Fuck Metal heads.

God, I am so fucking sick of rueful little high school imps trolling the mall, dragging their noisy, black parachute pants through Sears as though it is their right to be noticed, to be wanted. At least Punk channeled its discontent towards an ontic source, rather than the soft, addled bullshit of ‘society.’ Kid, listen, you don’t have to go to church. The varsity football team is not your enemy. Yes, Mr. Tribby is “like, the worst” Geometry teacher ever hired, but you had him 2 years ago. What’s worse, if these three examples comprise the roots of your angst and have you spending 90% of your weekly allowance at Hot Topic, get the fuck out.

And then there’s the music. Holy shit what a colossal lobotomy that noise is. It’s not even about content at all, really. If the band name or album title contain cute little consonant twists like Korn, Linkin, Bizkit or, better yet, words which are phonetically sexy like Evanescence, Cumbersome, or Vermillion then you just bust a nut. You still think that a few brazen chords from an amped out electric gee-tar in tandem with some sweaty choad screaming ‘BLARGH! DEATH! MURDER! I’M SO SAD! BLARGH’ ad infinitum will give you heavy. Bitches, you’ve never heard Death From Above 1979.

Don’t be fooled, girls, Sebastian Granger and Jesse Keeler aren’t some chain-smoking garage duo, and I hear you snickering and asking, “But how can Canadians be Metal?” That’s your first mistake: confounding heavy, which is an attribute, with a specific genre. But everything about You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine is ridiculously heavy. Sebastian plays the drums and Jesse plays bass. No, there are no lead guitars because those instruments are for pussies. Yeah, I said it. Pussies. And please, don’t try to make Sebastian into some Phil Collins revivalist because I can guarantee you that Mr. Collins would not want to feel their shit coming in the air tonight. And no, don’t try to say this is Drum and Bass because it isn’t. This is heavy, so put away your Jonathan Davis shrines and listen up.

Drossed is the machismo posturing and insecure jock routine common with Metal today. The album cover is pink not because they are somehow dainty, but because it so aptly summarizes the speed, sweat, stress, and sex of You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine. The marrying of force and intricacy cannot be underestimated as both are trailed everywhere on the album first in the lyrics, as on those found on ‘Blood On Our Hands:’ “From the bedroom, where we're running from/There's a sequel to the things I've done/You're a woman, we both know it's true/By the things that I have done to you/There is blood on all the shoes you've worn/From the people you've been stepping on/There is blood in all the things you say/I won't hate you if you go away.” Such a marriage is heard again with the music itself, Keeler’s distorted, rampaging bass punching at the sky at certain points like ‘Romantic Rights’ and Granger’s drum set remains thoroughly uncensored, his hi-hats echoing metallically long after a song is finished.

So keep your Disturbed and Godsmack LPs if you truly think that loud = heavy. You’re no good at music or fashion so it makes sense that your logic sucks too. But I dare you to listen to ‘Black History Month’ and remain unimpressed by the song’s intimidating nascency, genuinely brooding bridge, and bombastic ending. I dare you. I dare you to take back all the shit you said about Dance-Punk being for ‘fags’ after you hear ‘Sexy Results.’ I. Dare. You. And I know that if you say the music has no effect on you then you’re a goddamn liar. Because the next time I see you at JC Penny you’ll have a little less eyeliner, a little more swing in your step, and the hints of a good night before.