Caroline Ryder
I went to Sunset Junction on Sunday and while I found headliners The Cramps to be quite boring, I was truly moved by the hellbilly thrash of Hank III. So much so, I wrote a poem about it, called I Love Your Death Metal. I think it's rather good.
I love your death metal. / Your square chin and bloodied cheek. /Your cunt in my country, / Your dick in my dixie / And your middle finger in my face, /Full of grace.
Round and round, you swing your hair – / A high-speed propeller in the air. / Then – you stop and stare. / “Eat. Fuck. Kill,” you growl, “EAT. FUCK. KILLLLL.” / (Which makes perfect sense to me / 'Cause we're all animals, you see.)
D'you think your grandpa would be proud? / Or would he say “son, it's too loud”? / And your daddy – / Does he cover his ears? / Curl his toes and lock up his guitar, / Wonderin' why his boy went too far?
Do you think about him, crushed in a car? / Is that why, my friend, is that why? / Is that why you scream instead of cry? / Nashvillian pain, passed on down the chain – / How much did you have to endure / To sing death metal songs so pure?
Tha End.
Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.