Good metalhead, bad metalhead
I watched a video where eight Spanish metalheads answered questions to determine who was the most ‘metal-paco’: something like a pharisaical, yokel, contrived metalhead ruled by clichés. ‘Paco’ is a shortened form of ‘Francisco’. To a Spanish ear, it sounds like the epitome of Spanishness, which in turn is the epitome of tacky, cringe, uncool: casposo.
I remembered a couple of heavy metal fans at my university. I don’t know if they were very metal-paco, I don’t think so. In any case, the interesting part is how they ended up becoming a couple — or, more precisely, how they didn’t get together straight away, despite everything seeming to be arranged for exactly that outcome.
On the first day of class, I approached the man to ask him where the classroom was. That’s how we met and became friends. The woman appeared soon afterwards. Years later, she told us that when she first saw her future boyfriend and me, she thought:
‘Look, the kind metalhead and the rough metalhead!’ (el heavy bueno y el heavy borde).
I was apparently the rude one (el jevi borde), which is why she was initially more drawn to me, by her own account. The friendly metalhead (el jevi bueno) was a tall, athletic guy with very long hair, a black leather jacket, band T-shirts, headphones... He was, in fact, easy-going, kind and good-natured. I, on the other hand, wore jeans, plain T-shirts and otherwise quite nondescript clothes. I’d never listened to heavy metal in my life. I couldn’t imagine what had given me such an unfriendly air. She later explained that she’d inferred it from the way I’d reacted when she asked me for a light.