The Three Best Metal Songs About Native Americans

I'm glad that the movement for the Washington Redskins to change their name is picking up. Owner Dan Snyder might be sure that his own childhood nostalgia matters more than the dignity of an entire race of people, and I know he speaks for a lot of folks who are attached to the name without meaning any harm. Still, I doubt Snyder will call the name "a badge of honor" to any of the Oneida Indian Nation spokesmen he's been dodging meetings with.

The Redskins should change their name, and the fans will get over it, just like they got over the changed lyrics to their theme song ("Scalp 'em, swamp 'um/We will take 'um big score") and the team's integration (original owner/virulent racist George Preston Marshall held out until 1962, when Bobby Kennedy threatened to take away their stadium.)

In honor of a group of people getting disrespected by a billion-dollar industry and this weekend's federal holiday (not to mention John Boehner's shutdown cutting off their healthcare and education funds), here are three songs to play loud this weekend.

1. Iron Maiden, "Run to the Hills"



Easily the best metal song written about American Indians, and probably the best over all song about their tribulations at the hands of the Europeans. Informative without being heavy-handed, "Run to the Hills" is carried by Iron Maiden's most recognizable intro and that eternally rousing chorus, ripping centuries of colonialism out of the history books and writing in the parts about murder, rape and enslavement. Maiden would go on to make more great albums, and still be the best live metal band in the world 30 years later, but by "Run to the Hills," they'd already cemented their place as a cultural force.

2. Anthrax, "Indians"



This used to be the only song that I would ever skip on Among the Living, Anthrax's 1987 classic that's often nominated as the best New York City metal album ever. Listening again, I'm remembering that the music and verses rock pretty hard--it's just the irksome chorus ("Cry for the Indians! Die for the Indians!") that makes one wish that Anthrax had stuck to writing about comic books and Stephen King. Still, "Indians" means well and gets by on the riffs and drumming. Half-Iroquois singer Joey Belladonna was not the cause's most articulate spokesman, but as dreadful songs like the Cult's "American Horse" and Rebel Meets Rebel's "Cherokee Cry" prove, he didn't have an easy task.

3. Testament, "Native Blood"



Testament have always been a small cut below the Big Four, both artistically and commercially, but they were arguably the most consistent, an honor that was upheld on 2012's excellent Dark Roots of Earth. If anything, they've gotten heavier over the past 25 years, and not due to compression. Lead singer Chuck Billy had addressed his native heritage before ("Trail of Tears," "Allegiance,") but never as searingly as on "Native Blood," which won the band a music video award  at the American Indian Film Festival. Also, unless we're counting proto-metalhead Jimi Hendrix, Billy is metal's most accomplished American Indian.

The Cult at Terminal 5

"What deep cuts do you want to hear?" My buddy asked me, moments before The Cult's set at Terminal 5. My answer: None. I don't love The Cult. They've got some good tunes, but their bombast, coupled with pretenses of being alternative and hard rock without being great either, hasn't endeared them to this headbanger. However, I do love metal, and The Cult are a part of its history, so I took the chance to see them.



Openers Against Me!, now more famous for their newly-transgendered frontman than their music, played a surprisingly likeable pop-punk set. Having been disillusioned with the genre since Ixnay on the Hombre and bored by the show I caught from them five years ago, where they seemed unsure of what to make of their major label status and touring slot with Mastodon, it was fun to see them evolve into such confident and engaging performers. Perhaps inspired to prove herself under her new identity, Laura Jane Grace charged through the show with Green Day-inspired power punk and glam rock androgyny. Best of all, the band covered the Replacements' "Androgynous," a choice that would have been predictable had they not enlisted help from surprise guest Joan Jett.

Getting on the good foot with "Lil' Devil," The Cult set the tone for a hits-filled night. It was not to be--a gracious helping from their newest, Choice of Weapon, suggested leftovers from Josh Homme's Desert Sessions and were received as politely as one could hope. But rock n' roll isn't polite, and The Cult's most raucous moments ignited the crowd, particularly "She Sells Sanctuary" and the definitive "Fire Woman." Windmill expert Billy Duffy, whose jangling connects Johnny Marr to Def Leppard, rang out coliseum-sized power chords that emphasized his case as one of the first alternapop heroes to reach arena rock status. The band's MVP, without a doubt.

But my problem with The Cult, and particularly frontman Ian Astbury, isn't that they're bad. It's that they're not good enough. Like his idol, Jim Morrison, Astbury is both his band's charismatic draw and its pompous foil. He doesn't seem like a bad guy, and in fact was chatting with fans and signing tickets before the show. But his composed sleazeball stage persona didn't do him any favors. Between enough f-words to embarrass Lil' Wayne, Astbury bantered about how hot it was inside (without taking off his fur and leather jacket), pretended to play three different tambourines that all got tossed to the crowd and never got worked up enough to remove his sunglasses. For a more engaging rock star, none of these acts would have seemed forced, but Astbury's considerable talents don't quite live up to his ego. I have seen Axl Rose, Axl Rose was a hero of mine, and Ian, you're no Axl Rose.

But to be fair, Astbury can sing, and his Lizard King fantasies suited Duffy's riffage just fine. Encoring with "Love Removal Machine," the band unleashed what looked like energy that they had saved up in the last hour, thrashing out their cockrock tendencies like mystic rock icons. For once, Astbury was everything that he pretended to be, and we needed him just as much as his band did.