Decapitated Fetus Face

"He who sings scares away his woes."
-Cervantes

When I was in high school, an acquaintance of mine had started a metal band. He was a mediocre guitarist, I suppose, but I still couldn't seem to get into the music. Despite having this buddy that plays death metal, I never saw its appeal.

The band was made up solely of him and his drummer. I went to see them play two or three times at Albuquerque's The Attic, a sweaty, dark, musty closet where local metal bands could perform. Even after seeing their thrashing, eardrum bursting performance, I still could not see metal's appeal. Maybe they just weren't that good. I don't know, though, because other bands played on those nights also, and they were just as bad.

I don't play any instruments. I may even be tone-deaf. So maybe I'm missing the point. Perhaps I'm not qualified to judge music as harshly as I do. I certainly hope that's the case, because I'd hate to have the last word--too much responsibility. Besides, others seemed to disagree with me.

My buddy, the one with the band, was a perfectly cordial person. You would've never guessed that he was in a hardcore metal band (other than his dark clothes, baggy Dickies, and studded belt). In fact, he had the enviable charm and charisma that somehow seduced more girls in my high school than anybody else I knew. I had no idea suburban white girls digged metal so much.

One evening at The Attic, he chose to introduce a song they were about to play.

"This is a new one," he said. "But we haven't written the lyrics yet."

He hoisted his guitar strap over his shoulder and continued: "We have a title, though. It's called 'Decapitated Fetus Face.'"

With a harsh roar, they went into their song (Which, to me, sounded like their others. But, when the song began, their avid fans enthusiastically moshed in a violent whirlwind in the middle of the venue).

On those evenings I'd sit at a dirty table and watch the spectacle as I politely nodded my head to the music and waited for the night to end.