Metal Lair Complaint Department 006: Industry Behaving Badly

Written By Remmy Chillmister

METAL LAIR COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT NO. 006: BAD BEHAVIOR IN THE MUSIC INDUSTRY

Welcome back to the Metal Lair Complaint Department, where the complaint box is overflowing and Remmy’s patience died three installments ago. I’m gonna start right out of the gate by calling out bad behavior and highlighting the things nobody else seems to have the balls to say.

The Great Gratitude Shortage: Apparently, Two Words Will Kill Your Rock Star Image

Let’s talk about an endangered species in the music industry. The fucking thank-you.

Some musicians can post seventeen Instagram stories about breakfast, photograph every angle of a new guitar pedal, and celebrate their latest single reaching 43 streams in Luxembourg. But sharing an article someone spent three days researching and writing about their music? Whoa, champ. And thanking the journalist?

WHAT ARE YOU, FUCKING INSANE?

To be clear, nobody owes a journalist a social media post, automatic praise, or gratitude for coverage they never requested. But acknowledging a thoughtful piece of work isn’t a surrender of artistic integrity. It’s two words, not a kidney donation.

Then there are the bands who once shared every mention from tiny independent publications. The crowds grew, the dressing rooms improved, and suddenly the people who supported them when they played to twelve fans and a malfunctioning smoke machine weren’t worth acknowledging.

Congratulations on your success. Shame your manners couldn’t afford the upgrade.

And journalists aren’t exempt from the ego problem. If you expect eternal gratitude for writing one paragraph about a band, climb down from Mount Narcissist before the altitude does permanent damage.

Careful, everybody. We might accidentally build a community. Thank you. There, I said it. Didn’t even pull a fucking muscle.

Biting the Hand That Supports You: The Fine Art of Being an Ungrateful Prick

And now for an even more spectacular species of asshole: the musician who receives positive coverage and responds by publicly attacking the person who wrote it.

Picture an independent journalist digging through obscure releases, finding a band they genuinely enjoy, and spending hours writing about the riffs, the musicianship, and what makes the music worth hearing. Nobody paid them or promised backstage access. They simply liked the band.

A MUSIC JOURNALIST ACTUALLY ENJOYING MUSIC.

Call the authorities. Clearly, something sinister is happening.

And the response, from the deepest recesses of the human ego? Drag the writer through the digital town square. Someone just told the world you’re talented, and you’ve decided the appropriate response is a public execution. What a fucking visionary.

Of course bands have every right to challenge inaccuracies, dislike an article, or ask for unwanted coverage to be removed. If the writer got something wrong, correct it. That’s journalism, not a personal insult.

But disagreeing with an article is one thing. Turning the person behind it into target practice is another. You can say, “We disagree with how our music was presented,” without staging a magnificent display of outrage in the comments section. Revolutionary, I know.

That journalist could have spent those hours sleeping, earning money, spending time with family, getting laid, or listening to a band that actually appreciates being discovered. Instead, their enthusiasm gets fed through an industrial-grade wood chipper.

The underground loves to preach community and solidarity. Beautiful. But community isn’t just something you print on a T-shirt. It also means showing basic respect to the people doing the unglamorous work behind the music.

There’s nothing particularly rebellious, courageous, or hardcore about being needlessly cruel. It’s just bad manners with a distortion pedal.

The Great Interview Disappearing Act: Now You See Them, Now You Can Go Fuck Yourself

First, the vanishing musician. Not the request somebody politely declines, but the interview everyone agrees to before the artist disappears like a wallet at a festival bar.

The journalist researches the catalog, reads old interviews, digs up obscure details and tries to ask something better than “What inspires you?” After days of preparation, the questions go out.

THE MUSICIAN ENTERS THE FUCKING WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM.

Gone. Evaporated into the dimension containing missing guitar picks, unpaid royalties, and the original members of every band on its seventh lineup. Emails vanish. Follow-ups go unanswered. The publicist develops the communication skills of a decorative houseplant.

Look, tours run late, emergencies happen, circumstances change, and people are allowed to reconsider. Nobody’s demanding a blood oath signed backstage in goat’s blood.

BUT COULD SOMEBODY OPEN THEIR FUCKING MOUTH AND SAY SO?

“Sorry, we can’t complete the interview.” That’s all. A brief message, not a séance. Once somebody has invested time in an arrangement you agreed to, disappearing without a word isn’t edgy or rock and roll. It’s unprofessional bullshit with a backstage laminate.

And while I’m here, a special salute to the musicians who answer carefully researched questions with “Yeah,” “Not really,” and “We just do what we do.”

Jesus Christ. Thanks for that penetrating glimpse into the creative process, Professor. Shall we alert the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame?

Press Pass Pandemonium, Vanishing Reviews, and the Fine Art of Following Through

All right, fellow keyboard-wielding bastards. We’ve roasted the musicians. Now the press corps gets a turn, because professional courtesy is not a one-way backstage pass.

And before anyone mistakes this for a public flogging, I’m talking about patterns, not declaring every missed deadline a crime against humanity. Sometimes life blows up the schedule. I’m acquainted with that particular bastard.

THE GREAT PRESS PASS PILGRIMAGE.

You know the ritual. A big tour rolls into town and suddenly the inbox is on fire. Publicists are contacted, editors are persuaded, and somebody makes a passionate case for getting within fifteen feet of the drum riser.

“I can cover it!” “I’ll write the review!” “I’ll get photographs!” Wonderful enthusiasm. Enough administrative correspondence later, the coveted media pass is approved. The publication is ready. The photographer has a spot. Everyone’s done their part.

And sometimes, come showtime, the space remains empty.

Now, missing a concert doesn’t automatically make anyone a villain. Illness happens. Family emergencies happen. Cars break down. Sometimes the universe books an unexpected support act called Absolute Fucking Chaos.

When it’s possible, though, a quick heads-up makes a world of difference. Nobody needs your medical history, family details, or an affidavit signed by the Pope. “I can’t make it” will do.

Because those credentials didn’t arrive by carrier pigeon from the Ghost of Concerts Past. Real people arranged them, and a little notice lets those people regroup. That’s all. No ceremonial walnut-shaming required.

The Interview That Got Lost Somewhere Between Enthusiasm and Reality

Then there are the interviews that begin with glorious ambition. “I’d love to do it!” The editor reaches out, the publicist coordinates, the artist agrees, and everyone makes room on the calendar.

Then things stall. Questions aren’t ready. The release date approaches. The editor starts checking the inbox with the intensity of a detective investigating a missing cymbal.

Sometimes there’s a perfectly serious reason, and nobody owes the world an explanation of their private struggles. But when communication is possible, one honest message can save an awful lot of unnecessary panic.

“I’ve had something come up. I need more time.” Fine. “I can’t take this on after all.” Also fine. A little disappointing, perhaps, but infinitely better than making a deadline compete with a vanishing act.

Independent publications operate on relationships and trust. One missed assignment is manageable. A chain of unanswered questions can leave editors, artists, and publicists unsure where things stand, and make it harder to plan the next opportunity.

THE GOAL IS COVERAGE, NOT AN INTERNATIONAL MISSING-PERSONS INVESTIGATION.

Congratulations, Your Press Badge Doesn’t Make You Royalty

While we’re here, an affectionate reminder for anybody who mistakes a press credential for a royal appointment: calm the fuck down, Your Majesty.

A pass gets you into a show to cover it. It isn’t a backstage vacation package, a guarantee of unlimited guest spots, or permission to demand that the entire industry kneel and kiss your editorial ring.

Be decent to the people arranging access. Do the work you agreed to do. And if plans change, say so when you can. Revolutionary concepts, I know.

Borrowed Credentials, Inflated Résumés, and Other Works of Fiction

A special complaint for the opportunists who mistake a publication’s press credentials for their own all-access fucking passport. And an extra-special fuck-you to anyone who applies for festival access and shows under a publication’s name without the editor’s knowledge or permission. That’s not independent journalism; that’s borrowing somebody else’s reputation like a stolen backstage lanyard and hoping nobody checks the name.

Someone else builds the relationships, secures the access, and puts their name on the line. You get through the door, get the interviews and suddenly develop amnesia about whose reputation opened it and who you agreed to collaborate with. Congratulations, you’re officially pond scum. You know who you are.

And while we’re here, if your résumé contains more fantasy than a Stephen King novel, perhaps journalism isn’t for you. Try writing horror. At least then people know they’re buying a work of fiction. Claim the work you’ve actually done.

Honor the commitments you’ve actually made. Don’t borrow somebody’s credibility and then act like professional accountability is an optional encore.

COMPLAINT FILED. THE LANYARD IS NOT A FUCKING CROWN.

Because in this business, access can be arranged. Trust has to be earned.

The Legendary Interview Nobody Has Ever Fucking Seen

And then there’s the mythical interview. The big exclusive. The triumphant announcement. The headliner! The interview of the century! You’d think someone had negotiated a reunion between Pink Floyd and the surviving members of the Roman Empire.

Only one tiny problem. Nobody can find the finished interview.

Weeks pass. The footage remains more elusive than Bigfoot riding the Loch Ness Monster through Area 51. At this point, I suspect the files are vacationing with the Ark of the Covenant.

Of course, recordings corrupt, schedules unravel, and projects sometimes fall apart for reasons completely outside the journalist’s control. That’s not a character flaw. But editors do need to know what’s happening before promising readers an exclusive.

WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?

A fair question about a missing file, not a verdict on the human being trying to find it. Because an interview nobody can access, edit, or publish isn’t much use to anyone. It’s an urban legend with a press credential, and last time I checked, editors can’t publish fucking folklore.

MIC DROP. 🎤

A Little Professional Courtesy Goes Both Fucking Ways

Let’s also remember that independent journalism is often held together with unpaid labor, day jobs, families, complicated lives, and industrial quantities of caffeine. Editors should never treat contributors as disposable or assume every setback is laziness. Reasonable deadlines, compassion, and a willingness to adjust plans belong in the job description too.

And contributors deserve the same courtesy in return. When possible, keep the people counting on you informed. If you can’t finish the review, attend the show, or conduct the interview, say so as soon as you’re able. Nobody needs a dramatic confession. Just enough information to make another plan.

Because we can’t complain when musicians leave us guessing and then act as if a press credential makes us exempt from communicating. That’s not journalistic integrity. That’s hypocrisy wearing a fucking lanyard.

A press pass might get you through the door. What keeps that door open is trust, delivered work, and knowing when to give somebody a little grace.

There. Six complaints, three ulcers, and not one of you fuckers has learned how to answer an email. Yinyo! Remmy out.

Missed Remmy’s relentless bitching, moaning, and general contempt for humanity in the previous edition of The Metal Lair Complaint Department No. 005? Revisit his latest collection of grievances right here, if you dare. Just don’t expect him to be pleasant.

The Metal Lair Complaint Department is A Metal Lair® Original Series

Metal Lair Complaint Department artwork featuring an overflowing complaint box on a rusted filing cabinet with drawers labeled Gatekeeping, Ticket Prices, Algorithms, Posers, Pit Etiquette, and Metal Elitists.

SUBMITTED COMPLAINTS

Name: Immorpher
Complaint: Sounds like Metal Lair doesn’t cover anything good. Is the website only for geriatric and alcoholic rock?

Remmy responds: Geriatric and alcoholic rock? Jesus Christ, you make us sound like a retirement village where the recreation director is Lemmy’s embalmed liver. Where do I sign up?

Congratulations on discovering that a music website might publish something you don’t like. Alert the Vatican. A miracle has occurred. But have you actually looked around, or did you spot one older musician and assume the entire publication smells of Werther’s Originals and stale lager?

There are new bands, extreme bands, underground bands, and bands whose logos resemble nests of electrified barbed wire. If all you can see is somebody old enough to remember cassette tapes, that sounds suspiciously like a you problem.

And this “geriatric” business? Some of the people who invented your favorite racket have bad knees now. Their riffs still fuck harder than your insult. As for the alcoholism, please stop mistaking my personality for a demographic study.

COMPLAINT RECEIVED. PRESCRIPTION: ONE SCROLL BAR AND A FUCKING OPEN MIND.

Name: Phantoms
Complaint: Metal is safe and lame. These days every sub genre and band is just copy/paste, no fresh ideas just recycled tropes.

Remmy responds: Oh, wonderful. Every metal band on Earth has apparently been personally inspected by Phantoms, the one-person International Bureau of Originality. Pack it up, everybody. Guitar music is over. Somebody on the internet has completed the census.

Look, you’re not entirely wrong. We’ve got copycat production, algorithm-friendly breakdowns, interchangeable artwork, and vocalists who sound like the same angry dishwasher being kicked down a flight of stairs. There are more bands chasing last year’s trend than there are unread promotional emails in my inbox.

But “every band” is where your argument falls over and starts chewing its own shoelaces. The weird stuff is out there. The filthy stuff. The music that sounds as though it was recorded inside a collapsing cathedral by people who actively dislike electricity. It just isn’t always being delivered by an app that knows what you had for breakfast.

Want danger? Dig for it. Listen beyond the same twenty acts. Buy a record from somebody with forty-seven monthly listeners. Take a chance on a local opener instead of using their set to queue for another pint.

METAL ISN’T DEAD. YOUR DISCOVERY HABITS MIGHT NEED CPR.

Name: Deafened & Educated in Denver
Complaint: Dear Remmy,

I went to a show last week and the opening band played for 45 minutes.

FORTY. FIVE. MINUTES.

They had seven songs and talked between every single one like we were at a TED talk. The singer explained the “meaning” behind each track. Bro, I’m trying to drink a $14 beer and you’re giving me your thesis on societal decay. I came here to lose hearing, not gain wisdom. And then the headliner played 35 minutes because venue curfew. So I got less headliner than opener. This is your fault somehow and I expect restitution.

Remmy responds: What do you think this is, Dear Abby? First of all, I deny all liability for your concert experience, your fourteen-dollar beer, and whatever terrible decisions led you to seek legal counsel from a man whose office is a bar stool.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES for seven songs? Was the vocalist performing a set or defending a doctoral dissertation? “This next song explores the commodification of grief under late-stage capitalism.” Mate, I have paid thirteen quid to stand in a sticky room beside a bloke dressed as a Viking. I know grief.

There is a perfectly respectable place for explaining a song’s meaning: an interview, a lyric sheet, or the awkward conversation after the show when somebody asks what the hell that chorus was about. Between every track, however, perhaps try the exciting artistic innovation known as PLAYING ANOTHER FUCKING SONG.

But let’s spread the blame. Whoever scheduled a forty-five-minute opening set and left the headliner thirty-five minutes before curfew deserves to be locked in a room with the singer’s complete unabridged thesis. Venue management, promoter, tour manager: somebody could have looked at a clock before it became a crime scene.

As restitution, I award you one imaginary beer voucher redeemable nowhere, plus the satisfaction of knowing your complaint has been entered into our official database. Which is a biscuit tin marked “BOLLOCKS.”

VERDICT: LESS TED TALK. MORE FUCKING METAL.

FILE A COMPLAINT WITH THE METAL LAIR COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT

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Selected grievances may be investigated, mocked, dissected or otherwise subjected to the questionable judgment of Remmy Chillmister in a future edition of The Metal Lair Complaint Department.

Submission does not guarantee investigation. Remmy has a substantial backlog of things that piss him off.

About The Author

Remmy Chillmister survives on beer, bad decisions, and one functioning ear since ’79. Banned from three metal festivals, countless venues, and one nursing home for excessive honesty. Nobody knows why he still has a press credential, including him.

Metal Lair Complaint Department 006: Music Industry Bad Behavior