The first excuse is that metalers and pornsters operate on the extreme edges of show biz. Traditionally, both like to dress up, and both frequently remove items of clothing as the house gets hotter. The link is weakening within the noise-grind accelerations of death metal, where most performers wear baggy T-shirts, sexual ostentation is lo-pri and svelteness is not de rigueur, but it remains strong in somewhat more melodic, keyboard-permissive black metal, where everybody’s gothy.
As outsiders, strippers also gravitate toward metal as background accompaniment, especially if it’s slow, or so I have read. (Blast beats are ungroinly.) I fondly recall driving along, blaring a Marilyn Manson “ballad,” and receiving the sidewalk thumbs-up from an obvious professional — Manson’s recent marriage to stripper Dita Von Teese was a natural.
Lamb of God, armed against war
David Coverdale in the ’80s (and now, pretty much) (Photo by Neal Preston)
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Among the lower echelons of metal, it’s a marriage of convenience: A metal dude prefers a woman with a reliable source of income. I once inquired after the well-being of a metal guitarist known for his erratic career.
“He’s not doing so good,” came the bulletin. “He’s back on heroin, and his girlfriend’s stripping at Jumbo’s again.”
But at least he had backup.
Death Mints
In conclusion, let me say that metal, especially death metal, is the furthest thing from dead. Hollywood’s Amoeba Music devotes an entire aisle to black metal and death metal. That’s about 25 rack feet of Cannibal Corpse, Morbid Angel, Cradle of Filth, Gorgasm, etc., etc. Jason Moore, who has been stocking the section for four and a half years, says his sales keep going up and up; his inventory has about doubled; he can hardly keep track of all the new bands.
You’d never know it from the music’s cultural profile. In Los Angeles, the radical edge of metal is way underground. There are more places to play in O.C. and San Diego. The press ignores it, and that’s fine with the fans.
Ask Zakk Wylde, who bridges the span of metal better than anyone else, shredding guitar in both Ozzy Osbourne’s semimainstream band and his own more punishing Black Label Society. He hardly shrinks from publicity, but he can also speak for modern metalheads’ belief that the word will come to those who need it; the remainder may abstain. Last October, talking to the Boston Herald, Wylde unblinkingly claimed he once went 77 days without brushing his teeth. Yes, this resulted in bad breath.
“But so what?” he said. “Then no one wants to talk to you. Good. Don’t talk to me.”
