Cory's Reads #5: The Life, Death, and Rebirth of Rock and Roll
Rock music is making a comeback, but from the least likely of sources. PLUS: my top five albums of 2021 so far, and a special short story 'Black Days'
I’ve never written about music before. I envy those who do. With film, TV, video games, the words come rather naturally. Within any given image, there is endless resources to be mined for discussion and analysis. Those mediums activate several senses all at once. Music, on the other hand, is an auditory experience. What can one say about that? A lot, I know. And I intend to do just that, but I offer this first paragraph as a sort of disclaimer that what follows is a first attempt at writing about something I love very much: music.
I listen to a wide variety of genres. Rap. Folk. R&B.
My favorite, however, is rock and roll.
I’ve loved rock music for as long as I can remember. It began with my father’s love for Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen, which I eventually adopted and converted into an obsession with 1980’s hair metal. Games like Guitar Hero and Rock Band soon facilitated my deeper dive into the genre. Today, I listen to a wide variety of alternative and indie music, but most of it can be categorized as rock and roll in one form or another. I like it quiet, slow, and soulful a la Fleet Foxes or The War On Drugs. Or I like it loud, fast, and angry a la Gojira or Rise Against. In truth, some of you would probably be just a tad terrified of me if you heard some of the heavier rock and metal that I enjoy.
My interest in the louder stuff likely originates in the sort of youthful anger that we can all recognize from our adolescence. All music has the ability to convey emotion, but that is exactly what I love so much about rock and roll: the emotion. The genre places less emphasis on vocal precision or musical clarity, and through its orchestral instrumentation or complex cacophony of sounds, rock communicates a sense of sorrow, rage, and urgency rarely found elsewhere in the music world.
That’s what has made the genre’s fading relevance so tragic. I have long identified as a sort of “old soul,” the last of my generation to enjoy the rowdy riffs of Muse or the Foo Fighters (anyone who knows me knows the latter are my favorite musicians on the planet. I even have a tattoo to prove it.) Such bands still make music, but their incorporation into mainstream pop culture has become fickle if not outright nonexistent. Popular awards shows like the Grammys and VMAs may continue to recognize great rock music — Cage The Elephant’s 2020 album Social Cues remains one of my favorite of the previous decade — but have begun announcing the relevant award-winners off-air in recent years.
Rock just doesn’t sell like it used to, and that’s fine. Good rock music will always remain. Even outside of genre giants like the aforementioned groups, rock remains rife with talent. I briefly mentioned bands Dirty Honey and Greta Van Fleet in Cory’s Reads #3, and I could recommend several others...So I will.
English glam rock group The Struts and frontman Luke Spiller are the closest you could get to seeing Freddie Mercury live today. Philadelphia natives Nothing hauntingly merge hard rock and shoegaze into one of the most moving sounds in music today. I also can’t say enough good things about psychedelic rock groups like Psychedelic Porn Crumpets and Django Django, two very different bands who still share in their desire to make every song into an entire attraction, nearly tapping into senses you didn’t know music could access.
If you want something a little louder, may I suggest hard rock groups like Halestorm or The Pretty Reckless? Both bands feature a female lead singer, and the latter group is fronted by former Gossip Girl star (and Little Cindy-Lou Who) Taylor Momsen. Why Momsen and her brand of accessible, catchy metal hasn’t caught on amongst teenage girls everywhere is beyond me. She is a former television star converting that star power into something energetic and raw, yet no one seems to pay her much mind. Turn on The Pretty Reckless’ new album Death By Rock and Roll and tell me it doesn’t tap into the same sense of heartbreak and rage that Olivia Rodrigo’s SOUR does (to Rodrigo’s credit, album-opener “brutal” just might be one of the best rock songs of 2021 so far.)
Believe it or not, Rodrigo is actually a crucial character in the seeming rebirth of rock taking popular music by storm. In addition to “brutal,” single “good 4 u” is clearly influenced by rock and roll, although the song is perhaps best categorized as pop punk. Miley Cyrus’ 2020 album Plastic Hearts took more overt inspiration from glam and classic rock, featuring guest vocals from legends like Billy Idol, Joan Jett, and Stevie Nicks. The development that excites me the most comes from Willow Smith, who has adopted the artistic mononym WILLOW. Only 20 years old and somehow already releasing her fourth studio album, WILLOW has consistently innovated at every step of her career. Her music defies categorization, but if her most recent single is any indication, it seems her next album — slated for release this summer — will lean into the rock and roll sensibility that Smith’s mother, Jada Pinkett Smith, impressed upon her when she formed heavy metal band Wicked Wisdom in the early 2000s. Like the aforementioned Rodrigo tracks, “t r a n s p a r e n t s o u l” merges pop-punk and hard rock into one of the most pleasant surprises of the year. The track features Travis Barker on the drums, all but guaranteeing a headbanging affair. The single’s album art shows WILLOW dressed in jet black, holding a massive St. Vincent-style guitar. The music video similarly evokes this goth aesthetic. With new rock music coming from such unexpected sources, the future of rock seems bright once more, particularly with women of color like WILLOW finding not just commercial success, but artistic agency.
But rock is not out of the woods yet. Inexplicably, one of the biggest rock stars on the planet right now is Machine Gun Kelly. I have friends who enjoy the rapper-turned-rocker, and I will not publicly shame them in this forum, but I cannot for the life of me understand his appeal (the guy is somehow dating Megan Fox!) Whereas new rock and roll initiates seem interested in paying tribute to the genre’s past so as to usher in its future, Kelly is just...well, he’s just bad.
Perhaps even more alarming is the mass exodus of rock bands away from the genre. Hard rockers Highly Suspect delivered two of the better rock albums of the past decade with 2015’s Mister Asylum and 2016’s The Boy Who Died Wolf. Their 2019 effort MCID is still a solid album, but it offers a rather bizarre range of genres. I’m all for expanding and innovating your sound, but MCID seems to indicate an insecurity for the band as it relates to rock and roll. MCID flirts with elements of hip-hop and trap, and lead singer Johnny Stevens even raps on a few songs. Young Thug features on single “Tokyo Ghoul” as well. Again, I like the album, including its more eclectic offerings. But that one of rock’s brightest stars felt the need to betray their roots and shift towards something more mainstream is rather disappointing. Alternative rock/grunge legends Smashing Pumpkins similarly treaded into new territory with 2020’s Cyr, which adopts a synth-pop sound in what lead singer Billy Corgan has openly described as an attempt to achieve something a bit more “contemporary.” I actually enjoyed Cyr much more than the last several Smashing Pumpkins albums, so perhaps Corgan’s intuition was correct. But the fact remains that rock and roll is losing relevance, perhaps even profitability. It’s an unsettling proposition for a genre that has been unwavering in its commitment to asking tough questions and eliciting taboo emotions.
Nevertheless, rock will persist. It has to. And if 2021 is any indication, plenty of worthwhile rock and roll remains. Here are my top five albums of 2021 so far (spoiler alert: several rock albums lie ahead...)
5. Roosevelt - Polydans
Ok, so I lied. The first album in my countdown is not much of a rock album at all. But it is a great one, filled with just about every other genre imaginable. I suppose Polydans is an electronic album at its core, but it also dabbles in alternative, disco, and maybe even a little bit of yacht rock. “Easy Way Out” is an ideal album-opener, evoking the synth-pop of the 1980’s and daring listeners not to dance their heart out. The album’s third track, “Feels Right,” is my personal favorite, promising a degree of joy that feels nearly impossible in the era of COVID-19. Indeed, German artist Roosevelt crafted this album over the past year, and its vibrant patterns still feel out of place in our uncertain world. But as normalcy slowly returns, Polydans is waiting for us with open arms.
4. Psychedelic Porn Crumpets - SHYGA! The Sunlight Mound
I paid due to this bizarrely named band earlier, but their latest album deserves recognition here as well. It’s a shame the Guitar Hero franchise isn’t as popular as it once was; just about every song on SHYGA! would make for the perfect challenge in the rhythm game. Indeed, guitarists Jack McEwan and Luke Parish rip through each track on the album with reckless abandon, shifting from tightly controlled riffs on early album entries like “Tally-Ho” and “Mr. Prism,” towards more freeform, improvised displays in “Hats off to the Green Bins” and “Mango Terrarium.” And for a band whose name indicates you could never share their music with your parents, SHYGA! offers surprising accessibility. No matter how expansive and psychedelic the Australian group gets with their latest effort, each track maintains a sort of pop sensibility, just as likely to plant itself inside your head for days as it is to force you into direct confrontation with your existence. Nevertheless, even as Psychedelic Porn Crumpets churn out catchy tunes and indulge fans of similar yet more refined groups like Pond, Tame Impala, and King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard (there must be something in the water over in Australia), the band maintains the signature sloppiness, fuzziness, explosiveness that has defined the group since their debut in 2014.
3. The Antlers - Green to Gold
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who spent the last seven years impatiently awaiting the next album from Brooklyn indie rockers The Antlers, and those who have never even heard of them. No doubt, once you have been acquainted with the band, it is nearly impossible not to become a diehard fan. I first discovered the group in 2009 via their acclaimed album Hospice, one of the most devastating and authentic concept albums ever created. 2011’s Burst Apart holds a similarly special place in my heart, featuring my absolute favorite song by the band: “Putting the Dog to Sleep.” On each and every album, The Antlers progenitor Peter Silberman weaves together a complex tapestry of instrumentation and emotion, and Green to Gold is no exception. It is a decidedly more pleasant offering than anything the band has put together in the past, but it is no less hypnotic. Title track “Green to Gold” perfectly captures the natural setting of the summertime, while “It Is What It Is” evokes a strange kind of sorrow beneath the hot summer sun. I wouldn’t blame you for blasting EDM and bubblegum pop this summer, but give Green to Gold a chance as well, and sink just a little deeper beneath the weight of the summer’s hot air.
2. Django Django - Glowing in the Dark
2021 has been a spectacular year for psychedelic rock. British art rockers Django Django have been churning out eclectic psychedelia since their inception in 2009. Each offering from the group dabbles in a different subgenre, with their most recent adopting a sort of rockabilly sensibility. Like much of Django Django’s discography, Glowing in the Dark incorporates elements of electronic music, culminating in one of the most unforgettable sounds of the year. Title track “Glowing in the Dark” leans most heavily towards electronic rock, but “Kick The Devil Out” and “Got Me Worried” miraculously merge the album’s many genres into a singular juggling act. Every song on Glowing in the Dark is an opportunity to dance, cry, and reflect all at once.
1. Manchester Orchestra - The Million Masks Of God
Manchester Orchestra just might be one of the greatest bands on the planet. It’s been that way since they debuted their careful blend of emo, folk, and indie rock with 2006’s I’m Like a Virgin Losing a Child. Back then, the band displayed a fiery brand of rock that felt right at home on the soundtrack of EA Sports’ NHL 08, where I first discovered them. Over the years, the Atlanta natives have experimented with various sounds, always maintaining a quiet rage that would often bubble beneath — and perhaps even burst from — the surface. The Million Masks of God is no exception, as lead singer and chief songwriter Andy Hull offers complex interrogations of religion and spirituality. There is a sense of despair, but also urgency, in every track on the album, including the adrenaline-pumping “Keel Timing” and the calming “Way Back.” The album has a cinematic quality to it, each song building upon one another in anticipation of a climactic finale. Indeed, the band itself has described The Million Masks of God as a “movie album,” meant to be digested in a single sitting. Lyrical phrases and funky riffs repeat themselves on several tracks. “I will not repeat myself,” Hull croons first on “Keel Timing” and then again, ironically, on “Dinosaur.” The repetition is tragic, but also inspiring, as the band searches for answers to their grief, their trauma, where no such answers may exist. Manchester Orchestra has put together one of the most affecting and uncertain albums in recent memory, a true musical journey. It also features the coolest album art of 2021, a monumental achievement in every way.
Honorable Mentions: Gojira - Fortitude, Rise Against - Nowhere Generation, Foo Fighters - Medicine at Midnight, Dante Elephante - Mid-Century Romance, The Pretty Reckless - Death By Rock and Roll, Small Black - Cheap Dreams, Crumb - Ice Melt
If you’ve made it this far, congratulations! And thank you, truly. I appreciate every reader more than I can ever express. The harsh truth, however, is that I need more of them. And I can’t get there without you. At risk of sounding desperate, I kindly ask that those of you still reading share this week’s newsletter, or any others that you found worthwhile. It’s easy to do so; I’ll even provide a nice little button to help you in 3, 2, 1...
Because it feels relevant, I have decided to tack on a short story I wrote to the end of this week’s newsletter. I cannot guarantee it is any good, and you will be the very first people to read it, but I hope it captures the chaos, the confusion, and the creativity inherent in rock and roll, and why I love the genre as much as I do. Here is “Black Days.” Thank you for reading.
BLACK DAYS
When Travis was little, his parents potty-trained him by placing Cheerios in the toilet bowl and telling him to aim accordingly.
Cheerios then became Froot Loops, because Travis liked those more. Eventually, Froot Loops became Cheerios again, only of the Honey Nut variety.
Today, Travis aims at an imaginary Apple Jack in the urinal as he takes a piss in the men’s room on the upper level of the Wells Fargo Center, heavy metal blaring in the distance.
He doesn’t even like metal that much; he listened to that shit when he was a much angstier teen, but he didn’t want to disappoint his dad when he received the tickets last week as a gift for his 23rd birthday.
Of course, he doesn’t dislike metal either. There is a certain anger, a certain urgency, in the music that speaks to Travis just as much today as it did several years ago.
He asked a girl to accompany him to the concert at first.
“My dad got me tickets,” he began. “They’re called Urth with a ‘U.’ Give them a listen and let me know what you think.”
Her name was Kristen. He had met her at a bar, and because Travis was beginning to think that sort of thing only happened in movies, he quickly convinced himself their encounter must have meant something.
She approached him. He had noticed her in the corner of his eye all night, but he wouldn’t dare approach her. Again, that kind of thing only happens in movies.
She took his glasses off of his face, without even asking, and put them on her own.
“I love your glasses,” she said.
“You mean your glasses?” Travis responded to the blonde blur in front of him.
Kristen laughed and told Travis her name. Travis gave her his name in return. An even trade.
“You’re, like, really blind,” Kristen said. “I can’t see shit.”
“Well, you look really great,” Travis said, red in the face.
They bantered and exchanged numbers and Kristen spoke to a few more guys that night, fulfilling several other movie-inspired fantasies. Travis noticed, but didn’t mind. It wasn’t his place to mind. He knew that.
He also knew Kristen probably didn’t listen to heavy metal, but that didn’t stop him from texting her a couple days later, reminding her of his invitation to the show.
Kristen explained how she wasn’t actually from Philadelphia, only visiting a friend.
“Otherwise I totally would go!” her text read.
So as Travis shakes his penis and slips it back inside the waistband of his just-short-of-black jeans, he thinks about how he’ll never see Kristen again, and how he has to walk back outside and pretend to enjoy catching up with his childhood friend Danny, who Travis hadn’t spoken to in five years.
“Why don’t you invite Danny?” Travis’s father suggested. “You guys still talk, right?”
Travis stares at his hands as he washes them. They’re probably as clean as they’re going to get by now, but he continues to let the cool water envelop them. A much older man approaches the sink next to him, gives his hands a quick rinse, and walks away.
Travis didn’t know why, but he hated that guy. Like, really hated him. Did he even use soap? Fuck that guy.
But Travis hated a lot of things. He hated sour candy and Brisk iced tea and the way he could see every follicle of hair on his face when he looked into the mirror. He hated men with confidence and women without it. He hated his mom for scrubbing the inside of his fish tank with dish soap, slowly poisoning Ketchup and Mustard in the process.
That was more than a decade ago, of course, and yet Travis hated his mom a hell of a lot more for that than he did for moving halfway across the country with Howard Shepard who used to live across the street with his daughter Nancy.
Nancy killed herself just days after the revelation, reuniting with her mother Patricia in the heavens above.
At least that’s how Travis’ dad always described it. Travis knew Nancy was now just a decaying assortment of guts and bones, crammed into an expensive coffin and buried alongside her mother at the cemetery behind the old Episcopalian church on Jefferson Street. That was no reunion.
“What took you so long?” Danny asks, his knee bent and one foot propped up against the painted cement lining the arena walls. Travis is in the midst of his own reunion, one he never had much desire for in the first place.
“Long line,” Travis mutters, nevermind the empty bathroom behind him.
“You wanna grab a beer real quick?” Danny asks. “Band’s gonna be on soon.”
Danny thrusts himself forward and does a strange sort of spin. He’s grown a lot chubbier, Travis notices, since he and Travis were in high school together. Travis didn’t mind, and Danny most certainly didn’t either, munching away at his third soft pretzel of the night. Danny’s stomach bobs up and down as the long-lost friends make their way towards a nearby concession stand.
Here, long lines are a genuine concern.
The boys pass the time with general chit-chat, feigning interest in each other’s lives. Or at least that’s how Travis imagines it. Maybe he actually fucking cares, Travis considers, his own thoughts nearly drowning out the sound of the night’s opening act, not to mention the voice of his corpulent companion.
“You still think about her?” Danny asked. Suddenly, small talk begins to grow, and Travis feels the weight of the entire stadium lifting upwards and downwards, his heartbeat racing to keep up with the heavy drums and even heavier basslines drilling themselves into his skull.
Travis knew who Danny was talking about. He just didn’t understand why he’d bring her up. Why here, of all places?
Sure, they were buddies once upon a time, but this is now.
Back in high school, Travis and Danny might have climbed the fence into the abandoned baseball field behind the community center, sat down on the cold steel bleachers, and passed a joint back and forth, periodically scanning their surroundings for a nearby police officer. Back then, between sour coughs and through icy tears, Travis might have fantasized about planting a soft kiss on Nancy Shepard’s cheek, about asking the DJ to cut the music at senior prom so he could grab the mic and profess his love for the girl he had known since he was six years old.
Danny came out to Travis on those bleachers, explained how he grew rock hard whenever Conor — the distant third member of their group — agreed to skip volleyball practice and tag along.
“I think I have a thing for blonde guys,” Danny once said. “The dirtier the better.”
It was at these moments when Travis would take an unusually long drag from the joint, suck the smoke deep inside his chest, and let it hover just above his heart. Only when Danny was done talking would Travis release.
“I always thought Conor’s hair was brown,” he’d finally say.
When Conor was around, the conversations were the same but different.
Travis still raved about Nancy. “Her tits looked so good today.”
And the boys still took long, painful drags whenever Danny spoke. “Dude, Mr. Finkel gives the hardest exams.”
When Nancy died, Travis thought a lot about those smoke sessions with Conor and Danny. All the promises he made. All the lies he told.
Everything Travis ever said by the abandoned baseball field behind the community center was bullshit. Idiotic, really. He had known Nancy for years. He had loved her for most of them. What made him think he was finally going to do something about it during his senior year of high school?
And what made Danny think it was OK to bring that up now?
Perhaps fortunately, Travis didn’t even have a chance to respond. The boys reach the front of the line, and the clerk hollers at them to approach the titanium counter in front of them.
“Two beers,” Danny says with a smile, swinging his left leg out in front of him and turning two steps into one.
The clerk, whose nametag reads “Shawn,” leans down to retrieve two plastic cups, and quickly begins filling them with Yuengling Light. Shawn is a tall, lanky black man with small black studs on both his ears. Tattoos run down each of his arms, and another one peeks out from the collar of his bright red polo, running up the side of his neck. It says “KORDELL” in big, blocky cursive lettering. Who died, Travis wonders.
“Y’all really fuck with them?” Shawn asks, sliding the two Yuenglings past the cash register and towards his customers. He lifts his chin, using it to point to a sprawling black sign hanging from the rafters just behind Travis and Danny.
“URTH,” it reads. “THE BROKEN ROSE WORLD TOUR.” Situated between the letters is a sketch of a decaying flower — it doesn’t look particularly like a rose — and a naked woman crouched over it, a single tear falling from her eyes. Travis hadn’t ever actually seen the cover art for the band’s latest album, hadn’t listened to it either. He was hoping they’d play the hits, the ones that soundtracked his long-forgotten youth. If Shawn had heard those songs, grown up with them the way Travis had, he wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.
Of course they fucked with Urth. But there was a bitterness in Shawn’s voice that forced Travis’ cheeks to turn red and his forehead to grow hot, then cold, then hot again.
“I used to,” Travis briefly explains, but before he can say anymore, Shawn nods, smiles, and shouts “NEXT!”
Travis and Danny soon make their way towards Section 203, Row J, Seats 1 and 2. Nosebleeds. Up in the rafters with the banners and cobwebs. And right at the end of the row, where you gotta stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down, for all the drunk idiots coming to and fro.
Thanks Dad, Travis thinks to himself.
“Since when did you stop listening to Urth?” Danny asks, shock stretched across his fleshy face.
“College,” Travis answers. He takes a sip of his beer. It feels cold in his mouth, warm in his stomach. He takes another.
“Let me guess,” Danny begins. Here we fucking go, Travis says to himself. He longed for a joint. He wanted to inhale more smoke than his lungs could muster. He wanted to break out coughing, crying, choking, laughing.
“You’re into that hip-hop and pop shit now?” Danny continues. “That feel-good, groovy, sugar-sweet, basement-blaring bullshit?”
“I-”
“Gotta be honest,” Danny says. “I never really saw that coming for you. Conor, maybe. But not you. You and I were the metalheads! We used to be really fucking angry. Sure, everyone else could listen to songs about bubblegum and lollipops, but you and I always knew music had to fucking mean something. You had to feel it.” Danny lifts his cup to his mouth and tilts it, letting the beer sit against his upper lip. We felt it,” he finally adds, lowering the cup, still filled to the brim.
Travis knocks the rest of his beer back and smiles. “Dramatic as ever,” he says. In a way, he really had missed this aspect of his and Danny’s friendship. The passion. The enthusiasm. The poetry.
“This new album is really good by the way,” Danny says. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Travis nods.
“Means a lot,” Danny adds.
And Travis nods.
“I think you’d...you know...fuck with it.”
Travis nods, sucking in the stench of hot dogs and cotton candy wafting over from some shitty little kid just a few rows ahead.
“Might even help you get over all that Nancy stuff,” Danny says, like he’d been building up to such a stupid comment all night long. Travis stops nodding, stops sucking. He lifts his empty plastic cup to his lips and searches for just one more drop of Yuengling Light, but to no avail.
Nancy stuff? Nancy stuff? Danny was treading dangerous waters. Had he not experienced a single thing since the boys last spoke? High school was over, long gone. Same goes for Nancy. The same even went for Travis’ mother, who speaks with her son’s answering machine on a weekly basis. Travis had imagined Danny was out of his life as well. What made him think inviting him back into it was a good idea?
“I’m sorry, I…” Danny says, beginning to realize his mistake.
“There is no fucking ‘Nancy stuff,’” Travis says. “There is no fucking Nancy! She’s gone. Poof! No more! Why would you bring up someone that is no more? There is quite literally nothing to be said. Not by you, not by me, and most certainly not by a fucking metal band!”
This time, Travis gets the luxury of the final word, as the lights dim and the feedback of an amplifier begins to fill the room.
Danny mouths something, could have been anything, and leans his head on Travis’ shoulder. Travis doesn’t budge, even as he feels his shirt grow damp.
The members of Urth pour out onstage, their long, curly hair somehow already dripping with sweat. Travis once grew his hair out like that, Danny too. Danny’s mother hated it, cut it herself. Travis’ dad barely even noticed.
The band grows louder. Louder. Louder. Louder. Danny remains stuck to Travis’ shirt, the former friends glued together with tears and miscommunications. Travis imagines Kristen, the girl from the bar, in Danny’s place. What did she look like again? Her face is a floating blob in Travis’ head. He tries and tries to reach back to that night, desperately aching to replace Danny with someone who lacked a Y chromosome.
There she is. Not Kristen, but Nancy.
“No, not her!” Travis shouts. Someone alive please, he pleads to himself.
Danny lifts his head, rises to his feet, and lifts his fist into the sky, pointing his pinky and pointer fingers towards the ceiling. Travis looks up at his old friend, at the sweat dripping down the nape of his neck and settling along the collar of his black denim jacket. Danny looks down at him and smiles. It’s almost evil. Angry, mostly. Travis recognizes it, and offers a similar smile in return. Soon, both boys are on their feet, bending their knees and sending their fists high into the air.
Travis imagines Danny leaning in and kissing him on the lips. He wants to slap himself for thinking like that. He used to judge Conor for that sort of stuff.
“He wants to fuck me, I swear,” Conor would say.
“You’re such a douche,” Travis would remind him.
The thing is, Travis sort of wanted Danny to do it. He wouldn’t stop him. He’d kiss him back. Not because he liked him or anything. It’d be an angry kiss, if anything. He’d do it out of fury, out of rage. It’s the same reason he begins to imagine Nancy bouncing up and down on top of him. Or his mother tucking him in at night when he was young. It all comes to him at once, a whirlwind of Travis’ past, present, and paramnesia. He’d fuck Danny. He’d also kill him. He’d kiss him and he’d knee him in the balls; it didn’t matter, really.
Travis bends his elbow, sending his fist up and down, up and down. He screams. And screams. And screams.
Maybe Travis really did fuck with this metal music, after all.