Metal Head (Part 1)
A man held an acoustic guitar in the playing position while standing near a tent in my local homeless encampment. His back was turned to me as he talked to a man inside the tent.
It was a gray May afternoon and I bicycled past him.
I said to myself: You gotta turn around. You gotta go deeper. You want people to go deeper with you. Do the same with a homeless person if the opportunity presents itself.
Here one was.
It was the guitar that made me do it.
I turned around and bicycled to the man. I stopped my bicycle and straddled the top tube. I reached into my pocket, fished out my wallet and found a $20 bill.
“Hello,” I called out. “I'd love to hear you perform and I'll pay you for it.”
The man turned around.
He was young and lean with short black hair and a slight beard. His guitar was a black Yamaha electric/acoustic. He wore a threadbare blue tank top, fatigue pants and a black paisley bandanna tied around his neck. Also strung around his neck were three necklaces, one of wood, one of stones, and an amulet of a satanic-looking lion. His wrists sported a dozen bracelets each.
“Sure,” the man said, “you want a cover or an original?”
“An original,” I said.
“I play metal.”
METAL!
“He fucking shreds,” said the man in the tent.
The man fingered the frets, closed his eyes, waited a few seconds, then began to play.
He strummed, picked and hammered a slow instrumental that lasted about three minutes and then stopped. Five seconds of silence elapsed and he started singing, eyes still closed, and he sang well, a song about someone emerging into a mystical kingdom after wandering in darkness and confusion. I was desperately trying to commit some of the lyrics to memory but I was so enthralled by the music that nothing stuck.
As he was performing, I thought about recording him with my phone, but decided against killing a magical moment as so many people do with phones these days.
The song ended. He opened his eyes. I clapped. The man in the tent clapped. I dug out the $20 bill, walked my bike over to him, and handed over the dough.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You're welcome. The song was incredible,” I said. “I want to take some notes. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
I whipped out a tiny notepad and scribbled some lines.
“What was the name of the song?” I said.
“Euphoric Forest,” he said.
“Can I take your picture?”
“Sure.”
He posed a rock pose. I took the picture. Rock lived.
“What's your name?” I said.
“Brendon,” he said.
I introduced myself and we shook hands.
In short order I learned Brendon was in a metal band called Apophis Theory and their music was available on Spotify and Apple Music. They were booked to play three Oregon metal festivals this summer, including one in Medford.
A MEDFORD METAL FESTIVAL!
I then asked, “So do you live here in one of the tents?”
“No,” he said, “I live over there.” He pointed in the direction of several derelict RVs surrounded by a mountain range of inexplicable accumulations. “I'm the one with all the wood, my art. You want to come over and see it?”
THIS WAS THE WOOD MAN! This was the place where I had seen the weird display of writing on plywood that I had given up trying to interpret.
“Yes, I do,” I said.