Michael Gravel Edmonton Writer

Scream For Me Long Beach

Does the phrase “scream for me, Long Beach!” mean anything to you? It’s a yes or no answer. There is no, “yeah, I think I know that saying.” Either you know Live After Death like the back of your hand or you don’t. Either you cry over Rime of the Ancient Mariner or you don’t. You’re a slave to the Iron Maiden or you’re not. Like many men my age, I spent my early teen years programming BASIC on an Apple II, wearing Old Spice cologne, reading Creem magazine, and most pivotally, cranking up the holiest of heavy metal holies: Iron Maiden.

A Turning Point

The pivotal Maiden album – one that arrived at precisely the moment I started to give a shit about “real” music – was that immortal fist to the nads, Powerslave. That record was a touchstone. A watershed. There’s pre-Powerslave, and there’s post-Powerslave. For a boy of 13, the cover (and yes, I’m talking records here – real, cheap vinyl) was pure fucking awesomeness. It looked evil and dangerous. I had to own it, even though I wasn’t quite into the “New Wave of British Heavy Metal”, as it was sometimes called 1. To this day, 22 years later, it’s still my favorite album cover. Hell man, it even smelled like danger. Before Powerslave, I – and half the continent – had been knee-deep in the Michael Jackson craze. I am ashamed of the fact that I once owned a “magic glove” – a white cotton glove covered in glitter. I wore it on my left hand – IN PUBLIC – and it was just like the one MJ wore in the video for Billy Jean and I bought it for 15 bucks at Sears in Kingsway Mall. That glove was thrown into the depths of purgatory when I brought home Powerslave. The world got a little bigger. I no longer thought of music as simply what was on the radio. No more Duran Duran. No more Men At Work. I vowed that I would no longer be duped by plastic artists like Michael Jackson 2. Of course Maiden and the whole 80’s metal thing (I would not classify Maiden as hair metal – they were above that) was just a different brand of ridiculous.

Metal and More Metal

I must admit to being scared the first time I cued up Powerslave. Heavy Metal was frightening ground for good reason. The guys in my school who listened to it looked tough. And fucked up. They were the “heads” – the terrors of the school. Shoulder-length mullets, bloodshot eyes, Sabbath back patches, studded bracelets, black rock shirts with white baseball sleeves, and Reebok high tops with the tongues sticking out were the uniform. Aces High pushed through my headphones and it was gut-chilling and thrilling. It was a moment of genuine growth, where I was outside my comfort zone but knew I wanted more. I listened to the entire album in one sitting and it didn’t leave my record player for a month. It was then that I fell deeply in love with music and there was no turning back. In a matter of months Priest, Crue, RATT, Van Halen, and many other horrendous throwaways were added to my swiftly-growing collection. I was crazy for Motley Crue. Too Fast For Love stands as one of the greatest hair metal records ever, IMHO. It was all vinyl at first. The ‘ol Columbia Record and Tape Club (memories, anyone?) became my best friend, and I spent a ton of dough having albums shipped from Mississauga to my mailbox. Over the years vinyl gave way to cassettes which in turn gave way to CD’s. Sadly and regrettably, I do not own a single Maiden vinyl album from the old days – save Powerslave. It stays in my keepsake box, along with the 150 or so concert ticket stubs and 50 some-odd concert shirts that I procured in the following years. Love does strange, sentimental things. Those items are my treasures.

Getting Old

These days, you’d think that Maiden would be irrelevant in my life. In hindsight, they were the height of 80’s cheeseball stadium rock. They contributed little of lasting value to the human drama. That’s OK. Their silly bits of music made me happy for a time and they still bring joy. Maiden are still part of my identity, and my identity has never been that high minded, despite what I aspire to. When you’re 14, you are the music you listen to. It defines and places you in the world. Music means everything. Does it mean everything now, in the big world with wife, stepdaughter, poetry, mortgage, and everything else? I think I have a more mature relationship with music these days. I don’t fall in love quite as easily. It takes more to move me, but when I’m moved, it’s big and I fall hard (Neko, oh Neko where are you?). Music doesn’t mean everything these days, but somehow those old tunes take up more space in the ‘ol bloodpump. When I cue up Live After Death and hear Dickinson goading the crowd to scream for him, I know that feeling in my gut is pure nostalgia. I know I’m spinning it on my parent’s turntable for the first time. I hope that feeling never leaves. May Powerslave live forever. Up the Irons!

Entry #54 · October 22, 2007 in