Image via Complex Original
1.
Back in high school, I had this Overkill metal shirt that I wore as often as I possibly could. It was for their 1987 tour in support of their album Taking Over (no, it wasn't vintage, feel free to do the math), a tour which I did not see. I acquired it the same way many of my classmates got their concert shirts, at the mall. The back, if I remember correctly, featured Overkill's bat-winged and horned skull mascot along with the text "Wrecking Your Neck Tour" and a bunch of dates and places. The front, which I absolutely will never forget, showed the band, guns drawn, with “TAKING OVER” spelled out in shell casings. Assuredly, in today's post-Columbine world, I would have been at best sent home immediately and at worst expelled for wearing some shit like that. But back then? I can't remember anyone even remotely in a position of authority saying a single thing.
That Overkill shirt is long gone, lost to whatever befalls once-favored articles of clothing, probably due to a questionable late high-school switch to rugbys and the like. (I do remember leaving a cherished-to-death 1984 Ratt tour shirt to decay in my gym locker.) But I never gave up on metal shirts completely. They came in different ways—a vintage Slayer shirt on eBay here, an Emperor shirt from Amoeba Records there—the rotation ever-changing. These days, I still wear them on the regular. In fact, I'm wearing a Motörhead tee as I write this. And if there's one thing I’ve learned, it's this: Wearing a metal shirt at 42 is a lot different than wearing one at 17.
Why? Because rebellion from a 17-year-old is expected. So is something worn purely for shock value. Which is why suspensions for articles of clothing seem so misguided. Of course, teenagers don't follow the same guidelines as adults because they're fucking teenagers. Adults are the real problem. They're the ones who are stuck in their ways, with hardened preconceptions as to what is and isn't appropriate. And when someone who is ostensibly one of them does something like, say, wear a Slayer T-shirt in a corporate environment, they don't know how to react.
The Complex offices are located in the Time Life building, home to Time and Sports Illustrated, amongst several other august publications. There are security guards and security cards, turnstiles and multiple elevator banks. And suits, always people in suits, both men and women. So, working in an office where T-shirts and jeans are the norm (at least on the editorial side) means we fit in more with the delivery guys than the so-called "professionals." Except we get to take the real elevators.
2.
I'm sure at some point growing up I figured I'd eventually wear suits to work. It's just what people did.
3.
Elevator etiquette, in general, is a very peculiar thing. Even on a packed elevator, there is very little small talk amongst strangers. When someone you don’t know does speak to you, it should be a matter of great import. Instead, on this particular day, it was, “Hey, I almost wore my Slayer shirt to work today too!" There were three people on the elevator, me and two guys in suits who clearly knew one another. One of them said it, the other chuckled. By the process of elimination I determined that I must have been the one in the Slayer shirt (half the time I forget what shirt I'm wearing before I even get to the office). There was some more metal-related back and forth before the two of them decamped on 34 (Time's floor), one of them reminiscing about how he used to be so into Iron Maiden and Judas Priest. "What the fuck happened to you, man?" I did not ask.
I'm sure at some point growing up I figured I'd eventually wear suits to work. It's just what people did. But with the advent of the no-collar job (and the realization that becoming a lawyer seemed like a supremely terrible idea), that shit went straight out the window. In fact, the only time I have ever worn a suit to work in my entire life was the time fellow SLAM Magazine editor Ryan Jones and I both wore them to game one of the NBA Finals in San Antonio as a joke back in '03. Every single person who knew us did double takes—we mostly attended games in Mitchell & Ness jerseys at that point—and asked what the hell we were doing. So much for that experiment.
For most people, however, a suit does the exact opposite. It's a real life invisibility cloak—a barrier to conversation rather than a potential start of one, unless you're Hans Gruber. And whether it's a $200 off-the-rack hack job or $5,000 worth of bespoke fabric, it's still the ultimate act of conformity. Wear one to work and no one will know whether you post up in a cube or a corner office. You could be the boss, or you could be an intern. It doesn't even end when you die. Buried or cremated, it's likely gonna be in a suit. There ain't no casual Fridays in the afterlife.
What makes this all even better is that the Complex floor used to be home to, of all people, the notorious Lehmann Brothers, which means the person who once occupied my desk no doubt wore a suit every single day of his professional life. I like to think that my very existence here serves as a daily exorcism.
So, I make a point to wear metal T-shirts as often as humanly possible. The Sword, Motörhead, Slayer, Emperor: They're more or less the complete anti-suit. When worn, unironically, they actually say something about the wearer, even more than just "fuck your norms." What's the saying? "Don't dress for the job you have. Dress for the job you want"? Well, I don't play bass, but I still want Lemmy Kilmister's job or, at the very least, Lester Bangs's. Always have, always will. You used to listen to Maiden and Priest, Anonymous Suit Guy? That's great. I still do. You can read it right here on my chest.
Russ Bengtson is a Senior Staff Writer at Complex. You can follow him on Twitter here.