From the belly of the beast...
299. Bruce Dickinson "Tattooed Millionaire"
After punk rock hit, old fashioned heavy metal of the Deep Purple/Black Sabbath school found itself in a quandary. It could either adapt or find itself trapped in a musical La Brea Tarpit. So a movement arose that kept the flash and aggression of old school heavy rock, but stripped away the rock star bloat and upped the aggro quotient for the disaffected delinquents that made up the core of the metal audience. This movement was known as the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. Some bands arose from it to become superstars, others sunk into obscurity. One band at the forefront was called Iron Maiden. Their original lead vocalist was a guy named Paul Dianno, an ex-skinhead, who was long on charisma and stage presence, but short on vocal ability. When he and the rest of the band parted ways, they hired a kid from Sheffeild, England raised in a family that could be described as 'middle class with pretensions,' who was expelled from boarding school for pissing in his headmasters' dinner. During a brief abortive college career, he roadied for the Clash and absorbed a few lessons about the world. This kid's name was Bruce Dickinson. Equipped with a voice of Wagnerian proportions that complemented the epic dual guitar attack of his band perfectly, they road on to multiplatinum success. However, bassist Steve Harris wrote most of the songs for Maiden and his subject matter leaned toward the arcane: the occult, warfare, adaptations of Coleridge poems. When Dickinson stepped out on his own, he unleashed something unexpected, the riveting bellow of negation above. Obviously inspired by his encounters with the LA hairmetal crowd, this song is a seeting indictment of rock star exces that would do the likes of Kurt Cobain or Ian McKaye proud, and it's all the more powerful for being delivered from somebody who's already been inside the beast he speaks off. And Dickinson wisely couches his rejection in music of anthemic proportions and lyrics dripping with venom. The chorus says in no uncertain terms what he's throwing away. And rarely has rejection sounded this affirming.
After punk rock hit, old fashioned heavy metal of the Deep Purple/Black Sabbath school found itself in a quandary. It could either adapt or find itself trapped in a musical La Brea Tarpit. So a movement arose that kept the flash and aggression of old school heavy rock, but stripped away the rock star bloat and upped the aggro quotient for the disaffected delinquents that made up the core of the metal audience. This movement was known as the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. Some bands arose from it to become superstars, others sunk into obscurity. One band at the forefront was called Iron Maiden. Their original lead vocalist was a guy named Paul Dianno, an ex-skinhead, who was long on charisma and stage presence, but short on vocal ability. When he and the rest of the band parted ways, they hired a kid from Sheffeild, England raised in a family that could be described as 'middle class with pretensions,' who was expelled from boarding school for pissing in his headmasters' dinner. During a brief abortive college career, he roadied for the Clash and absorbed a few lessons about the world. This kid's name was Bruce Dickinson. Equipped with a voice of Wagnerian proportions that complemented the epic dual guitar attack of his band perfectly, they road on to multiplatinum success. However, bassist Steve Harris wrote most of the songs for Maiden and his subject matter leaned toward the arcane: the occult, warfare, adaptations of Coleridge poems. When Dickinson stepped out on his own, he unleashed something unexpected, the riveting bellow of negation above. Obviously inspired by his encounters with the LA hairmetal crowd, this song is a seeting indictment of rock star exces that would do the likes of Kurt Cobain or Ian McKaye proud, and it's all the more powerful for being delivered from somebody who's already been inside the beast he speaks off. And Dickinson wisely couches his rejection in music of anthemic proportions and lyrics dripping with venom. The chorus says in no uncertain terms what he's throwing away. And rarely has rejection sounded this affirming.
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