I have TWICE been the victim of metal-induced Asian road rage. Picture this: two months ago, I’m driving to my parents’ house in Orange County, windows down, sunroof open, Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” a-blasting, me happily a-nodding along and a-drumming on my steering wheel. I pull up to a stop light. The music is kind of mortifyingly loud, but no one is around to force the feeling, until a young 20-something couple in a suped-up (read: lowered, old, and grubby) Nissan roll up on my right. The girl (passenger), perhaps pre-road hummer, is leaning into the lap of the guy (driver)–but as they pull to the line, they both stop to look at me.
But what do I care? I’m not embarassed of “Puppets,” for chrissake, it rocks! Who would laugh at this near-perfect opus? Plus, I’m not in high school, these guys are total nerds, and my V6 could out-dick their four cylinders any day. If we were moving, that is.
The light stays red. The girl points at me. They join together in laughter directed at me. I look straight ahead and begin to fume, becoming adamant at this point–I’m not going to acknowledge their ridicule or turn my goddamn tunes down! They’re kids! Kids, I tell you! Nerds! Mediocre-looking nerds!
The song ends and the gentle opening riffs of “One” cue up. I fast-forward on my iPod until the noodling begins. I turn the volume dial clockwise.
Their laughter erupts. I hate these motherfuckers! What in god’s name do they have on their iPod, I wonder rudely (albeit silently)–Oasis? Late-adopter Death Cab? Fall Out Boy? Weezer? What the fuck?
The light turns green. I slam on the gas, flying off the start far more aggressively than I am accustomed to. The guy gets a kick out of this and slams his foot down, too. Soon, we’re flying through a residential neighborhood, with houses whizzing by, angry grandmas going into conniptions on the side walk. I’m blowing through stop signs and not reading speed limit signs–hells bells, I’m defending my honor, here! And the honor of James Hetfield! Grubby Nissan guy starts to tail me.
This goes on for awhile. Suddenly, I get a call on the BlackBerry from Dad. I’m about to pull over to answer it when I realize I’m thirty seconds away from their house. I slink over to turn into their gated community. The couple collapses into even more laughter, growl their little engine, spit out the window, and race off.
All I’m thinking is: Metallica? Really?
Two weeks later, I’m cruising in East LA, griping about the 90-degree winter heat to the tune of Slayer’s “South of Heaven.” A dude in a royal blue lowered Integra (I’ll have you all know that the low Integra is my car alma mater) comes up on my left, flips me off, and barrels down the street.
All I’m thinking is: Slayer? Really?
I don’t know what it is about me, loud music, imported cars, and angry millenials, but they don’t seem to fucking mix. So it is with deep pride and joy that I declare my love for Boris, a fucked-up Japanese metal band that has been around 4-eva and is still doing awesome shit.
I mean, even if you didn‘t like the way they sounded, you’d have to give them big ups for having one dude that looks like Bowie and a tiny chick that makes a lot of noise. But I like the way they sound–loud, in my car, with my windows down.
Take that, muthafuckaz!
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