Apparently I enjoy art made by conflicted dudes.
Not exclusively, of course. But it seems as if a big ol' devil and a big ol' angel screaming in each ear can sometimes cause a mortal man to blast a lightning bolt out of his primal hypothalamus.
Mick Jagger & Keith Richards forced me to love both their murderous "Midnight Rambler" and their desperate "Moonlight Mile" (and still hate "Under My Thumb"). How could the Van Morrison who murmured "It Stoned Me" and the Eric Clapton who twisted out that climbing vine of a solo on Cream's "Badge" both turn out to be blubbering anti-vaxxers? How could the Marilyn Manson who plumbed the depths of pain and alienation on "Mechanical Animals" desire to harm women, as so many have claimed? Same with "The Killer," Jerry Lee Lewis, who required no fist to pull every subtlety and ironic complexity from Kris Kristofferson's "Once More With Feeling."
The list could go on, but I got that old feeling when I wanted to write something about an American black-metal band called Maquahuitl. Named after an Aztec weapon something like a double-sided machete, fitted with obsidian blades sharper than steel, Maquahuitl reeked with commitment. You could hear the guitarist-vocalist's fingers bleed in the buzzing, sliding riffs; his voice sounded as if he was squatting on a volcano; and most of all, the drummer seemed to be exploding his kit in every direction, an almost polyrhythmic assault. An echoing studio sound enveloped the whole thing in ritual smoke.
Sometimes Maquahuitl sounded like a crazed metal version of a spaghetti-Western surf theme, as on "El Corrido de Gregorio Cortez," about a 1901 Mexican folk hero. Often the guitar has held within magnetic range of a cantina melody; lately the band has turned up the heft and abrasion. Always it has maintained maximum passion.
So here's where the "not again" came in. Dredging the web for scarce dope on Maquahuitl, I discovered an article substantiating a number of instances where the band's drummer, Martín Morales Tudón, appeared very Nazi-cozy.
Tudón, a promoter of indigenous people's rights, repurposes Norwegian black metal, many of whose originators advocate a return to the pagan religions overthrown by Christian invaders. The current tiny international crop of National Socialist Black Metal troopers, of course, some wearing SS patches, would mostly spurn the non-Aryan Tudón, who nevertheless appears pleased to share with them a contempt for Christianity, Judaism and Islam -- though he shows no tendency to despise actual Christians, Jews and Muslims.
Few would part with Tudón in finding plenty to hate about today's international corporate structures, propped up by fake divine alliances. And like Tudón, few would deeply sympathize with the Mexican government, which averts its gaze as indigenous activists are "disappeared," or with the American government, founded on land theft. Many, however, would argue that Tudón's use of the "Aztec swastika" does not profit him.
But remember that, in the jazz world of the '60s, it did not help Archie Shepp's sales when he wrote a 1965 song/poem called "Malcolm, Malcolm, Semper Malcolm" from the album "Fire Music" in a year of widespread race rioting; and it did not boost Horace Tapscott's profile when he titled his 1969 album "The Giant Is Awakened." Those were the days of the Black Panthers, who were associated not just with black pride but with violence, and the Panthers, rightly and wrongly, went to prison or the grave. For the broad American populace, it took a minute for Afros and dashikis to reach "The Mod Squad."
It also took a minute to forget that mister love vibes, Bob Marley, assumed the role of the "Small Axe" (maquahuitl?) cutting down the colonizers' big tree as early as 1971. And for fans of mixed messages, in 1977 the Sex Pistols' Johnny Rotten snarled against "the fascist regime" while bandmate Sid Vicious sported a swastika.
So I dunno. My chest undeniably vibrates in the correct way when I listen to Maquahuitl. Maybe, as with a lot of metal, I'm lucky I can't understand the words.
Still, I've had to take a hard squint at myself. Nobody can be bad all the time; it's just too much work. But I like the films of child molester Roman Polanski. I like the poetry of anti-Semite T.S. Eliot. I'm addicted to pro football. I shop on Amazon. I often drink bottled water. I wrote a newspaper cover story praising movie violence. In 1978 I named my band after a black Civil War touchstone, which makes me a cultural appropriator. When I was 16, I subscribed for a year to conservative pundit William F. Buckley's National Review (a pretty girl set me straight, which also makes me a pig). In my writing, I have never used "they/them/their" when referring to a singular person. I don't capitalize either black or white.
At least I never liked Kanye, but maybe that makes me a racist. Regardless, in view of all the above, only one option remains. I am canceling myself.
* * *
Listen to Maquahuitl's current "Tlacamati" here.