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Brenda Herrmann. "Music to Die For." Chicago Tribune October 27, 1991.
Death, Cannibal Corpse, Deicide, Sepultura, Obituary, Entombed, Napalm Death.
These aren't the titles of B-grade horror films. The names belong to the bands that reign in one of the fastest-growing music genres, death metal.
The music is every bit as ominous as the band names-all guitars, bass and drums, churned out so fast that sound waves can barely keep up. The vocals are straight out of "The Exorcist," low, growling voices that make the throat sore just listening.
And the lyrics are written to fit the vocals. On the album "Butchered at Birth," Cannibal Corpse sings, "Guts are strewn from the children, splintered bones poke through the skin, gratification through castration, roasting parts for consumption." And that's one of the milder images.
The look of the death-metal band is also far from the MTV-ready beauty of, say, Jon Bon Jovi. For example, Deicide bassist Glen Benton, 24, has a large inverted cross burned into his forehead. During live shows, Deicide members wear suits of spiked armor and hurl cat entrails at audience members, who toss them back hoping to hook them on the spikes.
All this prompts a few questions: Who could like this music? Who creates it and why? Does it encourage violence, as some protesters believe; or, as some fans and promoters claim, is it just good, dirty fun?
The answers are hard to pin down. As with other controversial art forms (for that matter, is death metal an art form?), there are both fans and critics of death metal.
The format was officially titled in 1983 by the Tampa band Death, which took thrash music (very harsh, very fast heavy metal made for violent moshing/slam-dancing or stage diving) and hard-core punk and twisted it into fast, hard capsules about manners of death. The gorier the lyrics, the better the band's reputation.
People thought death metal would go away. But it's bigger and badder than ever.
It's even subdivided into categories like "grindcore," which is exemplified by bands like Godflesh that loudly smash metal with an industrial dance beat. Don't be fooled, though. Many bands that are referred to as grindcore, such as Morbid Angel and Entombed, are indistinguishable from death.
Record labels-most notably Century Media, Combat/Earache, Metal Blade/Death Records and RoadRacer/RC-pump out one gory album after another. There's also a new bimonthly magazine, Metal Maniacs, devoted to death metal and the larger thrash genre.
And although most of those in the business agree that death metal will never be "the next big thing," they do understand just how profitable and popular it has become.
"Death metal only makes up about 45 percent of our label, but it's the most successful," says Monte Conner, 27, director of artists and relations at RoadRacer Records in New York. "We didn't set off to sign these types of bands, but they really took off."
Additionally, Conner and other industry sources note that death metal comes cheap. The bands are often unknowns who are paid little and their sound-raw and live-is an inexpensive one to reproduce. The advertising is mainly word of mouth; fortunately for the purveyors, death-metal fans have big mouths.
"Death metal is a huge art form in the underground," says Mike Faley, president and talent scout for Metal Blade Records in Tarzana, Calif. "In Europe, it's very, very big. I think it will peak here in two to three years, based on the usual time it takes for a musical form to transcend the Atlantic."
By peaking, Faley means that "three or four major bands will come out" and sell 500,000 to 1 million copies of their albums.
He and other industry officials don't foresee the kind of craze that dance music currently has. "Only the strongest will survive," says Conner, referring to the hundreds of little death-metal bands currently flourishing.
The death-metal scene in Chicago is quieter than in the two world hot spots of Tampa and Germany. But internationally known touring acts such as Morbid Angel do perform at venues like Medusa's on Sheffield.
"The people in Chicago just aren't as open to the music," notes Chicagoan Paul Speckmann, 27, founder of Master, one of the world's original death-metal bands. "We sell out (1,000-seat venues) in Europe, but we don't get respect in our own town."
Eric Cullmann, 26, of Philadelphia, is a fan of bands like Obituary, Death and Nocturnus. "I like everything about death metal," he explains. "I like the aggression. I like the words."
Cullmann says the lyrics about dismemberment and cannibalism are "funny, tongue-in-cheek." He adds: "They're not serious. If the people who wrote those songs really did all that, they'd be in jail."
Cullmann's mother, with whom he lives, doesn't hide her feelings about death metal, or any rock music. "It's madness," says Nancy Cullmann.
Deena Weinstein, a professor of sociology at De Paul University-and a death-metal fan, says the music is like therapy, especially for teenagers.
"Teens in particular think about death and suicide, but this society keeps it hidden," she says. "Death metal takes the worries that you have and shows you people in those situations. It makes you feel better about your own worries."
Katherine Ludwig, 30, the editor of Metal Maniacs, has written about different kinds of music and says death metal is more intelligent than many other genres. "Commercial metal bands have nothing to offer," she says. "They're more interested in their image."
Ludwig also says many songs have a lot to say. "I'm pretty selective about what I listen to," she says. "A lot of death metal is just cheesy. I think most fans appreciate a band that makes you think."
Bands like Sepultura have written about corruption and hypocrisy of leaders, and Dark Angel has lyrics that scream out against child molestation.
"It's about the issues of the world," explains Master's Speckmann. "It's about life, death, politics, personal experience. The world is violent and angry, and death metal is a way to express yourself."
Metal Maniacs receives hundreds of letters monthly from readers, ranging in age from 8 to 35, with most of them men in their teens and 20s, Ludwig says.
"They like death metal because it's heavy and fast and fun. They like to get together and growl the words and mosh in the living room," she says. "It's a thrill. It's sick-but people like gross things. Kids will always want something extreme."
Ben Deskins, 15, from Washington Courthouse in south central Ohio, fits the profile of a death-metal fan in all ways but appearance. Clean cut, he owns only a few death metal T-shirts; Deskins says some of his friends are surprised when they hear the music he prefers.
"You'd never know by looking at me," he says, "but I've been into death metal for about a year." Obituary, Carcass and Malevolent Creation rate high on his list because of "the way they play guitar, the drums, the voice and everything. I started out listening to Metallica and just got into heavier stuff."
As for his parents, "My mom asks me why I like it, but she doesn't say too much about it," Deskins notes. "If I started wearing chains and getting tattoos, they'd probably start to worry."
Deskins says that bands like Deicide and Morbid Angel go too far with their Satanic lyrics but he still listens to them for the music.
It's the hard-core deathdudes that go wild for Deicide. Bassist Benton says most of his fan mail is smeared in blood. "It comes from all the sickos in the world and they're excellent," Benton says.
Notes RoadRacer's Conner: "Deicide is the most over-the-top band in the world. If something (tragic) did happen (with a fan), it would scare me and make me reconsider."
Until there is proof otherwise, however, Conner sees listening to Deicide as a harmless way for kids to blow off steam. "Deicide has taken off because the kids know the band is totally serious about Satanism," he says. "The fans take pride in knowing that they support the most evil band in the world. Kids are angry. They want to go out and kill people. This way, they can get it out in a civilized manner."
Record producer and death metal guru Scott Burns, 28, sees nothing truly evil in the genre. "It's just another form of rock 'n' roll," he says. "As the years go by, things get more and more extreme. Parents thought the Beatles were extreme. Ten years ago, the Sex Pistols were extreme. Things just get bigger and bolder.
"Agreed, the topic matter could be influential, but no more than watching CNN or seeing some guy blow his brains out in a movie," says Burns. "To blame the music for a kid's problems is just an excuse. The kids are products of society long before they hear the music. Cannibal Corpse doesn't discuss anything that isn't real life."
Although Ludwig says there will always be exceptions, as a rule she doesn't believe death metal is harmful to listeners.
"Chopping up body parts and eating them is just too ridiculous," she says, even as stories of Jeffrey Dahmer made headlines across the nation. (In fact, one of the country's largest death-metal festivals took place in Milwaukee just days after the arrest of Dahmer, and several hundred of the attendees and promoters visited the Dahmer building to get photo souvenirs. Unaware of the tie-in, CNN ran a story about the large and unusual crowd of curiosity-seekers.)
Notes Ludwig: "Bands like Warrant that sing about using women are a lot more harmful because these kids hear that stuff every day-they get those messages almost unconsciously. To hear what Cannibal Corpse is saying, you have to be consciously listening.
"There is a sense of community among people who like death metal," she continues. "It's an exclusive little club because no one else has it-or wants it. It doesn't belong to the mainstream. The fans have to go and look for it, so it makes them feel they are different and special."
Greg Kot. Now Theyre Volume Dealers. Chicago Tribune April 15, 1994.
In the one-story office mall in Oakbrook Terrace, the sound of hell on earth roars from Suite A.
Inside, Mark Nawara, the 31-year-old president of Pavement Records, is blasting another tape, one of about 25 he receives each week from bands who pump out varying degrees of musical extremism-death metal, power-core, thrash.
"Fortunately, we have the corner office so no one can hear us when we crank the stereo," says the label's vice president, Lorraine Margala.
"Everyone around here is really nice, actually," Nawara says.
It doesn't hurt community relations that Nawara and Margala have a demeanor and appearance more suited for business than headbanging.
But the label's would-be artist roster is another story. "Just the other day, two guys stopped by carrying a body bag, and they dumped it on the floor," Nawara says. "Inside was a life-size mannequin holding the band's demo tape."
"It's always frightening," Margala says. "We try to head them off before they get too far."
"One guy drove all the way from Green Bay. `Here's my tape,"' Nawara adds. "They expect me to listen to it right away and then say, `Sign here."'
In operation for less than a year, Pavement has made a quick impact on the underground metal market by releasing a dozen records, ranging from locals Demented Ted to Sweden's Therion. And the success of Crowbar, a New Orleans quartet with a bulldozer bass sound that updates early Black Sabbath, has put Pavement on the indie-label map.
Crowbar's self-titled debut album was produced by Pantera's Phil Anselmo and has already sold more than 50,000 copies. The band also is opening a national tour for Pantera, whose recent album, "Far Beyond Driven," debuted at No. 1 on the pop charts. (Pantera and Crowbar play the Aragon on Wednesday.)
It's also the first record to fully benefit from a three-year distribution and marketing deal that Nawara struck with Zoo Entertainment/BMG, the Los Angeles-based major-label home of such artists as Matthew Sweet and Tool.
"We wanted a person who has his ear to the street, a passion for this particular genre of music," says Zoo president Lou Maglia. "I had a couple of other deals like this in the works, but all the other small labels needed a lot more help from us financially to get started. Mark's a professional who takes care of business on his own level very well."
"Zoo liked the fact that we keep our overhead and rent down-lower than anything they could do in New York or L.A.," Margala says.
Such marriages between major labels and indies are increasingly becoming the norm in the '90s. The majors have money, distribution and clout, while the indies have the ability to ferret out next year's hot band with their underground connections.
While Nawara has enthusiastically cultivated those connections, with fanzines and mom-and-pop record stores, he's not a fan of all the music he releases. He grew up in Hanover Park liking Cheap Trick and Genesis, and was the drummer in a local pop band with his brothers.
"I learned the business the hard way," he says. "I had a band that I thought was the greatest thing and I got slammed down at every opportunity. Watching A&R guys fast-forwarding through my tape was not fun."
But Nawara was fascinated by the business and got into management by working with a local glam-pop band, Diamond Rexx. Maglia once signed the band when he was president of Island Records, and even though the deal fell through he and Nawara forged a friendship.
Frustrated that no one else wanted to sign Diamond Rexx, Nawara started his own label, Red Light, out of his bedroom in 1989.
"I started out putting out music that I liked (pop-flavored rock) and I learned a quick lesson: even if the bands are good and the music is good, you can't sell that type of music at that level. No one's interested," he says.
"So I looked at what styles were selling on more of a street level. At that time, death metal was hot. We did a `360' and started putting that stuff out, and it worked."
Nawara had a falling out with his partner at the Des Plaines-based label, however. "I didn't feel I had control of a company that I started," he says, and formed Pavement, bringing over Margala, a former Red Light employee, as his assistant.
Although the first batch of Pavement releases is heavily skewed toward hard-core metal, Nawara hopes to diversify. He has signed an Atlanta rap-metal band, Stuck Mojo, and a Detroit group, Hinge, that he'll aim at the alternative market.
"There was a point maybe three years ago where you could release any type of death metal album and sell 7,000 to 10,000 units," he says.
"That's what we did at Red Light, signing grindcore bands cheaply because they're doing $2,000 recordings. But times are changing. Kids are more selective because the market is now saturated. ..."
"Eventually, we want to be classified as a real label, not just an underground label. Because of our affiliation with Zoo and with things happening for Crowbar, we're starting to get a lot of quality bands coming to us looking for a deal. I want to be like Atlantic or Columbia or Zoo and sell millions of records."
Nawara says he has empathy for bands looking for that first break.
"I know from personal experience that your band has to be something special or lucky to get a deal. I feel for people who put a lot of time into it and are serious. What irritates me are these bands that spend no time on it, who crank out a demo on a boom box and waste everyone's time. That happens a lot."
One sure sign of Pavement's increasingly high profile is that Nawara can no longer muster a reply to every band that writes him seeking a deal, an audition, a comment, anything.
"I want to be a nice guy," he says. "I don't like to deliver bad news to people. But it's getting too much for me. Bands call in all day long and our standard answer is, `If you don't hear from us, we're not interested.' It's brutal."
