Call me Pops. The day before my 45th birthday found me standing among the metal maniacs at Ozzfest in Hartford, Conn., bathed in sweat and awe. The 90-degree August heat explained the perspiration, and the sounds from the stage contributed to my stupefaction. Perennial fan of extreme music that I am, I couldn’t believe that metal had become so bludgeoningly monochromatic, so cartoonishly one-dimensional, so dad-blamed…dull.
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