Written by: Hannah Dang
The title makes it seem as though I have a secret identity of some sort like the superheroes in the comics. I’d like to preface by stating that I’m unfortunately not a superhero, as cool as that would be, but I do have a secret identity. I just don’t have to wear a mask to have one.
Yes, I’m a metalhead. If you want proof, all you have to do is follow me on Spotify. My account on there is chock-full of my favorite albums, my favorite playlists other people have made, film and show soundtracks, favorited artists, and then you have my self-curated playlists. Honestly, it’s a mess. It’s a miracle I can find whatever I’m looking for half the time.
Barely anyone knows but if you were to look closely and scroll down far enough, there’s a 10 hour-long and counting (and still growing) playlist called “hannah’s headbangers.” Yes, this is where I have some of my favorite rock and “screamo” music saved.
Thousand Foot Krutch’s “Take It Out On Me,” Papa Roach’s “Last Resort,” The Material’s “Gasoline,” “Kingslayer” by Bring Me the Horizon (feat. BABYMETAL), “Face to Face” by Citizen Soldier, “crushcrushcrush” by Paramore, and even “MAYDAY” by coldrain (feat. Ryo from Crystal Lake).
The list is indefinitely infinite, and I’ve barely touched any of non-English songs yet. If you get me started, I’ll keep going, so it’s probably for the best I end the list there for now. Some people may think I’m dramatizing my admittance to being a metalhead, but if you were to ask anyone else, I don’t seem like the type of girl to be listening to people screaming in music for fun.
Meet me, and you’ll understand. On first impressions, people have likened me to having about the same presence a bunny would have: small, soft, and shy. My likes and interests outside of being a metalhead do give people the wrong interpretation. For instance, every item I own is some shade of pink (usually baby pink). I like watching people stream themselves playing Minecraft, and my idea of a fun night out is going to a 24-hour coffee shop to read and spill tea.
Anyways, my point is made—I don’t seem like a metalhead. I presume most people like to believe metalheads all have long black hair (which I have), have piercings (I have four and plan on getting more), wear leather jackets and black skinny jeans and combat boots (which I do), and pale skin (…). People aren’t always completely off the mark either. One of my friends once told me he thought I only listened to classical music. He’s not wrong (you’ll have to pry Vivaldi from my cold, dead hands), but it was a funny assumption.
I truly don’t mind the stereotypes if people are being genuinely inquisitive about it. It’s actually kind of funny to see people’s reactions as soon as they get a glimpse of who I really am. More than that, I don’t mind the stereotypes because they’re still true. I like bunnies, I like the color pink, I like classical music, I look like the definition of a “good” Asian girl, but I also like to shatter people’s expectations. That’s why the secret identity bit is so fun to play up.
I can’t provide an exact date and time when the fixation started, but I do know I was in middle school and needed a stress-reliever. I remember watching a clip of the show Parasyte and falling in love with the voices of the singers who sang opening (“Let Me Hear” by Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). Since then, I’ve been hooked, and now, I have “going to a metalhead concert” on my bucket list.
But you can’t understand what they’re saying when they scream, people have said to me. When did I ever say I needed to understand the lyrics, the song even? Is it suddenly a crime to enjoy something even if I can’t understand it. Besides, I can always search up the lyrics later. As an English major, I spend most of my days hyper-analyzing everything I read or hear to understand it. Listening to heavy metal and rock is one of the few times I can flip the switch in my brain off. In such moments, the insides of my head morph into a concert venue, and the roar of the crowd shreds my brain matter, sending shivers done my spine.
It’s as simple as that —a relief that someone out there, a stranger at that, can scream what you’re thinking for you.