MY BLOG for the latest, and then... Heavy Metal Part II (1998) June 17, 1998 I'm feeling pretty metal right about here, because I spent my day with those truly evil deities of destruction known as Slayer. My buddy, Clay N. Ferno a.k.a. Skimpy Ratnuts, woke me up around noon to give me the instructions of the day, "Dude? Be at my house by 1:30 so we can get on the train, dude. Dude? Dude, we've got to see Slayer, dude. Dude, you have to get up. We have to rock. It's Slayer, dude!" "A...A... Affirmative..." I coughed into the phone, with my voice still not ready to face the day. Slayer were signing autographs at the Newbury Comics record store in Braintree, Massachusetts. I had the day off, Clay was ready to rock, and with flying "V" shaped guitars dancing in my head, I quickly showered and downed coffee. Like the sickly, angst driven, hardcore metal kid I became, I used Slayer's new album, Diabolos in Musica, to power my morning rituals like an overloaded electric generator on PCP. In my humble opinion, the new Slayer album was a testament to the true forces of heavy metal. Four dudes, who saw it all as far as METAL was concerned, rocked out to slower, more chug-sounding compendia of aggression. Resembling a demon caught gurgling mouthwash at a highway rest stop, the savage attitudes of Slayer pushed me out the door and on to Clay's house, a mere two blocks away. Once Clay and I were ready, the two of us walked down to the train, excited like ten year-olds at the gates of Disneyworld. After an hour-long train ride and a brief stint in a cab with a repeatedly pierced lad in an Ozzfest T-shirt named Julio, Clay and I found ourselves standing in line with the elite youth of The South Shore Massachusetts Metal Scene... denim everywhere. Mullets, work boots, and black concert T-shirts swarmed the sidewalk of the strip mall like war generals meeting for council. Conversations like, "Dude? Didja hear what happened to Dave, dude? Got his ass kicked by skinheads, dude. Dude? Seen my new Camaro, dude? Kicks ass dude, it's a fackin' rippah, dude. SLAYYYYYER!" invaded my ears like a blitz in a football game gone awry under the evil tyranny of a Black Sabbath record. Some crusty punk kids with Neurosis and Nausea patches crudely sewn to their dirty sweatshirts came to join the line, although their patience was next to nil. Upon reaching a safe "parking lot" distance from the metal kids, they screamed back "Punk Fucking Rock!" while walking towards to their suburban homes with white picket fences and home cooked meals from Mom. The Metal kids, who were stunned that anyone would fuck with them in such large numbers, had nothing more to retort other than, "Faggots..." A smattering of snickers, claps, and "devil horn" signs made with hands immediately followed from the bystanders in line.

Slayer finally arrived and commenced an assembly line of autograph signing. Children of metal exited the store once their posters and CDs were signed, as if victorious from a battle scene in the movie "Braveheart," with both arms raised, growling as fast and as hard and as long as they could: "SLAAAAYYYYER!"

Kerry King, the guitar player, took the first CD, scribbled his signature, and handed it off to Jeff Hannamen, guitarist, then to Paul Bostoph, drummer and then Tom Arya, bass and lead vocals. Tom was the coolest, not that the other members weren't cool; it's just that when we met them, Tom gave us a friendly, "Hey Dude?" that blew Clay and I away.

We gave the band copies of our CD and Tom laughed at the title, "On Tour Without a Band? Spoken Word from Boston? That's pretty cool man."

"TOM ARYA LIKED THE TITLE OF OUR RECORD AND LAUGHED!"

"TOM ARYA, FROM FUCKIN SLAYER, SAID, 'HEY DUDES' TO US!"

"DUDE, I'm losing my shit!" Clay said, as I made air guitar gestures and distortion sounds while screaming, "ANGEL OF DEAAAAAAATH!"

At the Dunkin Donuts across the parking lot from Newbury Comics, Clay asked one of the girls working behind the counter if she was going to cut out and see Slayer.

"Uhm no?" said the lady, "I don't know who he is."

"I don't know who he is?" I thought. What the hell was that? Slayer wasn't a he, but a fucking they. Get the pronouns straight.

Nevertheless, we made it back to Boston with our friend Andre, making a quick stop at the illustrious South Shore Plaza for some gourmet delight at the food court.

Later that night I found myself in Avalon at the Slayer show surrounded by white trash Metal kids, like ants to a naked pile of strawberry jam. It was wall-to-wall heavy metal bandanas, jeans, and black concert T-shirts. Every once in a while, a chorus of growls and hollers would erupt, shouting "FUCKING SLAYER!!!!"

The dim lights and ever-present odor of cheap beer made me feel at home. It reminded me of all those kids from Northbridge, MA, with cowboy boots and fringed leather jackets who wasted their days away in Cumberland Farms parking lots. In a way, it was kind of beautiful.

The first band was a group no one in Boston had ever heard of before. They were called System of A Down. They played a short set of angst-ridden, yet strangely highly-pitched music with strict time changes. Their music reminded me as if Satan himself took too much speed and freaked out with paranoia.

Clutch came up next. The boys from Baltimore were back, spreading their wisdom of car engines, space travel, and the usual redneck philosophies.

Hell awaiting, the dudes in my band, my friend Michael Kennedy, and I sat anxious with anticipation. The lights went down and the crowd began to chant, "SLAY-ER, SLAY-ER, SLAY-ER..." like drones reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in elementary school, yet way fuckin' cooler. Slayer opened up with syncopated red stage lights, evil guitar power chord, and cymbal splash. "Hell Awaits" was the first song, a lively little ditty about burning your flesh off. The place exploded in a storm of bodies, swinging and smashing everything in sight, as if Hell itself had risen from it's fiery depths and invaded the club.

Slayer rocked an approximate hour and a half set with all the classic anthems: "South of Heaven", "War Ensemble", "Dead Skin Mask", "Reign in Blood", and obviously "Angel of Death". Songs of war, genocide, hell, fire, and death were mutually enjoyed amongst the crowd. (Imagine that). In my humble opinion, Slayer doesn't advocate these practices, but rather... critiques and comments on the destruction of the human race. You know, all the evil that humans have committed to one another; all the murder and annihilation that we know to despise and loathe is buried somewhere within us all, but together we know that these practices are atrocious and horrible. I don't think Slayer glorifies any of it. Instead, they create the most aggressive music possible to illustrate these tortures.

Aggression. That's what it all comes down to. See, we've all wanted to rip someone to shreds at least once in our lives and Slayer just says, "Dude? That's cool. But instead of say...ripping your girlfriend to pieces, why not buy a cassette copy of our record Haunting The Chapel and rock out to us screaming about it. Okay, dude? It's cool. WE KNOW HOW YOU FEEL."

Slayer is the cheapest therapist you'll ever find.

So, they finished the set with "Angel of Death" and the houselights came on. I purchased a T-shirt with a big devil on the front and began the walk home. The mist in the air on a warm summer night in Boston cooled me down to a level where I could actually sleep, and that I did next to my autographed copy of Devine Intervention.

 

You've Got To Be Shitting Me? (2004)

"Dude, do you want to play some acoustic Misfits songs at O'Brien's?" Clay asked me one day. "Uhhh, sure?" I said.

It was a night of a few local artists covering songs by the original horror punks while spewing stories about the band's legacy of brutality. Clay and I looked over the list of who was playing what and decided to perform "We Are 138," "Return of The Fly," "Dig Up Her Bones," and the Danzig song "Twist of Cain." True to form, covering a solo artists' song when one should play the band's original material proved to be in our worst interest.

I learned the songs and on the evening of the gig, went over to Clay's house to rehearse. Between songs Clay and I reminisced about our time together at Mass Art and made fun of each other like always. We transformed our hair into Devil Locks and strategically placed fake blood around our mouths for dramatic effect (or maybe we just did it because we're dorks).

We arrived at the show fashionably early to partake in some barbeque. I tuned my guitar, checked some mics, and waited.

An older gentleman (40's-50's) with large thick rimmed glasses, a Members Only jacket, and a broken left arm with a hip attachment, sat at the bar and squealed near-insults at us like, "You guys better be good!" and "Aren't you fuckin' guys gonna do a sound check?" and my personal favorite, "I got a new name for your group: DESPERATE. Cuz you guys are fuckin' DESPERATE!" Soon enough, Clay and I stormed the stage like medieval British Knights (or two dorks in horror make-up). We played the Misfits songs. Then we played the Danzig song at the end of the set. I concentrated on my guitar playing since it was only me on acoustic guitar and Clay singing. If I fell off beat, the entire song would die. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few people abruptly moving away from where "Insult Man" stood. Then I heard a lot of commotion. I didn't look up because I didn't want to screw up the song. When I looked up again, everyone who had been watching us now walked to the back of the room by the bar. "We must sound terrible," I thought. "My guitar must be out of tune or something!"

Then Kristen, the promoter, came up to the side of the stage and told me, "That crazy guy just took a shit in the middle of the room! That's why everyone moved away. It's not you guys!"

The chord I played hung in the air like a stale fart. I turned to Clay and explained "the incident." He replied that it must be a cosmic sign from Mr. Glenn Danzig himself to finish the song with the utmost efficiency. We did just this and ended our set by stating, "Thank you for shitting on the floor."

According to eyewitness accounts, "the substance" was quite soupy and shot out of "Insult Man's" pant leg like projectile chemical warfare, which if you think about it, was exactly what it was.

Many theories surrounded the legend of "Insult Man." Perhaps he was a CIA agent, or Al Qaeda, or just another misunderstood music critic. Personally, I believed that he was a performance artist, dictating to the world that most music is shit and he for one WAS NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE! But rather leave it there for the staff to clean up.

 

That Girl Can Take A Shit In My Car Anytime!

(Or... How NOT To Have Your Class Reunion) (2006)

I grew up in Southern Worcester County, Massachusetts; a place where if you sat and listened hard enough, the faint banjo line from "Deliverance" could be heard emanating from the tree line. A place where Wild West sounds were not unusual.

Recently, I went back there to attend my eleventh year class reunion. We wanted to do it on the tenth year, but they couldn't get their shit together, so eleven was the magic number. Morbid curiosity coursed through my thoughts. "What the fuck happened to Vanessa Bolduc, or Mike Tobin, or Greg Witzell?" I thought. These were names and faces that shaped my childhood. Until I was 18 years old, all I knew was rural suburbia, low self-esteem, and punk and metal music blasting from my adolescent bedroom.

Our reunion was in a function room above a redneck bar called the CafŽ Sorrento in Milford, MA. A sweet young lady came up to me saying, "Hi Duncan! How are you? How's your music? What's new?" I nodded and answered her questions, not having the slightest idea who she was. Me, not knowing who she was, hammered home a stone cold truth: I am a self-absorbed wannabe rock star asshole.

Soon, I began chatting with some people and the story of my horrific construction accident with my dad became the topic of conversation. When I said that I had broken my right arm and external pins had to be inserted into my skin to hold the bones in place, one former classmate inquired in a thick Worcester accent, "Dude-guy-kid-chief, did that affect your jerkin' off o' what, guy?"

"No actually I had already developed a sleek 'overhand with the left' technique which kept me on perfect jerk off schedule. Thank you for your concern," I answered.

A lot of my former classmates had become parents, which I thought was awesome, but just not a state of mind that I was in at all. Soon enough, the mom's and dad's went home to their kids, and the stragglers left behind were me, along with Josh Cole (the other rock dude), Pete Sattlemaire, and hot divorcŽe women. Not that I had the slightest bit of a chance with these women, it's just an important note of concern.

Downstairs there existed an unholy ritual of cultural integrity, a wild beast of magic and cunning intellect, a powerful spell in the hands of late night drunks in the 508 area code. That substance of truth was and forever will be karaoke.

Allow me to take a moment to set the stage. We were in a crammed bar in the heart of the Blackstone Valley. Dudes with moustaches, mullets, Harley Davidson T-shirts, and accessories supplied by the New England Patriots website moved slowly like drunken cattle while taking swigs of Bud Light. The content of the surrounding conversations included trucks, beating the shit out of people, fucked up construction jobs, and personal vendettas.

I was not dismayed one bit, because Michael Jackson's "Gots to be startin' somethin'" was booming from the Karaoke speakers. I was clad in a Scissorfight hoodie and sports coat; jammin' and doing moonwalk break dance moves to ever-growing stares.

Josh Cole and I could not wait. We tore into the Karaoke songbook like rabid coyotes on LSD. Soon enough I was called to the stage to deliver Madonna's "Material Girl" with the ferociousness of a demon trapped in the depths of Pratt Pond. I was going to give these people the performance of their fucking lives! I was going to tear the roof off of this fucking popcorn stand. Tonight was my night to shine! I was going to rock the shit out of these people! I can only sing one way: METAL! "SOME BOYS KISS ME! SOME BOYS HUG ME! I THINK THEY'RE OK! IF THEY DON'T GIVE ME PROPER CREDIT I JUST WALK AWAY! THEY CAN BEG AND THEY CAN PLEED, BUT THEY CAN'T SEE THE LIGHT (That's Right!) BUT THE BOY WITH THE COLD HARD CASH IS ALWAYS MR. RIGHT!"

During breakdowns I rocked audience participation banter like, "Milford, Mass!!!! How you feeling on this rock n' roll evening? Who's ready to get down? All right!!!!"

Next, Josh grabbed the mic like a true rock n' roll warrior and lit into Prince's "Purple Rain" as it seethed through the speakers. Blood raced through his veins as he sang the chorus, "Purple Rain... Purple Rain..."

He had the whole thing down note for note. He was the artist formerly known as Josh Cole. I imagined Josh on a purple motorcycle in the mid-west, prepared at any moment to have a battle of the bands with Morris Day and The Time. Rose petals littered the floor. A purple valor curtain backdrop accompanied a naked, skinny, scrawny, so-white-that-he's-practically-pale-blue Josh Cole in a hot steamy bathtub. This WAS exactly what it sounded like when the doves cried, bitches.

He finished up the title track to a 1980's masterpiece and gave me the instructions, "I'm going to give Pete and Jess Small a ride to Pete's car so that he can bring her home. I'll meet you in a bit. Cool?"

Message received and understood.

Not much later, Josh returned with a smirk on his face the size of Nipmuc Regional High School. "Uhm..." he began, "I was driving Jess to Pete's car so he could bring her home and she asked me how to put down the window. I told her that it was a 'crank' and as she 'cranked' she began to... well... vomit? I think she got most of it out the window, but on her way out of my car she said, 'I'm sorry, you might want to check the little compartment in the door. Have a good night!'"

"Oh my god, dude!" I exclaimed at the top of my lungs. "That is so fucking awesome! Dude, you won the high school reunion!"

"Duncan, it's not a competition," Josh consoled.

"Oh yes it is!" I retorted. "Josh, you didn't even go to our high school. You went to middle school with all of us. And Jessica Small, one of the most beautiful girls I went to school with, a girl I could barely say "hi" to at age 16, puked in your car. That is so fucking hot dude, I can't believe it!"

"It is not hot Duncan."

"Oh yes it is! The only way I could even compete with you is if I actually got laid tonight, but then again it's Upton, MA, that we're talking about so I doubt it... or... or... if some hot girl performed a grotesque bodily function in my car like... say... taking a shit?"

"Duncan that's disgusting!"

"Yes... yes it is disgusting, Josh Cole, but if it actually occurred... tonight... I, Duncan Wilder Johnson, son of Stephen Cavitt and Judith Anne Johnson of Upton, MA, (and boy are THEY proud of me at a moment like this) would in fact achieve absolute victory at my eleventh year high school class reunion."

We soon met up with our friend Danielle, whom we followed out to a party on Williams Street in Upton. "Party in Upton? Shit yea!" Upton was a small place. Any time you were driving down a back road in the middle of the night and you were suddenly overrun by parked cars piling up on the sides of the road, it was an immediate indication of where to send the police.

At the party, more Uptonians swarmed around a bucket of Budweiser like cavemen discovering fire. Some dude who was large enough to play for the NFL, recognized me from the karaoke stage and testified, "Dude! Material Girl! Fuckin' awesome! You go boy! Fuckin' right on! THAT WAS FUCKING SEXY!"

"Thanks, man."

Eventually, Josh and I found ourselves by the bonfire in the backyard and I couldn't shake the image of Jessica Small's not so erotic, yet completely enticing vomit from my mind. Jealousy tainted every word that came from my mouth, "Dude, you're so lucky."

"No dude, I am not lucky. I have to look forward to cleaning up dried throw up from my door tomorrow."

"Dude, that's so awesome."

"What are you guys talking about?" Danielle asked.

We relayed the entire sordid tale, including my desire to one-up Josh by having a beautiful girl shit in my car.

"Oh," she says. "Hmmm... I'll do it?" "Yea, you're a pretty girl! This is perfect!" I said in joy and disbelief. "No wait, I'm going to call Sally Adams. It's 2:00 in the morning. She'll definitely shit in your car, Duncan."

"That girl can take a shit in my car anytime."

Danielle fumbled with her phone to find Sally's number, but hesitated at the last second and decided to forgo the idea.

I imagined that the would-be phone call would have gone something like this:

"Hello?..." Sally answers in a groggy half asleep tone.

"Hi, Sally? It's Danielle, you know from Hopkinton, MA, where the Boston Marathon starts, a town where dreams are born."

"Oh hey... Danielle? It's like two in the morning or something... what's up?"

"Well I'm here with Heavy Metal Spoken Word Artist, and stud about town - Duncan Wilder Johnson, and some cowboy with a Prince fetish named Josh Cole, and we were wondering... that is if you're free at the moment... if you wouldn't mind taking a shit in Duncan's Honda Accord of Devastation so that he can win his eleventh year class reunion, for which Josh is currently in the lead by way of Jessica Small's projectile vomit?"

"Oh sure, let me just eat six handfuls of apricots, wash it down with some prune juice, and tell my boyfriend. I'll be right over."

After what seemed like a decade of laughter, it was time to split.

A cool spring fog rested on Rte. 140. I wished RW could have been here for this night, but he died the year before and all I wanted at that precise moment was to have him next to me half snorting, half laughing as he dialed cell numbers of pretty girls who might shit in my car.

I missed a different time.

I missed a different Duncan.

I missed... being a kid.