I’m Fifteen and I Know EverythinG
In 1990, I’m fifteen years old and I think I’ve got it all figured out.
Sure, girls are complicated, and friends (when they exist) are mostly imaginary.
But me? I’m a SON OF METAL (tm) (c) and I know exactly how the demon of existence is meant to be silenced. We’re going to shut its mouth, hard, with tremolos. Shut it up good, that bloated bastard.
Sure, girls are complicated, and friends (when they exist) are mostly imaginary.
But me? I’m a SON OF METAL (tm) (c) and I know exactly how the demon of existence is meant to be silenced. We’re going to shut its mouth, hard, with tremolos. Shut it up good, that bloated bastard.
Welcome to Neuilly-Plaisance (Population: Despair)
Back then, I still live with my parents in a modest suburban home, tucked away in a deceptively cheerful town somewhere between the Desert of the Tartars, the Bermuda Triangle, and Area 51.
The town is called Neuilly-Plaisance. No joke. That’s the name. And for the uninitiated: the delicate little hyphen between Neuilly and Plaisance plants the place squarely in the heart of urban desolation: Seine-Saint-Denis, aka “93.” (This was before people cheerfully started calling it Neuf-Trois and hordes of hipsters would claim the territory as "New Brooklyn".)
We're talking a very different timeline, so lower your eyes, son. Abandon all hope, ye who board the RER A here.
Ignore the daily procession of anonymous barbarians in XXL rags, crossing paths with your frail self along the manicured flowerbeds of the commuter rail, ironically named Lamarck Way in honor of the good Chevalier Jean-Baptiste de Lamarck, whose theories on adaptability would be violently confirmed by a memory burned into my teenage brain: a woman, relieving herself on the platform, through the left leg of her pink tracksuit.
The next day, same woman, same spot, same outfit: this time, she is taking a dump.
The town is called Neuilly-Plaisance. No joke. That’s the name. And for the uninitiated: the delicate little hyphen between Neuilly and Plaisance plants the place squarely in the heart of urban desolation: Seine-Saint-Denis, aka “93.” (This was before people cheerfully started calling it Neuf-Trois and hordes of hipsters would claim the territory as "New Brooklyn".)
We're talking a very different timeline, so lower your eyes, son. Abandon all hope, ye who board the RER A here.
Ignore the daily procession of anonymous barbarians in XXL rags, crossing paths with your frail self along the manicured flowerbeds of the commuter rail, ironically named Lamarck Way in honor of the good Chevalier Jean-Baptiste de Lamarck, whose theories on adaptability would be violently confirmed by a memory burned into my teenage brain: a woman, relieving herself on the platform, through the left leg of her pink tracksuit.
The next day, same woman, same spot, same outfit: this time, she is taking a dump.
My Berlin Wall: Two Speakers and a Record Shelf
Let’s close the doors of the RER for now and run. Run home, barricade myself in a world where everything makes sense: a small, sealed room with two high-fidelity speakers and a mountain of music.
Here it is, reader: my Berlin Wall. My fortress.
Welcome to my record collection.
Cassettes, vinyl, CDs: nothing flashy, but all of it meticulously curated. Alphabetized by genre and artist (let’s be clear: bands starting with The don’t go under T. That’s for amateurs). My ears, back then, are perfectly tuned and wide open—to every major strain of 20th-century meta, I mean: Swedish death, German speed, American power, British prog-heavy. My Metal Monomania is the height of eclecticism.
Elitist, me? Oh yes.
And whenever my Marshall amp head starts to falter at the back of the sonic battalion (i.e. I run out of records to play), I gather the mandatory 25 Francs, stop the Panzer march, jump on the RER and go trade spare parts at Parallèles (75001). I go there twice a week. Although I must confess the Forum des Halles of the times is almost as welcoming as Seine-Saint-Denis. Especially in winter.
Here it is, reader: my Berlin Wall. My fortress.
Welcome to my record collection.
Cassettes, vinyl, CDs: nothing flashy, but all of it meticulously curated. Alphabetized by genre and artist (let’s be clear: bands starting with The don’t go under T. That’s for amateurs). My ears, back then, are perfectly tuned and wide open—to every major strain of 20th-century meta, I mean: Swedish death, German speed, American power, British prog-heavy. My Metal Monomania is the height of eclecticism.
Elitist, me? Oh yes.
And whenever my Marshall amp head starts to falter at the back of the sonic battalion (i.e. I run out of records to play), I gather the mandatory 25 Francs, stop the Panzer march, jump on the RER and go trade spare parts at Parallèles (75001). I go there twice a week. Although I must confess the Forum des Halles of the times is almost as welcoming as Seine-Saint-Denis. Especially in winter.
The Birth of a Fanzine
Collecting music is fun, but passive. You’ve got to keep your hands busy. And no, not even constant masturbation fills the gap.
That’s when the bolt of inspiration hits: I’ll write a fanzine. I’ll add my voice to the glorious underground chorus of self-published zealots, hellbent on making their mark in the sweaty, glorious history of amateur writing hour.
At the time, the French scene is still behind its American or German counterparts: low grade bands, zero infrastructure, only a few publications. A niche begging to be occupied. So I pounce. I dig up my parents’ old typewriter, choose a featherweight pseudonym (Scumdog), and fire off dozens of search-and-destroy interviews aimed at bands even shyer than me: Penetrator, Witches (…moist fingers, trembling gaze… I’m writing to a girl band, dear God), Broken Fear from goddamn Corbeil Mordid Death City [sic]…
Each issue features philosophical debates about whether Floridian death metal is superior to German thrash, or if Gulf War I was truly justified. Serious stuff only.
Deadline in 45 minutes. No copying, Gunther.
That’s when the bolt of inspiration hits: I’ll write a fanzine. I’ll add my voice to the glorious underground chorus of self-published zealots, hellbent on making their mark in the sweaty, glorious history of amateur writing hour.
At the time, the French scene is still behind its American or German counterparts: low grade bands, zero infrastructure, only a few publications. A niche begging to be occupied. So I pounce. I dig up my parents’ old typewriter, choose a featherweight pseudonym (Scumdog), and fire off dozens of search-and-destroy interviews aimed at bands even shyer than me: Penetrator, Witches (…moist fingers, trembling gaze… I’m writing to a girl band, dear God), Broken Fear from goddamn Corbeil Mordid Death City [sic]…
Each issue features philosophical debates about whether Floridian death metal is superior to German thrash, or if Gulf War I was truly justified. Serious stuff only.
Deadline in 45 minutes. No copying, Gunther.
Sacre à la Tronçonneuse
And lo, the fanzine is born. I baptize it Sacre à la Tronçonneuse in a moment of divine inspiration. A friend from school draws the cover. A Dutch pen pal (whom I’ll never meet) chips in. The layout is done. Time for printing.
Thankfully, my dad’s office copier is shockingly cooperative—perhaps he saw a budding journalist in his son and chose to ignore our doomed attempts at humor:
“Black... and Decker” (next to an interracial VHS porn movie cover)
“Even Dead… You Laughed” (for a Mortuary tribute, of course.) Gasp.
Thankfully, my dad’s office copier is shockingly cooperative—perhaps he saw a budding journalist in his son and chose to ignore our doomed attempts at humor:
“Black... and Decker” (next to an interracial VHS porn movie cover)
“Even Dead… You Laughed” (for a Mortuary tribute, of course.) Gasp.
Love Letters and Tape-Stuffed Envelopes
The best part of it all? The mailbox.
Back then, if you're in the scene, you get a lot of mail. Zillions of people from everywhere send you something. Tapes, letters, flyers, hand-decorated envelopes. It’s the highlight of my day.
Some letters even come with stamps I must return, after soaking off the postmark with a giant, loving lick over Marianne’s patriotic cheek (emotion, I swear). It's an old trick. The glue helps you wash off the Post Office's Seal of Finitude, and your stamp is good as new. The lifecycle of letters can begin again.
Other packages include rare treasures... International Reply Coupons, or IRCs: a flimsy rectangle of paper that doubles as currency for sending tapes to far-flung lands. I sometimes envy my Parisian peers: they get two postal deliveries a day. Bastards.
Back then, if you're in the scene, you get a lot of mail. Zillions of people from everywhere send you something. Tapes, letters, flyers, hand-decorated envelopes. It’s the highlight of my day.
Some letters even come with stamps I must return, after soaking off the postmark with a giant, loving lick over Marianne’s patriotic cheek (emotion, I swear). It's an old trick. The glue helps you wash off the Post Office's Seal of Finitude, and your stamp is good as new. The lifecycle of letters can begin again.
Other packages include rare treasures... International Reply Coupons, or IRCs: a flimsy rectangle of paper that doubles as currency for sending tapes to far-flung lands. I sometimes envy my Parisian peers: they get two postal deliveries a day. Bastards.
Tape-Trading: A Beautiful Addiction
As my personal fanzine era winds down, a new one, even more obsessive, takes over: tape trading.
Copies of copies of 4-track demos, passed around like sacred relics from bands doomed to eternal obscurity. And I love it. Even today, I can hear the howls of now-fifty-something comrades, trapped in the beautiful spiral of endless accumulation. Why write about bands when I could just catalog them?
Tapes, neatly filed in 90-minute blocks of CrO₂. Lists, coded in obsessive Typescript, become the lifeblood of closed-loop trades. Slow as hell, pre-56k, but efficient enough to keep the Metal Internationale spinning.
Honestly, why even go outside?
To meet girls?
Are you insane?
Copies of copies of 4-track demos, passed around like sacred relics from bands doomed to eternal obscurity. And I love it. Even today, I can hear the howls of now-fifty-something comrades, trapped in the beautiful spiral of endless accumulation. Why write about bands when I could just catalog them?
Tapes, neatly filed in 90-minute blocks of CrO₂. Lists, coded in obsessive Typescript, become the lifeblood of closed-loop trades. Slow as hell, pre-56k, but efficient enough to keep the Metal Internationale spinning.
Honestly, why even go outside?
To meet girls?
Are you insane?
Girls Are Dirty. Metal Is Clean.
Any well-raised ’90s high-schooler knows: girls carry deadly diseases. Worse than the bootleg Mexican 7-inch of Carcass’s Live in Bradford (St. George’s Hall, 15.11.89, EX-).
Girls are filthy. Metal is pure.
End of story.
Girls are filthy. Metal is pure.
End of story.
The Final Notes of the Fanzine Era
Eventually, the demon of fanzine-making seduces me one last time. Twice, in fact.
This time I shall write in English, to show off a bit at parties I’d started dragging myself to (hormones, of course). This is how Faith? happens (one issue), then Power & Might (three newsletters), which mark the last sputters of my underground publishing career.
Personal computers arrive. There’s one in my room, complete with Civilization. My creative drive is officially dead.
And then someone whispers a rumor: a device called a modem, connected to your computer via the phone line, can give you access to a global data network: the internet!!!
This is the end of the world as we knew it.
I stumble into a half-hearted sex life.
I meet real, actual musicians.
I start thinking about new things.
Like moving to Paris with my girlfriend (o the irony).
Like performing onstage, mic in hand.
...The overburdened mailmen of Neuilly-Plaisance can finally rest easy.
This time I shall write in English, to show off a bit at parties I’d started dragging myself to (hormones, of course). This is how Faith? happens (one issue), then Power & Might (three newsletters), which mark the last sputters of my underground publishing career.
Personal computers arrive. There’s one in my room, complete with Civilization. My creative drive is officially dead.
And then someone whispers a rumor: a device called a modem, connected to your computer via the phone line, can give you access to a global data network: the internet!!!
This is the end of the world as we knew it.
I stumble into a half-hearted sex life.
I meet real, actual musicians.
I start thinking about new things.
Like moving to Paris with my girlfriend (o the irony).
Like performing onstage, mic in hand.
...The overburdened mailmen of Neuilly-Plaisance can finally rest easy.
Powered by Weebly