Metallic Fashionistas

Metal tees

Reaching elbow deep into my mountainous top self of t-shirts that doomy Monday morning required absolutely no thought at all. Today, there was only one choice.

Texas without tees equals Coachella without a canteen. Fatal. Other than 329 different Rolling Stones tour gouges, my closet houses no more than a half-dozen band billboards. Not that I don’t want a Manu Chao badge of honor or Pride Tiger tee. They just never fit like that $2 Miller Lite white-on-white from the Goodwill on North Lamar. My $25 Radio Birdman black-and-red, via Emo’s last year, hangs on me like a tarp.

Stubb’s backyard in broad daylight – cloud cover finally obliterated – streamed early birds (hawks, vultures, pigeons - you name it), but there was nothing but room to roam on the back 40. Wandering through the beards and a smattering of females, mostly Hispanic, I read the brands reflexively, every individual coat of arms another highway sign marking some exotic locale: Celtic Frost, today’s destination Dimmu Borgir – one, twice, three times – Morbid, Mastodon, Enslaved, Slayer. Check out onetime Stubb’s souvenir Gojira. That guy knew he was sporting a Purple Heart.

Sitting on the stone steps by the bar closest to the downstairs inside entrance, I began keeping track. Another Celtic Frost, and another. Multiple Behemoths. A Jack Daniels black. Nice touch dude. Opeth, Lamb of God, Cannibal Corpse, GWAR. When young ZOSO bounced by that’s when it hit me. He was the only one. (Pink Floyd, sweet.) A Misfits, same deal. Ditto Pantera, In Flames, Neurosis. Metallica, only a pair. Everyone brought their best, but no one duplicated. Chimaira, Cephalic Carnage – the legible ones, anyway (crypt script equates a whole other subgenre) – Trivium. Chronicler and “Electric Eye” Gary Miller: sole sponsor of AC/DC. Everyone wore colors and no one matched. Beautiful.

Fashion telepathy, thy name is metal.

Raoul Hernandez

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Metal tees

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