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Hail and well-met, boon companion. Welcome to the debut installment of What Would Ronnie James Dio Do?, an advice column for the fantasy-loving, dragon-hugging, role-playing-game-enjoying-metal heads out there. Through the auspices of an almost-complete catalog of Dio’s recorded works and a 100-disc CD player set on shuffle, we shall attempt to answer any and all questions put to the greatest voice in Metal. Simply ask the question, we’ll hit play, and whatever comes out of the speaker is your answer. And now, “with a little love and understanding,” we begin our epic journey to wisdom.

Ronnie, I’ve got a hankerin’ to play a half orc assassin in my next campaign, but I’m a little worried about getting racially profiled by the dungeon master. ‘Cause, you know, the whole backlash against orcs that Peter Jackson started with Lord of the Rings has yet to die down. Should I roll up a greenskin, or should I stick with my usual tried-and-true human paladin?
-- Jimmy Thackery
RJD: Do your demons/Do they ever let you go? There’s a sign, and it’s time/it’s someone you should know/No sign of the morning coming/You can look all you want/for a rainbow in the dark.

Hey, Ronnie I’m a big fan. I’m curious, you’ve always stuck with a keyboardist, even though keyboards and metal go together about as well as elves and dwarves (LOL!). How do you keep it so real even though you’ve got an ivory-tickler?
-- Philipe Umberto
RJD: Are we just running from the pain or do we see just what we are/We're naked in the rain naked in the rain naked in the rain naked in the rain/Two children on fire emotion burns higher guns loaded blow all the dreams away/Naked in the rain naked in the rain frightened by the pain naked in the rain.

Milord Dio. I am your biggest fan, and also something of a songsmith myself. If I were to play you a snippet of my cantata, “Danger In the Time of Plague Monks: Highlander the Beginning,” would you grace me with the benefit of your lyrical wisdom and melodic acumen? And also, would you promise to not steal any of my ideas?
-- Desmond Aardwolf
RJD: In the night you're the song and the singer/You can choose what the band's gonna play/Write the words under cover of moonlight, oh/Make some magic with the things that you say/Together we can kill the day.

Ronnie, you seem a lot taller on the page than you do in person. Is that some sort of special effect or are you wearing lifts?
-- Ozzy
RJD: You know, I get this question a lot. All you tough guys out there think you’re so smart, asking me about my height like I’ve never heard it before. Come on, I’m 58 years old – I’ve heard all the jokes, and you’re not smart enough to come up with a new one. I’m 5 foot 4, and while that’s a little bit under-average, I’d like to think that my music is above-average and that, coupled with my dignity, makes me more of a giant than you’ll ever be. Go fuck yourself.

On August 24, 2007, Rush, Canada’s greatest intelligent rock band returns to St. Louis. In honor of yet another visit by Alex, Neil and Geddy, let us turn back the clock to that moment when Rush earned my lifelong admiration and respect and love: The moment when Geddy Lee saved my life.

It was the summer of 1978 in Ottosen, Iowa. I was barely 11, I was free from school, and my whole life revolved around the Sid and Marty Krofft Adventure Hour on Saturday mornings, specifically the live-action spectacular, Bigfoot and Wildboy. Given my druthers I'd have grown up to be Bigfoot, but I was content at the time to portray Wildboy during those long summer days.
So there I am in the woods one fine early evening, running like an idiot between trees whilst hooting and grunting in my best Bigfoot manner. It's getting dark, but what do I care? I'm the goddamn Wild Boy -- I live in these woods. Still, there was an ominous musk in the air, a strange smell that was like hot skunk or old wet dog. Maybe I should head in.
So I did. I cut back the short way, off the trail. I hadn't gone more than a few minutes when I felt it behind me.
Motherfucking Bigfoot. It was maybe 8 feet tall, but it seemed like a two-story building, just looming there in the semi-darkness, like all the creepy things about the woods at night had congealed into a brute form approximating Man. The stink, the arms, the mile-wide chest and shoulders, all of it exactly like everyone always describes it, the way I'd always imagined it would be if I ever actually saw one. Only now that we're this close to each other, I wished I'd never seen anything even remotely like this.
I may have peed in my pants right about this time, but I believe I was so terrified that the urine completely sublimated in my bladder, going from liquid to gas immediately, because I could smell the pee but I couldn't feel it. Bigfoot didn't seem to care either way. It just cocked its head to the side with a snuffling grunt.
How long does it take for an eleven year old's life to flash before their eyes? That's how long we stood together in the gloaming. I had an eternity of desperate shrieking fear bubbling in my chest, a pantload of dry piss and nothing else going for me.
Bigfoot made the first move, a hesitant step forward that covered a yard if it covered an inch. The heat coming off that pelt was noticeable even in the July haze.
Then it happened.
A tall, skinny man wearing those white-piped jogging shorts and nothing else suddenly appeared on the scene. A Bjorn Borg headband held back the cascading waves of his chestnut hair. He tapped Bigfoot on the shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.
"Hey, Bud. Let's keep moving. We don't want our heart rates to drop." Bigfoot nodded, two quick shakes of his head, and then turned away. He quickly fell into a loping run, his long arms swinging with preternatural grace.
The man winked at me, then ran after Bigfoot. As they disappeared in the trees, I heard him yell "North is this way, Bud."
I am convinced that man was Geddy Lee, and that once again Rush's enigmatic bassist/lead singer had saved my life. But for what purpose?

Thoughts on Pig Destroyer's Phantom Limb

America’s greatest export is violence. We produce it around the clock and ship it anywhere, any time, no questions asked. It comes in a variety of colors and styles -- cartoon, graphic, realistic, accidental – and with a variety of purposes -- as a warning, as a corrective, as a threat, as a reward, as entertainment.
It is that last format in which America excels. Violence as entertainment is our mainline business. We put it in movies, games, books, sports and music.
Pig Destroyer makes music that positively writhes with violence.
And Pig Destroyer makes violence into art.
Phantom Limb, the band’s new album, is the most beautiful, terrifying expression of our most common commodity. And it’s genuinely unsettling.
Murder, psychosis, drug abuse, blood and necrophilia are the basic building blocks of heavy metal. Thousands of bands use them, usually with great, if sometimes unoriginal, results. Pig Destroyer use these all-purpose elements to build something so shattering and unique that the music transcends the accepted parameters of metal, or grind, or noise.
Which is not to say that Pig Destroyer is one of those arty bands masquerading as metal, such as Pelican. Scott Hull’s guitar work is hands-down the most brutally metal thing ever heard in this dimension. His ability to write inventive riffs and play them at blistering speed with gutting fury is unparalleled. Working without a bassist to double his parts or fill the bottom end, Hull instead multi-tracks more guitar parts into the nooks and crannies of each song. New band member Blake Harrison further fills in the crawlspaces with electronic noise, making the music a nightmarishly dense construction. Propelled along by the assault-rifle drums of Brian Harvey, Hull’s riffs scythe and slash like methed-up slaughterhouse workers. Played through headphones at maximum volume, Phantom Limb reveals layer upon discrete layer of sound; it’s a seductive experience, one that pulls you relentlessly into a nightmare world that stretches towards an unseen horizon. Played in an open room at maximum volume, Phantom Limb is simply overwhelming – a blistering spectrum of vitriol that smashes through your brain and rewires your central nervous system, synching up your twitching and flailing with Hull’s furious riffs. Phantom Limb is an all-encompassing experience, impossible to ignore when it’s blasting and unforgettable when it’s over.
But as undeniable as Hull’s riffs are, it may be vocalist JR Hayes who elevates Pig Destroyer from “insanely brilliant metal” to “insanely brilliant art.” Hayes’ lyrics are tautly-stretched short stories, brief interludes of violence and nihilism that should be disgusting or laughable but are instead fascinating. He contorts and manipulates his phrases, his voice distorted and cracking, so that they become another layer of sound in the maelstrom. If you listen carefully Hayes is still intelligible, a raw-throated prophet screaming ugly and scabrous truths. Can something as heinous as the lyrics to “Deathtripper” be beautiful? “Your rib cage is open like a Great White’s jaws/your legs look so sexy out of context,” Hayes’ roars, and instead of being titillating or puerile, there’s a resonant shock in his stark imagery. “Loathsome,” another stand-out track, busts open like a split skull when Hayes reveals the ultimate source of his lyrical prowess, and of Pig Destroyer’s magnificent achievement: “This is my escape art exhibition/And I’m never coming back.”
All the violence that suffuses our lives – the nightly news, the war, the murders, the movies, the cruelties we as a species manufacture and consume with great regularity – is often ignored. We’re desensitized and we don’t recognize how dangerous that is. Pig Destroyer takes all of the unspeakable carnage we commodify and throws it back in our faces. You want violence? This is violence. Not as mere entertainment (although as straight-up, headbanging experience, Phantom Limb is quite entertaining), but as a statement of purpose, an indictment of how we live and what we’ll tolerate or rationalize. Phantom Limb is an artistic achievement on the level of Picasso’s Guernica; you can either revel in this horror or recoil from it – but you should never be able to overlook it.
The last track on the album, an untitled sound collage of night time insects, electronic stutters and a scratchy male voice howling the high lonesome sounds of a distant Country Western station, is more haunting than even the preceding 14 tracks. The forlorn silence that eventually overtakes the ghostly cowboy crooner is the Phantom Limb, the one that’s been gone for so long you can barely remember what its weight felt like, and yet it still aches periodically, a distant echo of something that once mattered greatly to you – that nagging void is where your innocence was.