Back in 1995, I inadvertently irked someone by wearing a metal shirt to a punk concert at the Daily Grind (long-defunct Midtown all-ages club, which operated near the more recently defunct Grand Emporium). A crusty teen with a slight limp, a stink eye and a ripe odor shambled up to me, lowered his disgusted gaze from my Mohawk to the Anthrax logo on my chest, and spat on the grinning image of that band's mascot. Advertising metal allegiances at punk shows in that era wouldn't get you bludgeone
