When nothing else matters, heavy metal can lift you up

The genre may seem obnoxiously intense, but it’s exactly what my younger, anxious self needed to hear

I still remember the first time I ever heard heavy metal. I was five years old, and my mum put her new (and definitely-not-pirated) CD of Iron Maiden’s Best of the Beast on in the car.

She skipped it to a live version of one of their quintessential songs, which started with the sound of Bruce Dickinson gargling like a goblin: “Fear! Of! The! Daaaaaaark!” he snarled, vocal cords apparently getting shredded by sandpaper. It freaked me out so much that the stereo was switched off before the music even started.

This is why I empathise with people who cannot listen to heavy metal. Rooted in the sound of teenagers pummelling drum kits and pushing guitar amps to their loudest volumes, it often wants to seem terrifying and obnoxious.

Motörhead icon Lemmy Kilmister once characterised the genre as “rebellion for its own sake with no clear goal in mind”, and Metallica barking “Die! Die! Motherf****r, die!” during a song called “Creeping Death” hits with the nuance of a sledgehammer to the temple.

At the same time though, I have been obsessed with heavy metal since my teens, to the point where I now earn a living by writing about its bands. The “us vs them” unity created by its communal disobedience has moulded my politics. And, most vitally, it’s the first thing in my life that showed me what freedom and confidence truly look like.

Five-year-old me wasn’t just scared of Iron Maiden. I was frightened by countless things. Anxiety was a constant, and I could quickly convince myself that any blemish on my skin was a surefire sign of cancer and a premature death.

That extended to social anxiety at school. Although I wasn’t bullied per se, I was a timid kid that rarely “clicked” with anybody my own age. Exacerbating both those issues was the fact that I was being abused, emotionally and physically. This continued for 13 years.

Between all of that were routine returns to the hospital, since I was born with clubfoot and needed countless surgeries to make sure I could even walk straight. None of it added up to a happy childhood. I couldn’t seem to find a healthy outlet for catharsis – until my best friend introduced me to pro-wrestling.

That penchant for oiled-up muscle men didn’t stick with me, but their theme songs certainly did. The confidence and pageantry of Motörhead, Alter Bridge and Killswitch Engage were inspiring, and I quickly started seeking these bands out on YouTube. Then came the gigs, the festivals, the Metal Hammer subscription… I was increasingly drawn to heavy metal.

The great misconception about this music is that it’s predominantly burly, shaggy-maned men shouting at you. The truth is that it’s far more often burly, shaggy-maned men shouting for you.

When I was 13 and heard Machine Head frontman Robb Flynn roar, “Let freedom ring with a shotgun blast!” on their signature song “Davidian”, I wasn’t intimidated anymore; I was awed by, and could relate to, such a powerful cry for escaping oppression. Robb was furious about my life on my behalf. This was catharsis.

That anti-authority anger proved infectious. Before long, I was telling my abusers to leave me alone. Being surrounded by fellow outcasts and fanatics at concerts eased my social anxiety. Plus, metal songs are attention-demanding distractions: anxiety is a downward spiral of intensifying, repeating worries, and nothing blasts the mind out of that cycle as abruptly as an all-guns-blazing Gojira riff.

The best part of all this is that my joy in heavy metal’s rage is far from unique. Metallica have been cramming stadiums for longer than I’ve been alive, the Download and Bloodstock festivals corral tens of thousands of metalheads every single year, and new bands are always emerging from the underground.

Metal is the most popular counter-cultural force that there’s ever been, and throughout my career I’ve been told so many stories of its life-saving potential.

People who can’t stand heavy metal will tell you that it’s a brash, noisy and uncomfortably in-your-face form of self-expression. Frequently, they’re right. But that’s what makes it so important.