By FLANNERY CASHILL
What's remarkable about this cruddy, photocopied group shot of Iron Maiden?
Admittedly, this picture is worth one thousand words, including "whoa," "holy shit," and "shit yeah, Maiden." Behold a band that can weather the atmospheric pressure of this bleak, alien landscape and still stand, arms akimbo, on the frontier of a new world. Behold the bullet belts, hovercrafts, and Nick McBrain's "Coke Is It!" visor. But most importantly, behold Bruce Dickinson, and his souvenir from the heartland!
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I was just in Italy, and it's the weirdest thing: metal is fuckin' huge there. Huge. Instead of some disaffected wankers trolling the piazzas, chicks wearing black lipstick and assorted piercings sit around in Cannibal Corpse t-shirts smoking ciggies. And instead of Jack Johnson's lollipop head gracing the cover of their Rolling Stone, it's that creepy Maiden skeleton dude giving the finger. But instead of a finger it's a lit candle, dripping wax all over your soul. It's so tough.
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