Heavy Metal Existentialism
Somewhere in the marrow-deep, soul-quaking riffage of my heavy metal heart, a nagging whisper has begun to claw at the edges: am I drifting away from the molten core of the scene? Every year, I uncover incredible new metal—jaw-dropping albums, ferocious live performances, sonic experiments that transport me into wild new realms of consciousness—but each discovery seems to take more work than the last. The search has become a ritual of excavation, an increasingly laborious process to unearth the gems that once seemed to tumble into my lap.
It's not the scene. Oh, no—metal is evolving exactly as it should, surging forward with all the chaos and creativity of an unchecked wildfire. No, the uncomfortable truth is that I’m the one who’s either changing or not changing. The friction between me and the scene is less about metal’s evolution and more about my own footing within its ever-shifting landscape. I’m starting to wonder: have I earned my right to stay here, perched upon the masthead of the biggest metal magazine on the planet? Or should I hand over the reins to some feral young upstart who sees the scene with fresher eyes and sharper instincts?
The doubt isn’t new. Writers are professional wrestlers in the ring with their own self-loathing; I’ve been suplexed by it more times than I can count. But this—this feels different. A colleague of mine once made a decision that has haunted me since. At the top of his game, he walked away from the metal periodicals, leaving behind a sterling reputation and a Rolodex full of connections. Why? Because he felt his connection to metal had frayed to the point where it no longer made sense to be the arbiter of a world he no longer fully inhabited. Instead, he retreated to immerse himself in classic rock, prog, and styles that had long lived in the periphery of his taste.
I get it. I really do. Even on the most extreme fringes of metal, I’m finding fewer bands that blow my mind. Fewer sounds that leave me disoriented, slack-jawed, or convinced I’ve just glimpsed the future. They’re still out there, but the search feels steeper every year, like climbing an endless mountain where the oxygen thins with each step.
The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying expresses an idea right at the beginning that’s lodged itself in my brain. It says that death is the one universal truth, the reality we all share but are terrified to confront. Keeping it on your radar—acknowledging its inevitability without giving in to fear—is one of the most freeing things a person can do. I’ve started to apply that same grim calculus to my career in heavy metal journalism. The truth is, one day this ride will end. I’ll either step away by choice or death will shove me out of the pit. Knowing that has a strange way of making me feel more alive, more present in this moment.
Because the truth is, I’m not ready to call it quits. Not when I love this scene so goddamned much. There’s something deeply primal and affirming about heavy metal. It’s not just the music; it’s the community, the passion, the way it refuses to apologize for existing. Metal is a life force, an act of rebellion against the banality of existence. And writing about it? That’s the alchemy that turns my introspection into connection, my love of the genre into something tangible.
But to stay here, I have to own my vulnerability. I have to admit that I’m not the same writer I was ten years ago—nor should I be. Evolution is the core of heavy metal, and if I’m not willing to evolve alongside it, then I’ve already lost the plot. I’m not an up-and-coming kid, but I’ve got experience, perspective, and scars to show for my time in the trenches. Maybe that’s enough to justify my spot, at least for now.
So, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep searching for the bands that blow my mind, for the riffs that resonate in my bones. And when the day comes to step aside, I’ll do it knowing I gave everything I had to this beautiful, brutal scene. Until then, I’m here—flawed, uncertain, and still utterly in love with heavy metal.