They're not as well known as Dimmu Borgir, Gorgoroth or even Watain, but Dark Fortress have been stoking the fires of black metal since their formation in 1994. There are primarily two reasons why they've been a bit under the radar for over a decade. They're from Germany, not Norway, and their lineup has shifted with more frequency than Marilyn Manson's image.Guitarist Asvargyr is the only member left from the band's original lineup, but soft of the changes have been for the better. In 2007, vocalist Morean replaced Azathoth and provided a new sense of motivation and leadership. Dark Fortress' 2008 album, Eidolon, came out on Century Media, giving the band greater visibility and Morean's sinister presence and charisma have made Dark Fortress a band to watch. For his second guest blog for HeadbangersBlog.com (read the first one about mysteries of "The Necronomicon" here), Morean debunks the myth of the eternal heavy metal bacchanalia. Click "more" to read the rant:
Lies, pt.1: SEX, DRUGS & ROCK'N'ROLL
Times have changed a lot since the old sex, drugs, rock & roll cliché was invented -- sometimes, it's hard to believe how much.
My last year's intense helping of metal has only confirmed to me what I have always known: Sex and drugs -- a divine combination, hard to beat. Sex or drugs in combination with great mighty music in the background -- essential to any serious hedonist. But once you seriously start to rock yourself, forget the other two. Rock n' roll, or at least metal, is a tyrant who doesn't tolerate competition. Unless you're some superstar and have people running around to do everything for you except hold your guitar on stage, you're gonna put all you have (and don't have) into it, 24-7.
Let's assume you've learned how to play. This is the least of your problems. You move on to writing songs. This is still the fun part, but it'll eat all your time (until you've found your song, which you then can repeat endlessly till they put you into a retirement home). Okay, time to record your album. You've put your last cent into your instrument, your computer and however many mikes (and/or engineers) you can afford, so it has to happen fast -- you're not gonna make money out of it.
Ever, the clock is ticking and the next rent will have to be paid with something else than what you're doing here. Boom, 18 hours a day of bone-breaking craziness, editing till you talk in samples, and no sleep till the final bounce, let alone sex or drugs. Too tired, anyway, and by now you've completely lost touch with anything outside the computer screen, and are not capable any more of verbal or bodily conversation (except for the daily apology litany to the neighbors about the noise). That little reefer bud isn't gonna be enough to drown out the hum of those 26 blast beat takes in your head. And in three hours you have to get up again to return the equipment, since all those misguided weirdos out there insist on starting their days at single-digit hours.
Finally, the album is done. Time to get out and play. Party all the way?
You wish. Here's how it will be:
You get up half an hour before you went to bed and start driving/flying/swimming to meet up with the band, get the van, haul the backline into the van, buy strings etc. and start the long trip to the venue. Upon arrival, maybe there's time to drain your lizard, then it's schlepping all your crap to the stage again. Soundcheck (whatever that is... usually 30 minutes of unlocatable feedback and a resigned shrug), maybe set up the merch (if you're rich enough to have t-shirts made), get some crappy food, find batteries. Explain to the engineer that you really do want the guitars amplified. Get dressed in the backyard (or a portable toilet), don't warm up, play the show. (This is gonna be the highlight of your day, no matter how much you suck.) Collapse. Stink. Get up again after two minutes because the venue is closing and the engineer wants to go home.
Pack your stuff and haul it back into the van. Extort, on pain of death, your one drink from the bartender, who's also leaving. Catch the promoter with your money, which will, maybe, almost (but not quite) pay for the gas. Start the long drive home. Unpack and return the van. Watch the weirdos go to work. Drag yourself home just to see that there's not even commercials on TV. Collapse again. Sex and drugs? Where? How?
In all fairness, there probably still is some sex, drugs and r&r happening together, if you count cheap porn from the gas station and drinking beer in the car. Also, there really are a few cool people and venues around. But unless you have a crew, a nightliner, a huge audience, lots of money, and venues used to large egos, forget the glamor, the fame and the fortune. Sad fact nowadays is that, except for the handful of really big guys, everybody in the business of our beloved music can barely make ends meet.
We used to blame the evil record companies for how much it sucks to be a musician, but neither them, nor your average promoter, nor the venues, nor the magazines, let alone the people who create the music (yes, that's us... remember?) earn enough with metal to make this a motive to do it. For sex, go to Latin pop. For drugs, you want hip-hop. In metal, you put in blood, sweat, tears, your time, your money, your soul and your last nerve, and what you get out of it is metal, not money, or sex, or whatever else you fancy. Metal happens despite, not because of the scene.
It happens despite, not because of the circumstances around it. It is the ugly, unwanted stepchild of our world, and it needs our blood to live. But bad weed doesn't die, and the kick metal gives us in return is stronger than any other drug you will find despite all the crap around it. Because, see, it keeps us alive, too. Or why else would we stay so hooked on it?
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