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Gehinnom Borne is now Visual Aggression. You can find the newest incarnation of this blog at www.visualaggression.wordpress.com

Cat!

You guys. I take back everything I've said about Niklas Kvarforth. He loves his cat and it is adorable.

Not really. He's still a glorious asshole, but I thought this was kind of cute and such a far cry from the first album teaser that it was worth sharing.

The Burzum shirt

Evidently not Varg-approved.

My first metal tee was a Burzum shirt. It was a turning point for me: before that I was the owner of one tattered Radiohead shirt and a bunch of plain black v-necks. At the time, I was just beginning to fall headlong into this crazy cultural phenomenon called black metal, and I thought it was time to accurately express my involvement, for metal so often seems like something you are, not something you listen to. I ordered it from Rockabilia because I didn't know any better, it cost too much, and it took forever to ship, but when it landed on the doorstep of my childhood home, sitting under the mezuzah in its grey plastic pouch (yes, to add a layer of irony to this situation, my family is Jewish), I was elated. I dug my nails through its packaging and unrolled it on my bed. Hvis Lyset Tar Oss. I felt like kvlt shit that day.

Why Burzum? Burzum has connotations that extend far beyond the music. To wear it is to make a statement. I approve of darkness, it says. I approve of hatred. I approve of isolation, death and destruction. Burzum is inseparable from Varg's acts and beliefs, both as a stab-happy teenager and an crackpot recluse, and from the violence that permeated the second wave black metal scene. In fact, Burzum is often considered its figurehead. So, when you're new to the local metal scene and want to prove that you belong, how do you do it? You buy a shirt from a band that scares people, of course.

And that's the thing about Burzum shirts: very few people seem to buy them and wear them just because they like listening to Burzum. The Burzum shirt is a statement about your attitude.

This is why we keep seeing it in places where we feel it does not belong: on the oft-lamented Williamsburg hipster, festooning the ass of a woman fishing for attention online, or the subject matter of this inexplicable art blog where the shirt does not actually seem to add anything of note to the drawings, yet was absolutely necessary to the artist. Fans will whine, "Burzum is just hipster bullshit now!" And in a sense, yes, they are right; the shirt was adopted as a statement, though perhaps not one we all approve of unless it's on someone we deem its wearer worthy of it.

I wore my Burzum shirt everywhere. I wore it to band practice to impress my bandmates. I wore it to shows. I wore it to parties. I wore it in a church once. I wore it the night I lost my virginity. I wore it until I could not wear it any more (the advent of boobs), but I still have it. I have moved on to numerous other band shirts, yet I still cannot get rid of it.

I recently ordered a new one, in a larger size to accomodate my adult body. Burzum are in no way my favorite band, but I am still inexplicably fond of the message the shirt sends.

Cultural Capital

Sorry I haven't been blogging as much as I should. For a newbie, I think that's kind of inexcusable. There's this thing, though. That thing is my job. And that thing takes up a lot of time.

For the last few months, I've been working full-time in an office at one of Seattle's most recognizable landmarks. I have to look nice. Most days have me trading my usual band shirts and Doc Martens for blazers, slacks and heels. I call it "office drag" because it feels like a costume. It is absolutely at odds with my identity. And when I am out and about dressed in such livery, I do not feel like myself. When I ride the bus to work, most people see an ordinary, straight-and-narrow working woman, not a member of a subculture.

Metal is a very visual culture with a distinct uniform. We wear our hearts on our sleeves, in the form of patches, spikes, leather or tattered denim. It's a look that has been passed down since the conception of the genre, and it's always easy to recognize a friend, because they will inevitably be dressed like you.

There are few feelings more satisfying than recognizing someone who is cut from the same cloth. You are walking down the street, and you spot someone who immediately catches your attention - perhaps like you, they are clad entirely in black in a sea of color, or you recognize the band logo on their shirt or the telltale shape of bullets slung around their hips. You pass. Horns are raised, nods exchanged. Perhaps a "fuck yeah, [insert band here]" is uttered. You have acknowledged each other as comrades, and then you move on. An alliance has been established through your shared love of this music and the visual appearance that comes with it. It's gratifying.

Unless I have a day off, I no longer experience this.

A few weeks ago, I was out running errands before work when I ran into the clerk from a local record shop that specializes in metal. When I come into his store, he always greets me by name, and we shoot the shit about the latest releases. On this particular day, I cracked a smile and waved when our paths crossed. He stared blankly at me, uncomprehending. He didn't recognize me. And then it hit me - I was wearing a suit. And pumps. And a nametag. That would explain it.

The metalhead uniform is form of cultural capital, a way of getting your foot in the door with people you don't know. I try to sneak traces of it into my office wardrobe to preserve some part of my identity - my pentagram pendant or a peek of my stretched earlobes or tattoos - but so far it's managed to draw the ire of my boss and startle other employees (I once came into the office on one of my days off wearing a Nifelheim shirt and a bullet belt, and I was the topic of gossip across multiple departments for weeks) more than alert them to a possible kindred spirit.

In a few weeks, I will be leaving this job to go back to college for the year. The notion that I can be myself all the time is one I will have to readjust to, but it will be a welcome change.

Until then, it's blazers and slacks for me.

Lots of girls gonna get hurt

If you are a black metal enthusiast as I am, you know that it's hard not to be familiar with the antics of Shining's Niklas Kvarforth. Some men want to watch the world burn, as they say, but Kvarforth would rather watch himself burn. This is a man who appears to teeter on the edge of madness, and his obsessions with death, loneliness and self-destruction define both him as an intense performer and a seriously disturbed soul. His arms are covered with scars from the lacerations he inflicts upon himself onstage. He is known to vomit into the audience or burn fans with cigarettes. He even faked his own death to gain publicity for his band. In short, this is one creepy motherfucker.

Which is why it comes as no surprise that Kvarforth has released this typically disturbing, NSFW video to promote the new Shining release. Here we have Kvarforth doing what he does best: playing with blood, making the inhuman sounds that so often grace his records, and jacking off. At one point, he clumsily goes down on a disembodied mannequin vagina, which says to me, "I don't make enough money playing black metal to afford a Real Doll, and flesh-and-blood girls are afraid of me because I do stuff like this for fun."

That, though, brings me to the true point of this entry: an examination of Kvarforth's relationship with women. And what a messy, twisted one it is.

Black metal is often a rather sexless genre, choosing to focus on the cold and the impersonal. Kvarforth is atypical of black metal frontmen in that he focuses on sex quite a lot and is, as we have seen, very overt in how he goes about it.

Frilly!

A few days ago I logged onto Facebook to see that Shining was promoting panties that are available in their webstore. At first, I liked the idea, because ladies, let's be honest, our panties are not very kvlt and that is sometimes disappointing. But then I realized how disturbing this is - wearing these is essentially a way of saying "Niklas Kvarforth owns my pussy." That, I'm sure, is his intent. Also available is this gem of a shirt:

Yeah, no thanks. I wouldn't feel comfortable wearing this outside. In fact, I don't even think I'd feel comfortable wearing this inside, alone, in my bedroom.

These items of clothing do not just promote his band. They establish ownership and sexual dominance over the women who wear them, women Kvarforth has never met. That isolation is part of Kvarforth's tortured soul schtick. He seems torn between wanting attention and shunning it: "I wish you were here" written on the wall in blood, coupled with provocative displays designed to disgust and repel the viewer. Therein lies the goal of these garments. They say, I own you without getting close to you; you obsess me as I obsess you, from afar.

Metal magazines often commission slick photoshoots of Kvarforth cavorting with models to go along with his interviews, many of whom are naked and bloodied in his embrace. In the material he produces himself, however, he seeks his pleasure alone. It's a paradox. Kvarforth would not be Kvarforth without his in-your-face sexual aggression. However, he would also not be himself without his intense loneliness. Neither can be sacrificed, so instead he combines them into the hands-off dominance we see in his choice of women's merch.

To buy some creepy Shining merch of your own, check out http://www.shininglegions.com/. Shining's upcoming album, Redefining Darkness, will be released on October 29th via Spinefarm records.

Introductions

Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Lee. Currently residing in the frozen Cascadian northlands of the United States, I am a psychology student working towards a doctorate as well as a bass player in a local metal group.

This blog is a way for me to organize the great, swirling miasma of my interests. Expect everything from album reviews, outfits posts and art to musings on gender and culture within the metal community.

A first, unsteady step.

This is a blog. I haven't used Blogspot since I was in 10th grade and had to make a blog about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to appease a technologically-inclined history teacher, and it has morphed into a very different beast since then. I have no idea what I'm doing, so consider this a test.