It Might Get Loud. Ingrid Winterbach
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somewhat sallow complexion and thick-lensed black-framed glasses. He’s wearing a cool T-shirt sporting a reproduction of the cover of Budgie’s Bandolier album. This meets with Karl’s approval. He puts him at more or less his own age – early forties. He is addressed as Stevie.
Two of the other guys he puts at more or less the same age – a man with a thin, cynical face, and another man whose hair sticks up straight on his head in a kind of long, trendy brush cut, a small mouth and a big chin (in profile his face seems decidedly concave). The other four chaps seem younger. They are arguing about metal bands and rock groups.
‘What about Wolfmother?’ asks one of the younger chaps.
‘No, man,’ says Stevie, ‘why would you listen to that kak? You should listen to Uriah Heep. They do it much better. They were doing in the seventies what these guys still can’t get right.’
‘What about DragonForce?’ asks another chap, ‘you must admit …’
‘What,’ Stevie asks menacingly, ‘what must I admit? It has no substance, it’s all fancy fretwork and macho spectacle.’
‘Yes, but …’ says the other man, ‘at least they know …’
‘They know fuckall,’ says Stevie. ‘They know fuckall, and the chances that they’ll ever know anything are fuckall. Save yourself the trouble of listening to them. Listen to Primal Fear – then you’ll hear what people sound like who know. Power metal extraordinaire, it wipes the others off the table, there’s no comparison!’
(Ralph Scheepers’s voice soaring like an eagle, thinks Karl.)
‘What about Rammstein?’ one of the young ones tries again, a chap with red hair and a big, round, open face.
‘So what exactly is it they play,’ demands Stevie, ‘is it metal or is it German industrial pop? Rather listen to Kiss if you’re looking for rock and roll with pyrotechnics. They were doing it way back in the seventies with much more panache and flair. Spectacle was their speciality, their theatre effects were sheer genius. And they were influential – Gene Simmons put Van Halen on the map. Or listen to Die Toten Hosen if you want to listen to a punk band. The real thing – real aggression.’
‘Killswitch Engage is amazing,’ says one of the chaps.
Stevie laughs disparagingly. ‘For Pete’s sake,’ he says, ‘that’s designer metal, man! In Flames is a much better band – much more authentic. Death Metal at its best. And if you want to go really heavy, listen to Machine Head – raw angst, raw pain, real!’
‘Nobody comes close to Yngwie Malmsteen, you can’t deny that, he’s a master,’ says the younger guy.
‘He’s a fucking Christmas tree! If you want to hear neat fretwork, or inventive shredding, listen to John Petrucci of Dream Theater. The man takes progressive metal to a new level. Malmsteen has been listening to too much Ritchie Blackmore. That’s not rock, man, that’s showing off. Guys like Petrucci and Robertson, they play rock! Those guys haven’t forgotten their blues origins. Malmsteen fancies himself as the avant-garde, but he’s forgotten where he came from. Ritchie Blackmore did it better long ago. Long ago. I repeat, if you want to hear genuine metal guitarists, listen to John Petrucci and Brian Robertson.’
‘Hasn’t the old metal age had its day?’ ventures one of the others, a tall, thin, nervous, dark-haired guy. ‘Shouldn’t they be making way for the new bands? Who’s still listening to Led Zeppelin or Judas Priest anyway? Aren’t Avenged Sevenfold and that class of band, My Dying Bride, Bullet for My Valentine, Trivium, the bands of the future?’
‘Come,’ says Stevie, ‘let me give you some advice. Drop this nonsense and go and listen to Thin Lizzy. Drop it all. Forget the lot. All those you’ve just mentioned. Purge yourself! Go back to the roots. Listen well to Brian Robertson and Scott Gorham of Thin Lizzy. Robertson turns the guitar into an extension of his body – it’s not superficial posturing, it’s gut-level creation and it rocks, it cuts to the bone. Blistering leads burning adrenaline for fuel. Guys like Robertson helped design rock – metal was just the natural next level. Drop those kids in their poser garb. Forget those skulls and wings and fake death-wish fantasies. Go and do your homework.’
The dark-haired guy leans forward with his head in his hands.
‘How can you compare something as powerful as Trivium with the old bands?’
‘Trivium were still in their nappies when Judas Priest and Motörhead were laying the foundations of modern heavy metal. There’s no comparison. These guys were the spearhead, the young upstarts are just the rabble in their wake – teenage angst, no more than that. Judas Priest and Motörhead did the groundwork. They stormed the castle. They were the battering ram. Guys like Trivium can’t top that. And they know it.’
One by one the young ones take on Stevie, or try to take him on, but he’s like a great, irritable bear, just lowering his head and growling menacingly to keep the snapping dogs at bay. The man with the cynical face says nothing all the while, just chortles covertly after every one of Stevie’s salvos. And the other fellow, the one with the chin and the quiff, his attention is elsewhere. (If Karl had to guess, it’s with his sorrows. Extensive sorrows, by the looks of it.)
‘Armored Saint,’ says Karl (when he can’t contain himself any longer), ‘they’re great. The best.’
Stevie turns on him sharply.
‘Were you at the metal festival in Benoni?’ he asks.
‘No,’ says Karl.
‘At the Aardskok metal festival in Roodepoort?’
‘No,’ says Karl. ‘I was at the Graspop Metal Meeting in Belgium.’
‘Great concert,’ says Stevie.
‘Michael Schenker Group,’ says Karl.
‘Waited for years to see Schenker live,’ says Stevie, ‘and then there nearly was a fuckup with the sound system.’
‘He almost walked off-stage in a rage,’ says Karl. ‘He’s one of the reasons why I attended the festival, and then his show was a great let-down.’
‘Yep, agreed,’ says Stevie, ‘but amazing that Saxon played.’
‘Old Biff Bayford still jumps about onstage like a salamander on a frying pan,’ says Karl, ‘even though his hair is as white as snow.’
‘Amazing energy,’ says Stevie. ‘Did you check out Arch Enemy in one of the tents?’
‘They were great,’ says Karl. ‘Awesome. Angela Gossow is beautiful – she growls like a tiger when she sings. Beauty and the beast all in one.’
‘Whitesnake,’ says Stevie.
‘I went to see Whitesnake just for Reb Beach,’ says Karl.
‘Lord of the strings, as David Coverdale calls him,’ says Stevie.
‘Do you remember what Lemmy of Motörhead said,’ says Karl, “We’re Motörhead. Don’t forget us. We play rock and roll.”’
‘Rock and roll,’ says Stevie and chuckles. His whole body shakes.
‘Oh, man,’ says Karl, also laughing.
Stevie leans across to him, shakes his hand, and in his eye Karl recognises the unquenchable glint of the true initiate.
But when he returns from the toilet (with the same deep-pink glow as the rest of the place), somebody in the bar grips his arm firmly. Firmly as in firmly. With this firm grip the man steers him all the way up to the bar counter, making sure that he remains close to Karl at all times. Much too close, but manoeuvring space is in short supply, because the room is small and as it is he’s pressed up virtually against one of the other clients. (Where do all these customers crawl out of at this time of night in a Karoo town?)
The man has shoulder-length hair and dark glasses. (Like Jeff Bridges in The Big