Louder, harder, faster. That’s thrash metal’s defining credo in a nutshell. The heaviness of NWOBHM fused with punk rock’s DIY spirit and and anti-authoritarianism, hopped up on malt liquor and pseudoephedrine, dubbed onto a cassette tapes and played through the blown speakers of a Nissan pickup truck at maximum volume. For a while, from the early eighties until it peaked in 1991, thrash metal seemed like it would change the world.
I’ve been traveling lately, so it’s good to get back home. But it’s hot at home. Summer is in full swing, the solstice is here, and so the last few days have been spent hiding from the sun with the fans on and the lights off, in a semi-successful attempt to keep cool.
Tonight, I’m kicking it with a Pretty Things Jack D’Or. It’s a Saison Americaine. And there’s a lemon with a mustache on the label. That bodes well.
Another week of juggling manuscripts in various states: rough drafts to polished prizes to final corrections. All to make sure they do one thing: communicate a story without stumbling. What I do requires a whole lot of trying to get into authors’ and editors’ heads, trying to glean the motivation and meaning behind the words. It’s almost enough to give one an identity crisis.
