“I will storm the gods, and shake the universe.” ― Seneca, Medea
Heavy metal is among the best modern art forms to embody inherited archaic urges. To typify the mystery of the tower and the steppe, the magic of the seaside castle dungeon which is floods at high tide, filling with Lovecraftian creatures. It embodies the gothic world view like a torch in the darkness: at once tragic and conquering, bardic and virtuosic, masculine and mythic.
We know metal is related to the archaic because it is not aesthetically divorced from older forms (like rap or twerky music) – that is, you can assimilate influences from folk and classical into metal seamlessly. Mythical poets and philosophical wizards from history can be imagined enjoying metal without cultural or hereditary confusion.
Most importantly, it can absorb (lyrically and visually) parallel experimental influences such as fantasy and sci-fi, which properly compliment music which is forged in danger and fortuity. A future is conceived in this amalgamation which is filled with speed and adventure.
Unfortunately, during the 90’s, the great mass of Western human stock became ravers and emasculated boy-band posers without imagination. The psychologically traumatising high-octane highs of LSD was replaced by the limp-wristed ‘feelings-drug’ of MDMA, and plain and drab normies were no longer forced (upon pain of bullying) to toughen up, stop being posers, and get accustomed to the extreme. They were instead gelded in padded dance-halls to simplistic beats, at first in slavish pursuit of women, but soon after in un-hetero pursuit of each other. Judged to an open-air prison sentence by their own crass incomptence.
By the end of the 90s the high-energy edge and aesthetic which had thrived in the 80s was lost in a dry-ice fog of dancy fools and nu-metal wiggers (even nu-metal’s spelling is trite and spastic). Classic adventure-metal was labelled as ‘pastiche’ by confused normies and frightened women.
The grunge rock and hip-hop music of this dreadful period was ironic and hubristic and unintelligently self-aware. It tended to suffer from ‘punk rock attitude’ which was the anti-virtuoso idealism of pseudo-French-Revolutionist music proles and retarded chavs (who are now all rap-devotees). Luckily in hindsight this riff-raff reveals its whiny, nihilistic face ― but too late!
These were the tools the system used to supplant trü metal and denigrate fantastical fiction, aided by system-backed hipster critics ― who laugh with dripping irony at at the true artist who wears his heart on his sleeve. But the true art has longevity, even if the pathetic corporate ‘bugman’ recalls with only a forced, permitted satire those archetypes created in dank pulp publications and well-worn LPs. It is forever remembered by true devotees, who recognise and remember from whence the font of true creativity flows.
A soldier, even of the present age, is more likely to play ‘Killing is My Business’ than listen to some brain-dead rapper talk about his material possessions over a stolen sample and simplistic beat. The former music embraces the darkness and intensity required of the slayer, and has the CREATIVE masculine vitality to inspire heroic carnage. Whereas puny rappers and their insignificant wigger cohort cannot conjure either musical skills or creative intelligence nor proper warrior energy.
We require art which embraces the beauty of speed. As western civilization starts to crumble and collapse, the ethics of mongoloid-twerk and rap will become the theme of the damned ― the seething tide of lost human potential. The suburban music of spoiled cowards who live lives of safety and manufactured ‘product’ pursuits. Their musical ‘legacy’ will be completely (deservedly) lost when the future reaches into that unused back cupboard and takes down from the shelf that old jar containing their long-forgotten testicles.
It will be the masculine vitality of speed that will toast the cultural morass to compost about the roots of the seeded blood-plant.