or: how music fucked up my life
by: Chaim Drishner
I have often pondered upon the somewhat existential question of what comes first: having a certain personality that is able to fully, wholly embrace hostile music (of any given genre); or choosing certain types of music (sometimes on the basis of pure chance) that in turn shape the listener's personality? Do the misfits choose begotten music to correspond with their corrupt soul, or vice versa -- dwelling enough a time in certain musical cultures eventually, inevitably twists the otherwise completely "normal" unsuspecting victim into something of an oddball, creating an object unable to handle society's codes?

If the powerless are downtrodden on a daily basis, shouldn't they seek a means to re-fill their dwindling energy and power reservoirs, constantly emptying? Shouldn't their will to power be great and hungry? And what better way is there to give oneself an energy boost than music, or for that matter metal music?

Metal is not an elitist form of art, nothing like that. Metal, like other forms of powerful experiences, is for the fucked-up miserables out there, like myself. But when a poor soul gets addicted to this occasional power boost, it neglects real life; suddenly everything revolves around this wonderful drug; the very skills of living, of "getting along" in modern society begin to suffer from major atrophy.

My whole adult life I've looked at the art of living through the metal prism; picked what few friends I had according to what music they listened to; my very thoughts were beginning to fade, spiraling down into the escapist void of metal; the books I've read, the films I've watched, the clothes I owned, everything was a derivative of the music I had listened to. Every aspect of life was beginning to change, re-shaping according to my twisted perception of how life should be, and where I stand in relation. Money was nothing but a means to buy more music; thousands of items, some of which I have never even listened to, the rest of which will require five lifetimes of constant re-playing in order to close the gap between me and my unheralded music collection.

Did it make a better person of me? Does anything? I've grown cynical and sad, filthy-minded and crass. My dreams are black to non-existent, my cowardice of life itself has multiplied, and still -- my only solace is music, as if nothing was learned, nothing gained or remembered. I look at society, and though very much I try to fit in, I feel so polarized with it, so out of touch and out of reach...

I know today the darkest manifestations of music have found a fertile ground in me to flourish and prosper; they feed me with power, even if for a fleeting moment, giving me a sense of purpose and validating my otherwise futile existence on this planet. This music fucks me and has fucked my life, robbing me of every faculty and standard other than the poisonous virtues it has been bestowing upon me, corrupting my soul, one fuck at a time...

(article submitted 23/7/2011)

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