I blame it on David Lynch.
Until "Lost Highway," I didn't even know how to contextualize metal as anything more than a mighty but occasional pleasure. But that film's magnificently insane dreamtime imagery opened the floodgates, and suddenly, I understood how certain loud sounds connected to a freighted language of images that in turn connected to all kinds of interior "stuff". By "Lost Highway's" end, I literally stumbled onto Second Avenue buzzed; I was seriously, no-kiddingly "high."
The lockstep tech-metal ache of Germany's industrial titans, Rammstein, was still ricocheting in my cortex while Marilyn Manson, in his disreputable, goth-Ziggy prime, worked the sleazier shadows. And there was Nine Inch Nails pounding away on "The Perfect Drug" which lived up to its name in spades. Everything else just sounded "weak" after that.
- By Ian Grey
- November 10, 2011 10:55 PM
- 2 Comments