Pete Steele and Type O Negative had a monumental impact on me during my formative years. When I say formative, I'm referring to the ages of 15 through about 20. The years when I felt, as most adolescent boys I imagine, incurably schizophrenic. At once powerless, yet imbued with limitless vitality. Able to laugh for hours with friends at the most trivial and silly things and able to turn around after they had left and sink into the lowest, most brooding depression's of my life. It was at the onset of puberty and the beginning of my dealing with the opposite sex. It was at this time, shortly after picking the Bass guitar as my instrument of choice and when music was the most important thing in my life that I discovered Type O Negative.
I was watching Headbangers Ball every Saturday night and caught the video's for the truncated versions of Christian Woman and Black No. 1. Needless to say, as a young horror film and heavy metal fan, I fell instantly in love with everything about the band and their music. They were dark, romantic, Gothic, bad ass and seemingly in on the joke. I bought every magazine featuring interviews with the band (this being long before the Internet made every snippet of info readily available for the typed asking). I bought all their albums and pored over the lyric pages as if having been blessed by the decree of a dark lord, not simply the vaguely misogynistic musings of a former sanitation worker made good. I became verily obsessed with Steele, who at that time was on a huge fitness kick and physically resembled the Kurgan from Highlander if he was half a foot taller and twice as buff. He was basically Count Dracula on steroids. 6 foot 8 and solid with sinewy muscle, gifted with an impossibly deep and rich voice he had remarkable control of and possessing a twisted, self deprecating sense of humor, to me, this was not a man. This was a god. I mean that literally. Some kids grew up worshipping athletes and some movie stars, I idolized a gigantic, Gothic freak of nature from Brooklyn.
As impressive a physical presence as he was back then, the interest would have subsided quickly if his music hadn't so spiritually resonated with me. My favorite albums have always been the sort where one song bleeds into the next and the whole thing plays out like an operatic swan song of moods and peaks and valley's. Bloody Kisses is one of the best of that kind of album I've ever encountered. I would lay in bed in my room with the lights out and let that masterpiece wash over me as I fretted and sulked over now long forgotten and unrequited loves. It had 11 plus minute epics of doomed romances and pithy punk tunes talking about hating everyone. It was as I, a schizophrenic, sad beast awash in self loathing and sweet nothingness. It is a tragic, beautiful, hilarious, depressing, desperate, catchy work of absolute art. It is, in a word, perfection.
I had the hammer gear logo from early albums tattooed on my right forearm, proudly wore their shirts and more or less lived and breathed that band and their world for several years. I liked the follow up record October Rust well enough, but outside of album opener Love you to Death (which I will proclaim with zero trace of hyperbole as one of the best written songs I've ever heard), it just didn't send me like Bloody Kisses did. Over time, I lost interest in the band and as I matured as a man, found myself less and less interested in brooding misanthropia in my music. Last week, after I became aware of Steele's passing, I went to the Internet and spent the whole day at work listening to Type O songs, past and recent. I was brought to tears several times by the aching, emotional honesty of the music and did my best to stifle my reaction, which surprised me as much as I'm sure it would have my co-workers. Hearing those pieces of music again after so many years, reminded me of who I once was and how I once felt. It made me smile to think back on my naive, juvenile mindset and my unbridled, unreserved enthusiasm, both long dead and buried. Above all else, hearing those songs made me think of the complicated, charismatic and combustible individual who brought them into existence and shaped such a large part of my personality and interests.
Pete Steele, dead at 48. leaves behind a legion of fans and a legacy of unique, brilliant, inimitable music. I won't bother blathering about the circumstances that may or may not have led to his death. I will say only this in closing: I met Pete Steele at the legendary First Avenue concert Venue in Minneapolis MN. on the tour for October Rust. During the opening band, I saw him seated off to the side of the stage by himself, and despite being partially paralyzed by fear, approached him like the gawky fanboy I was and extended my hand. To my astonishment, he shook it and introduced himself, "I'm Peter, nice to meet you." Now, I'm a brawny 6 foot one and his hand enveloped mine as if he were exchanging pleasantries with a child. I gushed on and on about how important he and his music were to me and showed him my tattoo and asked about the evening's set list. He was polite and accommodating and showed genuine interest in my queries and sincere appreciation for my slavish devotion. He was kind to me at a moment when being a callous jerk would have crushed me. He spoke about how grateful he was for people showing up and paying to see him perform and how, having been a working man most of his life, he never forgot that when he putting on a show. He was a gentleman and a class act. That, and how much his art enriched my life is how I will remember Pete Steele.
I was watching Headbangers Ball every Saturday night and caught the video's for the truncated versions of Christian Woman and Black No. 1. Needless to say, as a young horror film and heavy metal fan, I fell instantly in love with everything about the band and their music. They were dark, romantic, Gothic, bad ass and seemingly in on the joke. I bought every magazine featuring interviews with the band (this being long before the Internet made every snippet of info readily available for the typed asking). I bought all their albums and pored over the lyric pages as if having been blessed by the decree of a dark lord, not simply the vaguely misogynistic musings of a former sanitation worker made good. I became verily obsessed with Steele, who at that time was on a huge fitness kick and physically resembled the Kurgan from Highlander if he was half a foot taller and twice as buff. He was basically Count Dracula on steroids. 6 foot 8 and solid with sinewy muscle, gifted with an impossibly deep and rich voice he had remarkable control of and possessing a twisted, self deprecating sense of humor, to me, this was not a man. This was a god. I mean that literally. Some kids grew up worshipping athletes and some movie stars, I idolized a gigantic, Gothic freak of nature from Brooklyn.
As impressive a physical presence as he was back then, the interest would have subsided quickly if his music hadn't so spiritually resonated with me. My favorite albums have always been the sort where one song bleeds into the next and the whole thing plays out like an operatic swan song of moods and peaks and valley's. Bloody Kisses is one of the best of that kind of album I've ever encountered. I would lay in bed in my room with the lights out and let that masterpiece wash over me as I fretted and sulked over now long forgotten and unrequited loves. It had 11 plus minute epics of doomed romances and pithy punk tunes talking about hating everyone. It was as I, a schizophrenic, sad beast awash in self loathing and sweet nothingness. It is a tragic, beautiful, hilarious, depressing, desperate, catchy work of absolute art. It is, in a word, perfection.
I had the hammer gear logo from early albums tattooed on my right forearm, proudly wore their shirts and more or less lived and breathed that band and their world for several years. I liked the follow up record October Rust well enough, but outside of album opener Love you to Death (which I will proclaim with zero trace of hyperbole as one of the best written songs I've ever heard), it just didn't send me like Bloody Kisses did. Over time, I lost interest in the band and as I matured as a man, found myself less and less interested in brooding misanthropia in my music. Last week, after I became aware of Steele's passing, I went to the Internet and spent the whole day at work listening to Type O songs, past and recent. I was brought to tears several times by the aching, emotional honesty of the music and did my best to stifle my reaction, which surprised me as much as I'm sure it would have my co-workers. Hearing those pieces of music again after so many years, reminded me of who I once was and how I once felt. It made me smile to think back on my naive, juvenile mindset and my unbridled, unreserved enthusiasm, both long dead and buried. Above all else, hearing those songs made me think of the complicated, charismatic and combustible individual who brought them into existence and shaped such a large part of my personality and interests.
Pete Steele, dead at 48. leaves behind a legion of fans and a legacy of unique, brilliant, inimitable music. I won't bother blathering about the circumstances that may or may not have led to his death. I will say only this in closing: I met Pete Steele at the legendary First Avenue concert Venue in Minneapolis MN. on the tour for October Rust. During the opening band, I saw him seated off to the side of the stage by himself, and despite being partially paralyzed by fear, approached him like the gawky fanboy I was and extended my hand. To my astonishment, he shook it and introduced himself, "I'm Peter, nice to meet you." Now, I'm a brawny 6 foot one and his hand enveloped mine as if he were exchanging pleasantries with a child. I gushed on and on about how important he and his music were to me and showed him my tattoo and asked about the evening's set list. He was polite and accommodating and showed genuine interest in my queries and sincere appreciation for my slavish devotion. He was kind to me at a moment when being a callous jerk would have crushed me. He spoke about how grateful he was for people showing up and paying to see him perform and how, having been a working man most of his life, he never forgot that when he putting on a show. He was a gentleman and a class act. That, and how much his art enriched my life is how I will remember Pete Steele.
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