Author's Commentary
Enjoy, and understand.
Posters everywhere.
Cannibal Corpse, Death, Soundgarden, Pantera.
Posters on the walls.
System of a Down, The Dillinger Escape Plan.
Posters on the ceiling.
SLAYER.
Posters on the ground.
Kerry King’s demonic axe graced John’s ceiling like the monkey head in Indiana Jones.
“Don’t you dare touch that.”
John kept very good care of his posters.
“Get your hands off my signed ‘Tallica, dude.”
Very, very good care.
When he blew out the candles for thirteen, John had a quiet revelation in front of his computer; after hearing the first thirty seconds of For Whom the Bell Tolls, he fell over in his chair.
“That’s the bassist playing that part?!?”
Metallica was his first step toward getting the posters. He ordered a Cliff Burton, a Ride the Lightning, and a Black album one. They adorned his left-most wall with soft rebellion from his parents’ collections of Cat Stevens pictures and a towering action figure statuette of Gene Simmons. He rejected Kiss:
“Yeah, they released a disco single. No thanks.”
He rejected Iron Butterfly:
“Twenty what minutes? Way too stoner for me.”
He especially hated the Beatles. He would feign vomit just to get away from Hard Day’s Night and Revolution.
“Total barf.”
And above all, the most off limits music for John, the untouchable, unmistakable rejection stuff, was Coldplay.
“Again, total barf.”
He began to make his own record collection, and for profit, began to sell a few burns to other aspiring fans of Slipknot.
“I’m giving Vol.3 for at least $6, man. That’s almost their best album; nah, probably their first is the best. But it’s still $6.”
He constantly created and simultaneously changed top ten lists; guitarists, albums, song, drummers, even the occasional top ten band list.
“One would have to be Metallica; two, Sabbath; three, Maiden or Priest; I don’t know who four would be…”
Now he stared up at Kerry snarling with the guitar menacing in his hands.
“I should’ve put Slayer at two.”
On the wall opposite of his bed, Randy Rhoads nodded knowingly.
“You’ll understand it all soon enough, kid.”
Of course, the love for such artists like this came not from parental derision of such bands; it came from him being involved in Catholic school.
Sure, his dad hated System of a Down, and his mom just laughed at Behold…The Arctopus.
But what really ticked him off was one remark.
It was late March; John was in eighth grade, awaiting highschool with less than eagerness. One day, during a routine music and arts class, he was sitting around, minding his own business, scribbling in his notebook; drawings of the ZoSo adorned the edges of the spiral paper. The assignment for that day was to draw out an iPod with the names of the assorted musicians that were in your own.
John didn’t feel like drawing anything but life size replicas of Jimmy Page.
The teacher looked from over John’s shoulder;
“Mr. Spade, have you finished your iPod yet?”
The words fell on deaf ears.
“Ehem… I said; Mr. Spade, did you finish your iPod yet?”
He was startled out of his temporary disability of hearing.
“Oh, what…? Oh, no, not yet, dude.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, oh, no, I did not, Mr. Karlen.”
“John, are listening to your iPod in class again?”
“Umm, I can’t hear you.”
The conversation sparked interest from the rest of the class.
“I said are you listening to your iPod in class, John? Again?”
“No, I don’t think I am.”
Laughs trickled from mouths quickly.
“Yes, you are, John.”
Mr. Karlen swept his hand down, and the mp3 swiftly arrived at the front of the classroom, dangling by a headphone from cold hands.
“Yes, you are. And what is on this iPod, Mr. Spade? What could make up the drawing of this iPod that you’ve been listening to since the beginning of this school year? Hmm?”
The whole class giggled.
“Let’s see; oh, some AC/DC. Some Buckethead…? Aha, Disturbed, very enlightening, I’m sure.”
But the only comment that made John mad was this;
“Gee, hope you don’t end up like that Ozzy Osbourne, kid. You might consider getting some new heroes in terms of your music. And be sure, be very sure, Mr. Spade; if you mention these bands in class, and talk about that kind of music, be sure that your mom is going to get a phone call about it. Be very sure, Ozzy.”
And with that, John stuck to the music like Gorilla Glue.
“Honestly, Mr. Karlen, Ozzy got more chicks in a year than you’d get in two lifetimes.”
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