Aaagaaathooooos Daaaiiiimooooon

The intro to A Blaze in the Northern Sky creeped from the tinny, anno 2000 computer speakers.

Aaagaathooooos Daaaiimoooooon

15 year-old me sat before the monitor, Hexen's cozy, black magic pixels refracting the demonic din just so as to approach Wagner's gesamtkunstwerk, "total work of art".

Aagaaathooooos Daaaiiimooooon



Without warning, my paradoxically ninja-footed, 56 year-old navy vet hardass dad materialized in the doorway.

"Son." It wasn't a question, but a statement, and even through his old-fashioned Tennessee drawl, it sounded ominous. I jumped, partly because I didn't hear him, but more so because glimpses of his into my increasingly "devious" inner world fucking terrified me. He didn't stand for deviance.

"What in the Hell are you listening to?"

I froze, then gulped out "Uh... Darkthrone?"

His narrowing gaze burned into the deepest recesses of my brain, full of neurons firing pentagrams and arcane spells, crackling guitars and croaking voices. I hoped he wouldn't see.

Jaw clenched and lips pursed, like he only did when he was really, really pissed, he gritted out, "It sounds... Suhtanic." Shit. He had seen. The Hank Hillian drama in his voice would have normally made me giggle, but the threat of a good ol'-fashioned Dad beat down or, worse, a forced excursion to church for an exorcism stifled any humor in the air. He glared a me a moment more, then stormed off.