Maiden memories
Now boarding, Ed Force One.
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Last week, I was sitting in the Decider nerd-cave talking with my colleague Scott about this article. I mentioned how much I like Iron Maiden's song “Aces High,” but I tried to downplay my Maiden allegiance by prefacing my comment with a qualifier. “This is embarrassing,” I said. “But I used to love Iron Maiden.” He replied, “Why are you embarrassed? Maiden is awesome.”
You know what? Maiden is awesome. So after discovering it had released a tour documentary—Iron Maiden: Flight 666, which is playing for one night only at Marcus Point UltraScreen Cinema—I bought a ticket faster than I could say “The Trooper.” Actually, I might have flashed twin devil horns and then bought a ticket, but whatever. For those who scoff, check this out: This movie features a customized Boeing 757 named Ed Force One (Ed Force One, people!), which is piloted by none other than Iron Maiden’s lead singer, Bruce Dickinson. That’s right. Iron Maiden has its own jumbo jet with Eddie painted on the tail, and Dickinson flew it to 13 countries for 23 sold-out shows during 2008’s Somewhere Back In Time tour. I don’t care what anyone says, that is the epitome of cool in my world, and there is no way I’m missing the opportunity to join other Maiden degenerates in the theater to see this baby in high-def.
So why the initial hesitation? Well, far too many hours of my high school years were spent standing in the bathroom with my head upside-down, holding a blow dryer. I wanted to be Morrissey, and these gyrations were an attempt to tease my hair into a 4-inch pompadour. Well, maybe not be Morrissey, but definitely look like him. For some reason my hormone-addled brain thought I could improve my cool quotient (read: make girls like me) if I emulated the look of a sexually ambiguous English mope. Needless to say, I was a massive dork in high school.
I also remember spending many days wearing my favorite Meat Is Murder T-shirt, and strutting around with a Walkman. (Yes, a Walkman. I’m old.) But I wasn’t listening to The Smiths. Lyrics like “I am the son / I am the heir / of a shyness that is criminally vulgar” didn’t speak to me—I had no idea what the hell those words meant. Instead, I was getting my mind blown by Iron Maiden.
I won’t pretend the 17-year-old me knew anything about Iron Maiden’s musicianship—I didn’t. But what I did know was far more important: They were a band named after a medieval torture device; they had the best album covers ever; their mascot was a half-man, half-skeleton named Eddie who scared the living shit out of me; and their music absolutely fucking rocked. A 13-minute sonic screed about a seafaring nightmare? A chorus that prominently features the number 666? Sign me up and throw those songs on everlasting repeat.
Yet, my Maiden fetish remained hidden. What would people think if they knew? Well, my classmates who openly listened to Iron Maiden spent their free time huddled around their lockers pounding Mountain Dew and, more importantly, being ignored by girls. I didn’t want this fate. So even though Killers, The Number Of The Beast, and Powerslave were the soundtracks of my life from 1987 to 1990, I told no one.
