Basslines and Broken Things
⚠️ Trigger Warnings:
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Childhood trauma
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Parental abuse (implied corporal punishment)
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Dysfunctional parent-child relationships
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Emotional distress
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Alcohol abuse (by a parent)
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Generational trauma
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Mentions of physical punishment
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Grief for a living parent
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I never expected a concert to heal some of my childhood trauma, but here we are.
Last night, I got to see Metallica. I’d bought the tickets a year in advance, had been anticipating it the whole time—and they did not disappoint. The whole setup turned it into a true experience. Nostalgia punched me in the face. And then the devastation hit like a tornado. I stifled a wail as tears welled in my eyes. All I could think about was how badly I wished my dad could be there. I self-soothed with butterfly pats until the overwhelming release worked its way out of my body. After that, I had a wide smile glued to my face.
For context: my dad is very much alive. Our relationship has always been strained. Generational trauma pummeled him, and when he stood before his children, he chose to pummel them with it. Yay.
Standing there in blinding lights and sporadic fire while the bass set the rhythm of my heartbeat, I realized not only how much joy Metallica’s music brought me, but how deeply that joy was tied to my father.
He was a metalhead. My childhood was filled with Pantera, Judas Priest, Mötley Crüe, Metallica, and more. When the bass rattled the house, we knew three things: Dad was home, drunk, and happy. We were raised to be seen and not heard, so we listened to the music from the safety of our rooms. Long car rides meant entire albums—on cassette. Whenever I think of our camping trips, I can’t help but remember the Allman Brothers and Metallica filling the silence between trees.
I hadn’t realized until that moment that this music was one of my favorite parts of my father. Heavy metal meant peace. A time of mild safety. It soothed the parts of me that held fear—fear of his voice, his presence, his affection paired with corporal punishment.
My father introduced me to metal—to the lifestyle, to the community, to the ideals held by those who scream and thrash and mosh and headbang. He may not have understood it. He may not have lived it. But he lit the spark that burned through me—and no amount of punishment, silence, or years could ever put it out. The flame still lives, screaming in every riff, echoing in my bones.