Packing up for a long-put-off pandemic-delayed trip down to Zihuantenejo (yes, the place in Mexico that Andy Dufresne is fixated on in The Shawshank Redemption), I’ve lined up some very modern travel necessities that will end up in our luggage: FDA-approved antigen tests that will get us back into the country in time for Christmas, a nice collection of KN95 masks, my three-shot proof-of-vaccination. You know how some people say it’s about the journey? Well, that doesn’t count when talking about planes these days.

Back in my music-writing days, the air-o-plane was a place of anticipation and preparation, a mid-size carry-on of nerves, a glass of cheap wine followed by a dull headache and the curiosity about what my hotel room might look like and whether I’d packed my travel alarm clock so as not to blow whatever interview was the next day. (This was pre-device as Swiss-army do-it-all.) Some light reading about the artist or band I was going to talk to. Some listening to their music. But in the summer of 1991, there was one assignment when preparation wasn’t a thing. Bob Guccione Jr, the owner/editor-in-chief, of Spin had come up with an idea (er, gimmick) to have all the editors write down a city where a certain musical scene was happening, then he’d put them all in a hat and blindly choose where each of us would go and we’d write about it. The night before we would get a call from his assistant on what to pack and we’d be met at the airport and given our ticket. We’d smile for the camera (publicity being one-half the life of a publication) and jet off. I’d written down Tampa, Florida, where I’d heard a pretty vibrant death metal scene was blooming. I didn’t want to go to Tampa, Florida. It was just a city I knew had something weird going on. I wanted to go to New Orleans, which I knew had been thrown in the hat by another editor.

On the day of, after being told to pack for warm weather, I was handed a ticket to Tampa, Florida. Apparently, Bob had forgone the pick-from-hat idea and just sent everyone to the place they’d written down. Gah. So I went there and interviewed a lot of skinny white boys who played really grinding music with lyrics that tried to rhyme “satan” and “hatin'” and “Lucifer” and, I don’t know, “Jupiter.” I sat down in a room with Glen Benton from Deicide, one of the on-the-scene death metal bands. He had an upside-down cross burned into his forehead. Refreshed every full moon. It was a look. (I’m currently refusing to do an internet search to find out if he’s either an accountant with bangs or still working the look in the band.) I came home with a ticket for driving the wrong way down a one-way street, a lot of interviews to transcribe, and a full week’s worth of ear ringing. (If you’re curious, here’s the piece p.38.) Because it seemed I should take advantage of my tinnitus, we all thought it would be a great idea for me to immediately get back on a plane and attend an event called Milwaukee Metal Fest V. The first four Metal Fest shows had apparently been so successful they needed to have another. The line-up was a tossed salad of words that taken individually all equaled some sort of sadness and pain: demolition, malevolence, napalm, etc. When paired up, they rolled around on broken glass and shouted “I’m the best band name ever.”

I took my sorry ears to the airport for the flight to Milwaukee. I was part of a junket of journalists and because the writer from Kerrang! was wearing so much silver jewelry he took an extraordinary amount of time going through the metal detector, we barely made the flight. Once there, it was straight to the hotel, drop our stuff, and onto a shuttle to the venue. The day was bright and hot. Central Park Ballroom where the cacophony was in full swing was dark and loud. So, so loud. One note, held and sustained by growling, screaming guitars and vocals punching at each other, matched by the relentless bashing of cymbals and drums. All turned up to eleven. I’d brought earplugs and although I had a moment of shame inserting them, I did it anyway. In fact, so concerned was I that these youth were damaging their hearing irreparably, I walked up to two young men (seriously, so young) and held out my open palm with earplugs as an offering, then mimed “please take.” The horror on their face combined with the speed with which they moved away from me told me I’d made a mistake. I would not be talking to them about their love of death metal. I would instead be recognizing how old and out-of-my element I was. Ancient at thirty-one.

Wandering into the bathroom, I found my people. Scattered and lounging on the shabby once-fancy velvet couches in the anteroom connecting the ballroom to the actual sink&toilet room, a group of women were talking, doing their nails, maybe some were knitting. They were the moms. I sat down, comforted. They nodded and kept on doing whatever they were doing. Very few young women were coming in to use the toilets because there were very few of those in the audience. Every once in a while a boy would yell out “Mom, I need the car keys” or “Mom, Joey and I want to go to Burger King” and the attendant chaperone mom would rise, exit, and take care of business. I wanted to stay here all day, but that wasn’t the story I was meant to tell.

The story turned out to be something that proved how truth will always be stranger than fiction, or rather, real-life events are hands-down more interesting when they collide with culture. And being in the right place at the right time helps. Over the catering table backstage, I’d started up a conversation with the bassist for Cannibal Corpse, Alex Webster. Maybe it was because he reminded me of a character in Spinal Tap–although truth be, they all reminded me of Spinal Tap to some degree. It also helped that he was friendly in a non-creepy way. So there we were chatting when someone mentioned that the police were clearing out the house of Jeffrey Dahmer, the notorious serial killer who’d just been arrested a few days earlier. (And if you’re feeling queasy or weird about this topic, then maybe don’t read further.) His crimes were gruesome and included a fair bit of cannibalism. Well, this seemed tailor-made for a field trip. As Alex grabbed the other members, all wearing their Cannibal Corpse hats and t-shirts, they headed out the door to make the two-block walk to the crime scene. Naturally, this became a perverse Peter-Pan parade since a whole load of kids milling about in the parking lot trailed along. Reaching the house, which was yellow-police-taped off, we didn’t have to wait long before the actual refrigerator was wheeled out of his house at which point the band and all the merry muck-ruckers from the festival began cheering, then the press became very excited about the crazy symbiosis of Dahmer-crime-scene and band-name alignment so a whole lot of publicity happened. Everyone was very happy. Me, because I was back out in the sunshine and was able to read lips well enough to overcome my hearing loss, the kids because this true-crime moment was rad, man, and the band because they were getting so much press. Perfect day. That night someone pulled the fire alarm in the hotel. The next day I got back on an airplane and went home. My hearing eventually returned to (almost) full strength.

Now I travel for pleasure and despite the extra precautions and stress, my emotional carry-on is more happy anticipation than work-related adrenaline. Hopefully, every one of those boys and girls have grown into some fine adults and the moms have received a sufficiency of appreciation for the hours spent waiting for their independence. Maybe their hearing is intact. Maybe all the bands are telling their grandchildren about the wild time they went to a serial killer’s house. Real life. True stories, they’re everywhere as long as you keep your ears open.