Blame Mike.

It was Mike who not only got me listening to Metallica, but going to their arena concert (Calgary’s Max Bell, of all places) when they were touring the Black Album.

Previous to this, I had always turned my nose up at heavy metal, although to my credit most of the metal I had heard before this point was not true metal. I was right to hate the Mickey-Mouse-metal sounds of Def Leppard.

But Metallica was different, in part because the mix on their albums features the vocals. The heavy percussion and grinding guitars create a wall of sound, sure, but the vocals, which are appropriately angst-ridden, are clear above the chaos.

The concert was my first headbanger show. My last, too, but that’s not because I didn’t enjoy myself. Metal went underground for a long time soon after Metallica’s Black Album. Grunge was on the horizon, and rock music just seemed to disintegrate after that.

It was Mike who got me smoking, too. Bastard. Before that, I was content to be a non-smoker. Now I’m a smoker who doesn’t smoke. Which is more healthy, sure, but there are other tradeoffs.

Anyhow, I had an urge to listen to Metallica a few weeks ago, but I don’t have any of their CDs. Amazon helped me rectify that. Last week, a stack of Metallica CDs (only up to and including the Black Album in chronological terms) arrived. I’m looking forward to writing with some speed metal driving me along.

Anticipating that, it seems, is why Enter Sandman was playing on my internal stereo at six o’clock this morning. Weird sensation to wake up to.