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 Although it is obviously not the case, I have always imagined Death Metal
as the dividing line between civility and barbarism.
Like, you know you’ve lost your kid to the dark side for good when he
finally “Goes Death”. I always envisioned some kind of Dystopia of cannibal teens, all freaked and
tweaked on bathtub speed and Deicide, roaming the endless urban landscape,
nestling like vermin under bridges and in concrete cracks, waiting for
nightfall to growl at the moon like wolfbane-stricken Grizzlies and tell
each other ancient stories about long-gone Gods like Chuck Schuldiner
and
Trey Azagthoth. Death metal is, after all, the very end of rock n’ roll,
and maybe of all music. At least, that’s the idea- to go so far out there,
to play so fast and with such an utter lack of humanity, that only the
most feral of beast-children of would ever heed the call.
For the most part, that’s exactly how the story of death metal has spilled
out over the past 20-or-so years. Yeah, sure, you’re enlightened, but as
far as the mainstream is concerned, death is but a whispered-about or
scoffed-at novelty, the stuff of maladjusted male teenagers and…well,
that’s pretty much it. And while there is certainly some truth to that,
death metal’s self-prescribed isolation from the rest of contemporary
‘rock’ has allowed it to grow (fester?) organically, with very little
outside influence. It is the Frankenstein monster that built itself. In
“Choosing Death”, we get to see this process occur, stitch by brutal
stitch.
Metal journo Albert Mudrian, in exactly the perfect style for the subject
at hand, offers very little in the way of analysis here. Instead, he
merely sutures interviews from DM’s chief players together, seamlessly
weaving the terrible true tale together with words spewed straight from
the apocalypse horse’s mouths. There are very few genres of rock where
this process would actually work- take a look that grand chaos and
cock-eyed contradictions that abound on nearly every page of Leg McNeil’s
seminal oral history of punk, “Please Kill Me”. Youth, drugs, booze,
hidden agendas, all these recklessly human traits make mincemeat out of
the “And then we…” school of hands-off journalism. But death metal has
several key factors that make this approach click. For one, the music is
less then two decades old, and even its elder statesmen are still in their
30’s. With the notable exception of Death-leader Chuck Schuldiner, who
succumbed to brain cancer in the late 90’s, pretty much everyone that was
there from the beginning is still around. This makes for easy excavation
of facts and fables. And, despite being a global phenomenon, death metal
swims in a very small pond, so it’s relatively easy to keep track of all
the major players.
Most importantly, though, is the personalities of the death merchants. You
will never find, in all of rock n’ roll, a more laid-back group of
individuals. Despite their obsession with murder, gore, necrophilia, and
sadism, the death metal planet is populated by polite, thoughtful young
men who are much more likely to sing one another’s praises then stab each
other in the back. And while that makes for a linear history lesson, it
leaves much to be desired in the sleaze department.
Truth is, about the only sensational fact I found in “Choosing Death” is
that Morbid Angel liked to slice their arms open and eat worms on stage in
their early days. However, this has less to do with their interest in the
occult as it does the fact that they were all 15-16 years old at the time.
But hey, the can’t all be Gigs From Hell or
The Dirt, right? You still get
an amazingly thorough story here, from death/grind’s meager beginnings in
the mid 80’s to the almost mainstream resurgence of death metal via nu-death bands
like Arch Enemy and At the Gates in the past 5 years.
Having been an avid
tape trader in the 80’s, the best part of the book, for me, was the first
few chapters, which traces the origins of death – the name was copped from
a song by seminal Satanic speed metal band Possessed (“Death Metal”, natch),
and the first death metal ‘release’ was the Mantas “Reign of Terror” demo,
from 1984. Mantas was Schuldiner’s pre-Death band.* Meanwhile,
Napalm
Death invented the more punk-inspired “grindcore” (the name is derived from
Napalm drummer Mick
Harris’s description of a Swans album). Oh, and possibly Morbid Angel
were
the real architects of death metal. And contrary to popular belief, Hellhammer were not the prime influence on early death metal, Boston
hardcore bands Siege and Deep Wound were. Who woulda thought?
Anyway, the story rolls on, from Mantas becoming Death, Florida becoming
the death mecca of the world, Cannibal Corpse’s ascent to World’s biggest
selling death metal band, the rise and demise of Earache Records, and the
eventual emergence of the Swedish Melodic Death Metal sound. Despite
having Death in the title, very few people actually die, and despite the
efforts of foolish major label record execs that actually thought Carcass
and fuckin’ Fudge Tunnel represented the “Next Big Thing”, very few
records were actually sold. But that’s probably for the best. Death Metal
was never really made for the masses anyway, and after two decades, it remains one of the purest musical genres going. It is a cult
of blast beats and black t-shirts that has not wavered a bit since 1984.
And you gotta admire that, even if you can’t stand listening to it for
more than 30 seconds at a time.
Pretty much all contemporary metal journalism is as dry as cured human
flesh hanging from a hook in a madman’s basement, so I reckon you won’t be
too disappointed with the lack of provocation and exploitation in this
here tome, but it would have been nice if Mudrian at least explained his
love and/or admiration for this scruffy little genre. It also would have
been cool if some of death metal’s eccentricities were explained – what’s
with the fuckin’ sweatpants? – or if someone just ADMITTED that Schuldiner
(yeah, I know, respect for the dead) was kind of a dick. Hell, even
Deicide’s King Evil Glen Benton is colored in warm, golden tones here.
Which you wouldn’t expect, seeing as the cat’s got an upside down cross
burned into his forehead.
Anyway, enjoyment of this thorough and informative book depends entirely
on your commitment to death metal (ok, and grindcore, although the grind
story is relegated mostly to Napalm Death). If you really, really
want to know what the summer of ’87 was like for Nihilist, then this is your book.
If you don’t know who the fuck Nihilist were, then it’s not. Simple as
that.
I had fun, though. Just wish there was more blood. And chicks. Or at least
ONE chick.
*Coincidentally, my friend Luke ordered that demo from
Chuck, and never
received it. For years, that was the joke, whenever anybody mentioned
Death or Schuldiner – “Fuck that guy, man. He owes me $4.00!”)
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