THE RISE AND RISE OF INDEPENDENT METAL

If you stroll through the American metal carnival for too long, life can become one bedeviling House of Mirrors. Here we have our old pal HM—nasty, dirty, loud, offensive, fun. Turn the corner and there he is grinning back at you—nice, twee, polished, flabby gloop. Here we've got Pat Benatar trilling we are young! There we've got Billy Joel and Jackson Browne wearing leather jackets! Over there's Styx saying they'll save rock 'n' roll! Now here's Rex Smith claiming his next album will be a return to his Heavy Metal roots! MAJOR DISTORTION!

But outside, the carousel keeps turning. A few of the big boys are slipping off— not selling out, not touring so much, breaking up. A few new ones are riding high, and there's a lot more waiting in the queue to get on. Some of them glorious freakshow material—eating worms onstage, chucking raw meat at their fans, whipping each other, singing about werewolves, guitar-soloing on cheese-graters, dribbling blood. A lot more of them aren't that much different from the big boys. Except in terms of numbers. Important numbers. Like 1 7, 18, 19, 20, the best age for spandex and leather in anyone's eyes.