HELL BENT FOR LEATHER

Confessions of a Heavy Metal Addict

SEB HUNTER

COPYRIGHT

4th Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate 2004

Copyright © Seb Hunter 2004

Seb Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007161768

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780007381616

Version: 2016-07-19

PRAISE

From the reviews of Hell Bent for Leather:

‘Anyone who’s ever been too fond of music will recognise themselves in Hell Bent for Leather … Though it’s hilarious and downbeat, [Hunter] retains an honest love of the truth of rock. It’s a profound writer who can describe AC/DC and Slayer as sounding like a trolley falling down the stairs’

BILL BAILEY

‘Terrific … a thundering good read’

BRUCE DICKINSON

‘Hell Bent for Leather is a book that could do for heavy metal what Fever Pitch did for Arsenal: make the terminally unfashionable hugely commercial … this funny, honest book is both a homage to his first great love, and a deconstruction of that most maligned of pop forms. You can enjoy it without having heard a single heavy metal track. For that alone, Seb, we salute you’

Observer

‘Rock failure was very, very good for Seb Hunter … his book is a gem; a wonderfully deadpan account of his childhood obsession with heavy metal, and his subsequent attempt to make a career of it. The story is memorable not only for Hunter’s mordant self-deprecation and hilarious recitation of heavy metal trivia (how many sub-genres of glam metal can you name?), but for the unexpectedly moving conclusion’

New York Times

‘Funny and genuinely touching … he relives the developments that shook the metal world to its stack-heeled foundations’

Guardian

‘Hunter relates with easy humour and perfect pacing a tragic, glorious youth, dominated by music … he has an assured touch, good timing, genuine love and knowledge of his subject, plus just the right amount of modesty required when you’re not famous and you’ve decided to write a book about yourself anyway. Terrific!’

Time Out

‘It’s easy to laugh at metallers and Hunter’s book makes it even easier … he describes the era with affection’

Independent on Sunday

‘Irreverent, funny, candid and branching off the beaten track to include all the other things that really matter, like love, life, death, dead-end jobs, alcohol, parents, girlfriends, mates’ girlfriends, and guitars with pointy headstocks. If that rings any kind of (ahem) Hells Bell with you, then you’ll love it’

Leicester Mercury

‘Funny yet tragic … anyone who believes music changes lives will find validation here’

City Life

‘A Fever Pitch for Heavy Metal fans … Simultaneously hilarious and strangely moving … identifies the very essence of why music is important to life. Magic’

Q magazine

‘Seb Hunter’s wickedly funny biography combines the madness of Ozzy and the incisive satire of Spinal Tap with an honest and contagious passion … a delightful chronicle of the highs and lows of glorious youth’

Glasgow Herald

‘A truly brave book … an entertaining guide to heavy rituals, with diagrams explaining the need for a 12-stringed axe’

Observer Music Monthly

‘Hell Bent is more than a memoir: it’s a crash course in Metal’

Newsweek

‘Enthralling from start to finish … Hunter is never afraid to laugh at his former self and it is this factor more than any other which places Hell Bent … in the proud tradition of Giles Smith’s Lost in Music and John Aizlewood’s Love Is the Drug and makes it essential reading for any music fan, metal-obsessed or otherwise’

Liverpool Echo

‘Seb Hunter talks from a true fan’s perspective … A truly human examination of passion and music’

The List

‘Should strike a (power) chord with everyone who’s sold their soul to rock ’n’ roll … Hunter celebrates the joy of being lost in music’

Kerrang!, KKKK

‘Paints a vivid picture of the capital’s low-rent mid-80s muck ’n’ mascara scene’

Classic Rock

‘A Hornby for the Kerrang generation’

i-D magazine

‘Mixing his memories of small-town England with an encyclopedic knowledge of heavy metal, Hunter creates a book that, thanks to its combination of poignancy and hilarity, is as infectious as a well-crafted power ballad’

Publishers Weekly

‘You find yourself wanting to hug him one minute, and punch him the next’

Uncut

‘Like Nick Hornby, Hunter can’t separate pivotal points in his life from the songs he was listening to at the time. Read it and cringe – not in embarrassment, but in recognition’

Maxim

‘Brash, to the point, and earthy, this is an enjoyable disquisition on an adult-irritating strain of music that just won’t die. With advocates and chroniclers like Hunter, why should it?’

Booklist

DEDICATION

For Fa

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

P.S. Ideas, interviews & features …

About the Author

Interview with Seb Hunter

Life at a Glance

About the Book

The Return of the Trash Can Junkies

More Music

Further Listening

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

I was in the pub with my friend Andrew and the conversation turned to ‘What specialist subject would you choose if you were to appear on Mastermind?’ He came up with the very good point that in order to proceed to the later stages of the competition, you would need a store of different specialist subjects for each new round. But as the heats progressed, the standard of fellow competitor would rise, so not only did you have to prepare – we guessed – four rounds’ worth of different specialist subjects, but you probably needed to gamble your weakest in the early rounds and save your best one ’til last. We imagined the dreadfulness of early-round elimination on some hastily cribbed topic, with our fountains of knowledge waiting primed and unused. So assuming there actually are four rounds, including the final (and yes, we’re taking huge liberties with our levels of general knowledge here), Andrew chose:

1st round: Bob Dylan

2nd round: Samuel Beckett

3rd round: Tennyson (yes, he’s a fop and a nonce)

Final: The Beatles

He really likes The Beatles.

In response I installed my beloved Beach Boys at the top of the pile and started to ponder my remaining three stages.

‘Can I have Brian Wilson as a separate round?’

‘Definitely not, or I’d have John Lennon.’

‘Oh, I see.’

It was then that a horrible truth began to dawn. It grew in my brain until I couldn’t hold it in any more. Although I am very good on The Beach Boys and, indeed, my hero Brian Wilson, there was a subject that, if I was honest with myself, I knew more about than any other. And it wasn’t big, or clever, or cool, or relevant to anything at all useful in my or anyone else’s life (unlike Brian, of course). I covered my mouth with my hand.

‘Heavy Metal,’ I said quietly.

‘What?’ Andrew appeared confused.

‘My number one isn’t The Beach Boys. It’s Heavy Metal.’

‘Really? Heavy Metal? As random as that? No focus or specification? Just the whole thing?’

‘Yes.’ My head hung in shame. ‘The whole goddamn thing.’

‘You never told me about this before.’

‘It’s kind of a secret,’ I muttered.

‘So if you got to the final of Mastermind, you’d sit there in the black chair and when asked for your chosen specialist subject, you’d calmly reply “Heavy Metal”?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That’s fantastic!’

It was true. And this book is all about what I have learned, and my charmless stabs at emulation.

And hey, before you say anything – I’m not proud.

CHAPTER ONE
LET’S GET IT UP

I’m ten.

It’s 1981, a late summer evening in an underground common room at a boarding school in deepest Wiltshire. Someone is playing ‘Can-Can’ by Bad Manners on a cheap yellow record player and we’re all running around in a sweat, playing off the musical momentum, though hardly paying it much attention. And then comes my big moment, the only real eureka, blinding-light moment I’ve ever had. Some wise child peels off from the fray and clunks down AC/DC’s ‘Let’s Get it Up’, and that’s it for me. That was the light switch – the world suddenly became three-dimensional and my ears popped open.

It was so raw, so suggestive, that I had no idea how to react. This was a whole new set of rules for my body; a sudden and unexpected DNA tattoo. I stood motionless on the flagstone floor, beads of sweat hanging off my fringe, waiting for this skull-splitting rheum to end so I could calm down and return to how things had been before, but I never quite managed to get there.

‘Hey! Hey! What was that?’ I stood open-mouthed over the record player.

By the end of the week, having heard ‘Let’s Get it Up’ a further 16 times, including the B-side ‘Back in Black (live)’, all other thoughts in my head had evaporated. I taught myself how to do this, fast:

Back at home that Christmas I knew exactly what I wanted. For the last few years my parents had been feeding my thirsty Star Wars obsession, however this year I’d requested just one solitary item: a cassette by AC/DC. My mother asked me where she was supposed to purchase such a thing and I was forced to admit I had no idea. So I spent an anxious Christmas morning worrying that I’d be getting yet more Star Wars figures and not the one thing I craved so badly. But halfway through the communal giving I was handed a tape-shaped package. Slowly I peeled at the wrapping until I could clearly see a gold cover and a picture of a giant cannon, and on the back cover – oh my God – the album contained ‘Let’s Get it Up’! I felt sick and slightly dizzy and my hands had started to shake.

My mother, sensing my existential distress, plucked the plastic box away.

‘“Let’s get it up”,’ I whimpered.

My mother frowned. ‘What do you think that means?’

‘It means …’ I paused. ‘Let’s all get it sort of “up” and have fun.’

‘Well, you’re wrong, it doesn’t mean that at all, it means something entirely different.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’m not telling you. Just be careful, that’s all, don’t go around saying that sort of thing in public. And “Put the Finger on You”? What do you think that one means?’

‘It just means putting the finger on you. I don’t know.’ She doesn’t understand, I thought to myself. She just doesn’t get it!

She ran her finger through the rest of the songs, muttering under her breath, and handed it back.

‘“Let’s Get it Up” means something rude. In fact, quite a lot of these songs sound rather rude.’

You’re mad, I thought, embarrassed for her obvious misunderstanding.

As soon as the Queen’s speech was over and the family had thanked each other for their biscuits and condiments, I interrupted proceedings by loudly demanding we play my new tape.

‘Everyone will like it!’

‘But Granny …’

‘Granny will like it too!’

My father raised an eyebrow. I had up until this moment been a thoroughly charming and dutiful child, so after a moment’s consideration, the cassette player was reluctantly dragged in from the kitchen.

With my back to my extended family, I slid the new cassette into the machine and covertly inched up the volume in preparation for AC/DC’s grand opus For Those About to Rock … (We Salute You) in all its corrosive pomp. As the guitars snaked out I turned, grinning and blushing heavily, and grabbed onto the aerial to steady myself. Then the bass began to throb and I noticed some awkward shuffling on the sofa. Next came the drums – crikey they were loud! I glanced at my scary Uncle Geoff and he’d started turning purple, but still I sensed a thrill of expectancy in the room. Then came the singing – or rather some wordless yelps like a rusty iron lung – and with it a sharp, horrified wince from the entire family. It was slowly dawning on me that perhaps not everyone would love AC/DC quite as much as I’d hoped. Finally, just as the chorus came blazing through (For those about to rock! We salute you!) and I was at the very peak of excitement, my father shouted ‘Enough!’, and my mother leapt at the eject button, and I was hastily sent upstairs by Granny.

My mother and father married in 1968. My mother was an artist and a teacher, and my father ran his own property development businesses. Three years later I came along.

And then two years after that, my sister Melissa.

I’m Rupert the Bear, Mel’s a mouse.

For the first six years of my life we lived in an old farmhouse in the Hampshire village of Meonstoke, surrounded by farms and fields, until my father grew bored with the country and discovered a gigantic run-down Victorian house in Winchester. It looked like it would need years of work but was irresistibly cheap, so he decided to buy it. We all slept on brown corduroy cushions in the drawing room for the first few months, while the electrics were recast, water was coaxed back through the miles of disused black pipes, and the child-sized gaps in the floorboards were hastily covered with lino. This was an amazing house: it had 30 rooms, a cool vaulted cellar and a giant warren of an attic. My sister and I liked to change bedrooms whenever we felt like it because there were just so many to choose from, while my mother painted huge colourful murals on their walls for our entertainment. My father meanwhile took this sprawling house to task, attacking it with sledgehammers and drills, knocking up arches through walls in a comedy hard hat. The garden was a giant overgrown jungle in which I constructed dens out of old beehives, played laser wars with imaginary friends, smashed a football against the green garage door and goaded our cats.

At eight years old I was sent to a small boarding school miles away in the countryside near Salisbury. For the first few terms I was poleaxed by homesickness, but after a while I lightened up, and then suddenly – for the only time in my life – school became a complete delight. We wore cool navy-blue boiler suits when we went outside to play, and there was an old quarry in the vast school grounds, and hardly any girls to be scared of. I was extremely lucky to be there; my parents had had to borrow money to send me in the first place, and slowly I began to repay some of their investment. I developed a random obsession with Austria and, aged nine, began a James Bond style novel, casting myself as the heroic Austrian protagonist. I supported Austria passionately at football and in the skiing on television on Sundays, and had an Austrian flag on my bedroom wall. No-one knew what had triggered this Austrian obsession, not even me; I’d never even visited it.

During my school holidays back in Winchester I made friends with my next-door neighbour. Alexander was a spoilt only child, which meant he could get hold of almost anything. We liked playing toy soldiers, sci-fi laser war and Lego – he had so much Lego he had to keep it in buckets and giant Tupperware boxes, and his armies were so huge that wherever you walked in his house your feet would get spiked by the piles of discarded military enmeshed in the carpet. We also liked ABBA and spent many evenings dancing chaotically in Alex’s front room. We even made ABBA compilation tapes, for no better reason than Alex’s posh stereo had twin tape decks. And, for a while, that was all we knew about music.

AC/DC changed all that. First chance I got, I rushed over to Alex’s to tell him about my discovery. He went straight downstairs to request an AC/DC album from his parents, and a day later he was the proud owner of their 1979 masterpiece Highway to Hell. I was so jealous I refused to listen to it, but I couldn’t keep this up for long. As we cued-up the record for the fiftieth time, I realised that this wasn’t just a passing phase – this was the real deal, the meaning of life. There were rampant phalanxes of guitars, drumming so hefty it felt like dinosaurs were stomping round the room, and a voice so astringent it could strip paint off the walls. Alex said he was going to change his name to Alexander AC/DC and that his parents had said it was OK, and I, temporarily, believed him.

Together Alex and I learned that AC/DC had had two different singers: Bon Scott, who sang like a snake and was dead (he choked on his own sick in 1980), and his replacement Brian Johnson, who wore a flat cap and a vest and sounded like a vomiting pensioner (maybe that’s what had pissed Granny off so much). Alex and I liked Bon the best – too much Brian all in one go was distressing, and Bon sounded sexy, though we didn’t know what ‘sexy’ was exactly. We just knew Bon was cooler, and funnier, and being dead we knew he couldn’t turn around and decide to write a ballad.

Bon was great, but our favourite thing about AC/DC was their iconic lead guitarist, Angus Young. Angus was a short Australian man with straggly hair who always wore a school uniform: velvet shorts, velvet jacket, velvet cap, shirt and tie. It wasn’t the fact that he dressed like us that impressed us particularly – although we respected the gimmick – it was the sheer feral noise he made with his guitar. Every note that Angus played seemed to possess a kind of taut, evil shiver; it got us right in the diaphragm. His perpetually blazing Gibson transfixed us and we devoutly mewed every note in exhausting bouts of keep-up air guitar in Alex’s bedroom. While the rest of the DC stood rooted to the spot in their tight mucky T-shirts under their curtains of hair, Angus duck-walked his way around the stage like a depraved goblin Chuck Berry, dripping rivers of sweat behind him as he methodically, ritually disrobed. We duck-walked with our air guitars around Alex’s room, careful not to skip the needle.

Me as Angus at my sister’s fancy-dress birthday party. L – R: dog, sister, me.

A month later, Alex’s parents took us to Le Havre for a weekend. They were both doctors and were travelling over there for a medical conference. Alex and I spent hours locked in the hotel room, squinting out over the docks, watching sea-gulls attacking cars. When we were eventually let loose in a giant department store called Les Printemps, Alex was allowed two new AC/DC albums and I was allowed one. It took us hours to choose. In the end I went for Powerage while Alex demanded Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap and If You Want Blood, You Got It (I still feel estranged from both to this day). Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap featured songs called ‘Big Balls’, ‘Love at First Feel’ and ‘Squealer’. It was getting harder to avoid the sexual connotations.

We were banned from listening to the tapes back at the hotel or during the journey home, which was probably a good thing anyway with all that talk of big balls. So instead we bickered over whose tape was better before we’d even heard them, and learned the track listings and the times of the songs and every detail from the covers. My tape had a picture of Angus with a crazed, electrocuted expression on his face and wires coming out of his sleeves instead of hands, which I soon discovered was exactly how he sounded inside. But Alex and and I were worried: had Angus really impaled himself upon his Gibson SG on the front of If You Want Blood, You Got It? It looked extremely convincing. How had he survived that?

Angus – dead?

Back in Winchester, we bought up the DC back catalogue using Alex’s parents’ money and waited impatiently for their first new album since we’d discovered them. It was called Flick of the Switch and had an exciting though minimalist cover, with Angus and his guitar hanging off a giant switch. My favourite song was ‘Bedlam in Belgium’. I imagined the devastation the DC could cause in Belgium – Angus duck-walking down a blazing street that looked a bit like Le Havre, but bigger and engulfed in flames. Unfortunately for us, Flick of the Switch was their worst album to date, but we hadn’t discovered the music press yet, so it took a few years to realise.

My family’s appetite for AC/DC hadn’t progressed at quite the speed I’d initially expected. I was particularly let down by my father’s response, who, as a brilliant pianist, bass player and all-round musical Svengali to our family (when he felt like it), should have been the most appreciative. He became agitated when I played the DC on his fragile and expensive record player at objectionable volume while the family sat watching The Two Ronnies. He wasn’t completely anti-pop – he owned ‘Strawberry Fields’/ ’Penny Lane’, a T-Rex album, and a Chris Squire (out of Yes) solo album that someone had once given him by mistake. But whenever he heard the DC he would wrinkle up his face comically and hold his ears as Brian Johnson screeched out ‘What Do You Do for Money, Honey’ and ‘Let Me Put My Love Into You’ and ‘Givin’ the Dog a Bone’. I convinced myself that if he listened long and hard enough he’d eventually get it, just as I had. I said, ‘OK, maybe that one wasn’t so good, perhaps not the best, I agree, but hold on, listen to this one.’ And he’d light another Silk Cut and turn up the darts on the television and I would translate an annoyed movement of his mouth into acquiescence.

One Sunday he was lighting a fire with wet kindling and newspaper, a cigarette in his mouth, and I was playing him Highway to Hell, explaining each track as they came and went. His face was a picture of resigned indifference, but I was determined he’d like it this time. After all, it was my current favourite album, and Bon’s voice was easier than Brian’s, and my father didn’t have his fingers in his ears for once, which was a start. After ‘Shot Down in Flames’ he slowly took the cigarette from his lips and muttered, ‘I quite liked that one.’

Wow! I played it again straight away, fluffing the rewind button in my excitement, but next time when it finished he said, ‘But that one was bloody dreadful.’

‘It was the same one!’

‘Aha.’ Pleased with himself, he turned on the television.

‘Well, did you like it or not?’ I was hopping around, preparing to rewind it again, but he’d turned the TV up so loud he couldn’t hear me.

WHAT IS HEAVY METAL?

Heavy Metal is defined by the Cambridge Dictionary as: ‘A style of rock music with a strong beat, played very loudly using electrical instruments’. I reckon they’ve nailed it. The Collins calls it: ‘A type of rock music characterised by high volume, a driving beat, and extended guitar solos, often with violent, nihilistic, and misogynistic lyrics’. It’s hard to disagree. And by Heavy Metal, I mean the real thing – the original full-fat knuckleduster motherfuckers. I’m talking about Metal’s Golden Age, which took place between 1969 (the first Led Zeppelin album), and 1991 (Nirvana’s second album, Nevermind). This book only takes into account events that took place between those two landmark dates, so if you’re here looking for some Slipknots, or The Limp Biscuits, you should search elsewhere.

Heavy Metal comes from two places: the blues, and a strange kind of bombastic neo-classical. Two famous Metal bands illustrate this well: Motorhead and Van Halen. Motorhead’s seminal (the Metal world adores the word seminal) No Sleep ’til Hammersmith, an album recorded at the genre’s High Temple, Hammersmith Odeon, is a Metal classic. Essentially it’s just a fast and mucky blues album howled out by a handlebar-moustached and wart-ridden speed-freak. In the other camp you’ve got Eddie Van Halen, guitarist in his eponymous group, who created a new style of Wagnerian arpeggio by playing his guitar’s neck two-handed, almost like a piano, using classical scales and phrasing, which went on to influence swathes of bouffant pomposity and Paganini plagiarism. There was no soul in that half – most Metal came straight out of the blues and those hoary old three chords, just played at ear-splitting levels – and in very tight trousers.

Why is the concept of high volume so important to the genre? It’s because otherwise it would be extremely boring. If you think about it, there are no subtle structural dynamics to listen out for – no artistry in construction to be intellectually appreciated and politely applauded – you’re not going to miss anything. The only question to ask during a Metal song is: when is the guitar solo? That’s all you really have to think about, so you’re free to jump up and down and make devil shapes with your hands, headbang if you feel like it, and brazenly punch the air to the battering flood of watts coming at you from all those Marshall amplifiers.

It’s primal, all the way through – stick-of-rock primal. Sound, volume, pummelling. It even hurts the next day. Brilliant!

The loudest musical performance ever recorded (so far), hitting a marauding 129.5 decibels (louder than a jet plane take-off), was achieved by an American band called Manowar during a concert in Germany. Manowar were one of those bands that gave Metal a bad name. They epitomised the clichés we were all so ashamed of. Manowar wore animal hides and fur, had huge biceps and Viking-style handlebar moustaches. They cut themselves with a ceremonial dagger and then signed their record contract in their own blood. They had names like Scott Columbus, Ross the Boss, Death Dealer and Rhino. They believed in True Metal (their own music), and dedicated their entire career to the vanquishment of their nemesis, False Metal (music other than their own).

Manowar set out to wither the competition with decibels and gesticulation. They succeeded up to a point, inspiring their huge and loyal fanbase to write letters into Kerrang! magazine accusing bands like Poison and Motley Crue of peddling False Metal, in terrible spelling. Every album Manowar released was even more epic than its predecessor, more grandiose in its warrior vision. They’re still going today, still topless and wearing loincloths, their moustaches just slightly craggier. False Metal is still out there winding them up, and they remain committed to destroying it. Joey, Manowar’s muscled bass player, sums up their ethos well: ‘The whole purpose of playing live is to blow people’s heads off. That’s what we do; that’s the energy of this band. We’re out there to kick ass. We’re out there to turn our gear on and blast. We’re out there to kill. That’s what Metal is. Anyone saying otherwise is not playing Heavy Metal. We will melt your face!’

Manowar.

Metal’s love of volume is ubiquitous. Here are some song titles celebrating, and, in some cases, frantically urging you to turn the volume up to aid your listening experience:

‘I Love it Loud’ – Kiss. A simple paean to loud music. Gene Simmons, the bat/demon character in the group, wants you to feel it right between the eyes.

‘Blow up your Speakers’ – Manowar. Speaks for itself. They also criticise MTV in this song, for not playing their music, a statement that to this day remains unrequited.

‘All Men Play on 10’ – Manowar again. Ten refers to the volume dial.

‘Blow up your Video’ – AC/DC. Because it’s not loud enough, and the speakers have already been blown up, elsewhere. This is another protest at lack of television airplay. It also makes the point that videos are commercial and unnecessary and somehow False Metal.

Loudness: the self-explanatory name of a Japanese Metal band of the 80s, humorously nicknamed Roudness by the Metal press. They wrote songs called ‘Rock Shock (More and More)’, ‘Burnin’ Eye Balls’, ‘Bloody Doom’, ‘Dogshit’, and my favourite, what-does-it-mean? ‘Hell Bites (from the Edge of Insanity)’.

‘For the Sake of Heaviness’ – Armoured Saint. Almost poetically honest.

‘Too Loud (For the Crowd)’ – Venom. (Metal loves brackets too.)

‘Louder than Hell’ – Motley Crue. Strangely, this song comes from the height of their poodle period, when you’d have thought being louder than hell was the last thing on their minds. This song isn’t loud at all.

(Manowar had a song called ‘Louder than Hell’ too.)

Although lyrics about how loud you play are evergreen, there are several basic lyrical themes which are even more beloved. These are: anything involving or referring to sex or the sexual act; travelling really fast; blowing things up (rebellious violence in the name of rock); and (preferably Norse) mythology. Any combination of these subjects is also completely fine, indeed combinations are essential if you’re going to have enough to write about over the course of a long career.

If a Metal band decides to stray from these well-trodden paths, they will usually end up producing a concept album. The concept album is Heavy Metal’s ultimate High Art statement, its holy grail of spiritual and intellectual achievement. Most Metal musicians will, at some point in their career, be inspired by a film they have seen, an obscure mythological tale they have read, or a social injustice they have stumbled across, and decide to retell that story via one continuous piece of music which often stretches over an entire double album. The result is usually a paper-thin narrative crudely welded on to a set of lyrically clumsy songs that are all still about sex and rebellion and mythology, but with spooky incidental music breaking up the individual tracks. These concept albums often come in expensive and showy packaging; fold-outs with poems and encrypted messages for their fans to unravel. Then, on the subsequent tour, at some point in the show they’ll play through the whole thing from start to finish, using tapes to fill in the linking bits they can’t play themselves, boring everybody in the audience who came to hear the songs which celebrate how loud the band is. Almost every Metal group makes a concept album at some point during their career, even Motorhead; it was about the First World War and it was called 1916.

Metal fans occasionally like to argue over what was the first ever Heavy Metal song. Often the answer is ‘You Really Got Me’ by the Kinks. It’s got a rhythmic fuzzy guitar line and is clunky and unsupple; it piledrives. But the Kinks obviously weren’t Heavy Metal, so what bands can you call Metal? And are there different types? There are loads of different types, so here are a few handy pointers:

The Scorpions – Classic Heavy Metal from Germany

Def Leppard – New Wave Of British Heavy Metal (NWOBHM)

Meat Loaf – Panto Heavy Metal, but no-one likes him, he’s too fat, and uses too many keyboards

Slayer – Thrash Metal (slightly frightening)

Bon Jovi – Kind of Heavy Metal (especially if you are a girl)

Europe – (as above)

Marillion – Prog Rock (we tolerate them because we think they bring us intellectual credibility)

Genesis – (as above, for those slightly older)

Poison – Glam Metal (completely different from 70s Glam)

Michael Bolton – Heavy Metal (when he first started, believe it or not)

Led Zeppelin – Heavy Metal (though it pains me to say it)

Bryan Adams – Not Heavy Metal (but we like him anyway because he keeps it real)

Thin Lizzy – Trad. Arr. Irish Heavy Metal

Iron Butterfly – Heavy Metal with an Organ

If you think I’m being free and easy with my Heavy Metal tagging, I don’t care. It’s how artists were perceived by Metal fans that’s important here, not what their music actually sounded like. If Metal fans tended to like something, then whatever it was, it was allowed into the fold. Pretty much anybody could record a piece of pop fluff, but so long as it had a cranked-up guitar in there somewhere, no matter how low in the mix, or one of those solos (you know, a whiny one), then Metal fans would give it the collective thumbs up and allow themselves to buy it, or at least watch it endlessly on shitty pop TV; often it was the only way Metal could get anywhere near the charts.

At the absolute far end of Metal’s acceptability were Roxette, the Swedish Eurythmics of the late 1980s. Their music was primary-colour Euro synth-pop with shouty choruses, however because their portly guitar player had vaguely rock hair, wore his big rock guitar low, pulled the right shapes, made Os with his mouth and wore a tasselled leather jacket, some of us kidded ourselves into thinking we could actually hear a guitar in there, so in some quarters Roxette were tacked sheepishly on to the very edge of the Metal landscape. Kerrang! magazine would review their singles. They slated them, of course, but acknowledged their existence nevertheless. They weren’t so bad.

When Samantha Fox burst from Page Three on to our stereos, she too had the good sense to apply some ‘raunchy’ guitar to her miserable repertoire, with the same effect – grudging acceptance from the Metal community. At least she was ‘keeping it real’, with ‘proper instruments’. She also wore lots of denim, which helped slightly. There was even a time when Kate Bush was considered borderline Metal, but I’m still not sure why. I think it might have been a simple sex-object thing. Maybe it was just because she had really long hair. Or because she crimped it.

Heavy Metal is essentially a club, a gang with an allegiance to a musical and social set of values. It might be frowned upon by society at large, but that’s something that binds Metal even more tightly. Metal has always retained a dubious conservative mindset – black or gay Metallers are rare indeed. I’m not claiming the whole Metal community are a bunch of Daily Mail readers – heaven forbid, only most of them – but as a movement, and right through its 30-odd year history, those not of a WASP predilection have tended to align themselves somewhere else. They take one look at this bunch of clowns and for the rest of their lives say to themselves, ‘well, at least I’m not one of those …’ Metal fans know that people say this about them and they resent it; this partly fuels the ‘nihilism’ mentioned in the Collins Dictionary definition. This conservatism probably stems from Metal’s lack of outside stimuli from other musical or social trends; its bonding conformity has tended to squeeze out any progress society might have made since Metal’s inception, so ever since it has revolved around the old-fashioned ideals it’s always felt comfortable with.

The closest Metal has ever come to genuine inter-racial embrace (ignoring revered icons such as Jimi Hendrix, Carlos Santana, Phil Lynott, etc. who were unique individuals and succeeded despite rather than because of, the prevalent racial perception) was in the late 1980s, with the sudden appearance of Funk Metal and the all-black band Living Colour. These four chops-laden dudes from New York knocked down doors the genre had assumed would remain closed for ever, were tentatively embraced by an ethnically parched community, and fundamentally altered the rock landscape for the better. They set the pace for a glut of non-white rockers, who now had the freedom to express themselves within a format they had always loved but had nevertheless felt excluded from all these years. A few months down the line from Living Colour’s hit single ‘Cult of Personality’, every Metal band in the world had shoehorned a turgid funk track or two into their set, and were claiming Sly Stone and Funkadelic as deeply influential to their music. Funk was Metal’s ‘next step’ for a while – another blast of life-maintaining oxygen like the New Wave of British Heavy Metal (an exciting young vanguard of leather and perms in the late 70s that included Iron Maiden and Tygers of Pan Tang), the arrival of Guns n’ Roses in 1986, and the revolution of Thrash Metal, popularised by the likes of Metallica in the mid-80s. These arrivals kicked Heavy Metal’s perpetually fat and lazy arse and forced it into different directions – or at least kept us busy objecting to them. Metal would have died long before without their cumulative influences.

Homophobia is an accusation that one can direct much more easily. Heavy Metal has always been almost comically heterosexual, professing a collective horror at the antics of the homosexual pop fraternity and the gay community in general, which is ironic when you think about the basic trappings of the genre: long hair, tight leather trousers, phallic symbolism, make-up, bondage gear – the look is steeped in sexual ambiguity. The magnificent irony of this came in 1998, when the lead singer of arguably the ultimate Heavy Metal band, Judas Priest, left the group and outed himself live on MTV. Throughout his career Rob Halford had dressed in leather peaked caps, shaved his head and showered himself in blindingly camp iconography. Yet the sound of the Metal community’s jaw hitting the floor on his confession was loud indeed, and delightfully naïve. As with Freddie Mercury, it was suddenly all so obvious. Halford had even alluded to it in his anthem ‘Hell Bent For Leather’. But how were we supposed to tell from that?

Rob standing outside his mum’s house in Birmingham.

The most obvious visual sign of allegiance to the Heavy Metal cabal has always been in the long hair. In many ways it’s all you ever really need to demonstrate your purity, your unarguable virility. Short-haired Metallers always protest about this, but that’s only because they’ve been told they can’t have long hair by their parents or their bosses. Long-haired Metallers know this only too well and will always feel superior about it. Occasionally you get long-haired Metal musicians who cut their hair to be clever. They always grow it back again, though, unless they’ve done it because of baldness, in which case they wear a big hat, or a bandanna, or both at once with some sunglasses.

Wigs are more common than the world of Heavy Metal would like to admit. It’s vital to maintain the pretence that your hair will never fall out. Famous wig-wearers include all of Kiss, David Lee Roth and Ritchie Blackmore; W Axl Rose is just a rumour. Spinal Tap caused controversy just by wearing wigs in their film. It was as if the Metal community was saying, If they’re going to make a film about Metal, at least use people with real long hair.

The Heavy Metal community has never been one hundred per cent comfortable with the film Spinal Tap, despite its earnest claims to the contrary. The film’s frightening accuracy horrified Metal bands and fans alike when it was released in 1984, and the Metal community, as one, complained that it just wasn’t funny. But director Rob Reiner’s fondness for the subject and his attention to detail eventually won us over, until eventually it became bad form to protest. That is until the buggers decided to come back in the late 80s, this time as a ‘real band’, with a new album and gigs and everything. Oh no, not again, said Metal, and all the rock mags handed Break Like the Wind terrible, thank you very much now go away, reviews. The ‘band’ thought Metal fans would love it, as they’d been claiming to love the movie, but they didn’t, they hated it, and the whole project died a messy death.

Ha ha ha, who’s laughing now? we gloated.

Keep it True. Death to the False.

SILVER

It always troubled me that Alex got everything before me, if indeed I ever got it at all. It didn’t really matter because I was round at his place all the time anyway, but it still rankled, so I came up with a foolproof idea: I would invent my own AC/DC album, design a cover and a track listing for it, and try to convince Alex that it was the real thing. – a ‘lost’ DC album, never mentioned anywhere, found exclusively by me. It was a brilliant idea, except for one key element: I had no music to go with it. I would have to say that, unfortunately, I had mislaid the actual cassette along the way. Frustrating, yes, but these things happen. But it was brilliant, trust me. In fact Silver, the superb and legendary missing AC/DC album, was, in my humble opinion, The Greatest Record They Ever Made.

I constructed the cover out of black cardboard and wrote my much-practised AC/DC logo in silver pen in the middle. Underneath that I wrote Silver, all classy like, hardly smudging at all. Then I carefully listed ten made-up songs which I thought sounded like DC titles: ‘Stick it Further In’ and ‘Give it to me Heavy & Hot’ and ‘Let’s Rock Hard All Night’ and ‘AC/DC Forever’. I wrote those in silver pen on the inside, and the credits too – all tracks by Young, Young and Johnson, without a single mention of Hunter anywhere.

One afternoon as we walked downhill from home towards the water meadows, I showed Alex my cassette box with great pride and no hint of shame. I explained the extraordinary story behind the album, and the tragic tale of the lost cassette. Alex listened politely and toyed with the case. I described the songs, even sang him a few, then it went back in my pocket and we never mentioned it again.

It was around this time that I started my weekly charts in a green exercise book that I’d stolen from school. It was 1982 and I was sick of the charts on the TV and radio because there was no AC/DC in them. (There was that year, actually – ‘Nervous Shakedown’ sneaked in at the low 30s for one solitary week. I bought it, of course, and then pretended not to be disappointed when I realised it was exactly the same as it was on the album.) So to redress this imbalance I came up with the idea of compiling my own charts, based on my current favourite songs. Each week I solemnly transcribed my list of favourite songs by AC/DC into my exercise book. I would apply myself to this task with professorial fastidiousness, and pore over the slight drop of ‘High Voltage’, or the exciting new entry of ‘Let There Be Rock’. When I’d finally written out the placings, I’d spend half an hour reading down the chart in hysterical detail in the style of a Radio One DJ, comparing this week’s chart against last week’s. The track that spent the longest time at number one was the stunningly average ‘Up to my Neck in You’, which stayed up there for 13 weeks. It shrugged off all-comers, even ‘Bedlam in Belgium’, until, on a winter’s morning in 1983, two new songs from one new band gatecrashed the party.

The songs: ‘Flight of Icarus’ and ‘Run to the Hills’.

The band: Iron Maiden.

Alexander AC/DC is on the right – his rifle is real.