It has been an interesting transformation, watching my sister over the years as her look has changed with each musical trend she adopted. In the elementary school days of Michael Damien and New Kids On the Block, she remained decked out in fluorescent colors and side ponytails. From there to junior high, she started watching Headbanger’s Ball with me and promptly switched to wading in XL Megadeth t-shirts. With high school, her friends drifted her from grunge to alternative to hardcore to emo, the entire while her wardrobe gracefully morphed from flannel to corduroy to ringer tees to lots of cardigan sweaters. Yes, fashion changed in the meantime as well, but my sister’s choices always coincided with her band fandom of the day. I’m not even sure she realizes she’s done it. Her life doesn’t revolve around music, either.
On the other hand, I, the eldest sibling embodying the very meaning of geeky music fandom, haven’t been quite as easy to pinpoint. Granted, ever since I can remember, my tastes in music have been wildly diverse; my collections have always boasted as much Madonna as Led Zeppelin, as much Queensryche as Elton John, and as much Depeche Mode as Rush. While I have nearly always classified myself as “metal” above all else, this causes a lot of conflicts in the world of style and leaves me feeling as if someone threw a chess piece in the middle of a game of checkers.
One of the very first CDs I ever purchased was the single for Nine Inch Nails’ “Head Like A Hole.” For you NIN nerds out there, that would be “halo three.” While never becoming a scary Trent Reznor stalker like my friend Josh (don’t ask him about visiting New Orleans and screaming “YOU ARE A GOD” on Mr. Reznor’s front lawn), I still own all of the albums and still spin them fairly frequently. Nevertheless, when a tour date nearby was announced and several friends decided they were going, I sat it out. Not for lack of money, not for lack of enjoyment factor, not even for lack of desire to deal with a legion of stupid NIN fans. Simply put, I knew it was a place where I would feel entirely uncomfortable. Could I rock out with my non-existent cock out? Sure, but I knew it just wouldn’t feel right. I don’t look like a NIN fan, and I don’t fit in with other NIN fans.
This same predicament would happen later with Depeche Mode. Alright, so the DM crowd isn’t as potentially frightening as the NIN crowd, and I would probably fare well. Still, I know the fanbase; we’re not talking about going to see Phish, where pretty much anyone not in a suit and tie would be welcome. We’re talking about a sea of new wave and goth people, enough eyeliner to keep MAC afloat for the next six years, and a subtle air of pretention, as looking pretty is almost more important than enjoying the music. This one wasn’t so hard for me to shoot down, as although a DM I have been for a long time, seeing them live was never one of my big goals. Knowing the crowd and my lack of conformity to their standards was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I did, however, go to see Madonna. All I remember is that whatever I wore was far too warm, but with a Madonna crowd, you see everything from drag queens to seven year olds. We sat next to a pair of women who held prestigious places in their respective companies. There’s no stereotype for a Madonna fan. Without that hanging over my head, it was easy to forget about everything and just enjoy the show.
One may point out that I have always been proud of my individualism and my total lack of caring as to how I’m perceived as a whole, and how this entire tirade goes against everything for which I stand. Why on earth would I let something as silly as fashion sense drive me from enjoying musicians who I have appreciated? That, quite simply, is not me. This left one choice to make to rectify the situation: either start living the life of the music I adore like my sister always did, or grow a spine and ignore it once and for all.
I decided to compromise — a little from column A, a little from column B.
Granted, another big transformation happened in the meantime; I lost an entire person’s worth of weight. Perhaps, in the scope of things, this makes up a third element why I avoided certain scenes — being morbidly obese won’t let you fit in anywhere. With the weight loss, I was able to wear clothes that better fit my personality, my tastes, and even the music scenes I appreciated. Still, this doesn’t mean that for every black shirt I own, I don’t own a yellow and black diagnonal striped monstrosity with a collar as large as Wyoming. They’re all me, they’re just not all my tunes.
And I did start going to a lot more shows. For the most part, I have worn whatever I felt would look cute in its own way. Still, going to see Fear Factory and Slipknot in Milwaukee last year, I realized I simply was not vain enough. As I was not an active Slipknot fan, I was amazed at the sea of girls who appeared to have tumbled out of Hot Topic in one large clump, yarn woven into their hair, makeup applied with a paint roller, and this method of dancing that resembled something more out of a rap video than anything I had experienced in the world of metal. Yes, it was more than easy to feel a bit odd with my bouncy blonde hair, black Express halter top, and jean shorts. But I weathered the storm, and I enjoyed some great bands while taking in a careful sociological perspective of the entire evening.
It was the second Slipknot show I attended (this time with Slayer) in Cedar Rapids where I decided to try the alternate route. This time, I wore a red babydoll dress featuring black mesh with runs up the front, along with calf-high boots with a monster platform and 5″ heels. I poured on the cosmetics and brought along a black jacket which spent most of its time tied around my waist before the weather got chilly. However, maybe it was just the difference between big-city Wisconsin and small-town Iowa, but at the CR show, I was part of approximately 4% of the attendees who were as decked out as I was. I didn’t feel out of place, though, and the compliments from looking somewhat fetishy didn’t hurt either. Even still, I didn’t really feel like me. And those boots killed my feet by the time Slipknot took the stage, too.
Oh, such were the obvious lessons to be learned; no, I should not have given one flying f*ck what anyone else thought about how I looked. I definitely should not have let that keep me from any show I had ever wanted to attend. In fact, all of this ridiculousness has done more to affirm my current style than anything else. I will wear my gothy clothes right alongside my trendy clothes, my asian pieces alternated with my band t-shirts, and my business casual attire changes quite easily over to my athletic apparel. They’re all me, just as much as Pink Floyd, Oomph!, Anthrax, Blumchen, and My Dying Bride are all me.
When I go see Deicide at the end of this month, I’m still going to wear black though. I mean, come on. Deicide. Are you kidding? I would rather have my throat slit than be caught dead wearing pink flowery fluffiness at a Deicide show. There is a difference between being an individual and purposely looking like you shouldn’t belong. I’m talking to you, dude in Milwaukee with the top hat who kept tap dancing. That hurt my brain.
Torn between vengeance and fashion,
–gloomchen
