinions and leave them and the fans their space. It’s rude. Judging will get you nowhere. It shows negatively on yourself.
To the critics who called it garbage, “It’s not singing” and one that said “I use the word lyricist because Lucker screamed and growled into the mic, not singing” — shove it. I’d like to see someone step up to a mic and “scream” and “growl” and have it actually mesh with the music behind it. You have to have vocal control to be able to “scream-sing” and growling isn’t really growling.
In a time of darkness, the critics and ridiculers just need to stop. It’s the highest level of disrespect and it’s tacky. I’m of the old school mindset that if you don’t like it — don’t listen to it. Don’t read it. Don’t watch it.
Now that I’ve gotten that all off of my chest, I’m going back to work with SS’s The Cleansing cranked.