I went through a serious MANOWAR phase as a kid. The only thing I can remember about them now is that I was once a young guitar tech for a local bar band that opened for them—I was well under age, but employed and privy.
It was a moderately sized club gig. The band had all this martial arts sparring equipment backstage—the body bags, the gloves, the footpads—piled everywhere, unused.
I was trying to untie my stomach when the bass player stood up and told me he needed to leave for a bit. He said that if anything was moved or missing when he got back, he was kicking my ass.
The needle scraped hard across the record in my brain. These hulky gods of metal, who brought holy war and death to false practitioners of the art were, in reality, just four queeny, preeny dudes with neatly manicured chest hair sitting backstage making muscles into mirrors—complaining about everything.
There is a loss in this sort of understanding; it isn’t anything that anyone can tell you. I didn't say a word in return—and I don't think I ever listened to another MANOWAR record after that.
an ISLAND of FIFTY