Gabriel Boyer

I wanted to know what’s the deal with BJ Thug Life, and so recently I went to a metal show in Beijing with thirty-thousand Chinese stuffed down my pants. By which I mean the currency, not the people. Why I was carrying this brick of cash next to my penis is my own business, but what happened that night is everyone’s business.

Now, I want to be clear about something right from the start. I know nothing about metal. Everything I know about metal, I learned from Wikipedia or overheard in the bars of Oregon. And really, the only reason why I was there that night is because my brother wanted to see some metal, and BJ Thug Life is all I could find.

We were at Yugong Yishan. One of those really swanky really dingy joints, housed inside one of Beijing’s many historic walls. With the classic Chinese lion statue by the door and just a few feet from the gate of the mammoth and presumably ancient estate housed behind that wall. And the room was full of what appeared to be the Chinese version of nerdy seriously overweight ipad-obsessed auteurs, scrawny undergrads, and beefy jocks. (I did catch sight of one or two other actual honest-to-god foreigners. The one near us seemed to be genuinely-ironically getting down with the locals over some serious shredding in downtown Beijing, and the other one I only caught sight of for a moment in a long line of banging heads. He looked malnourished and prone to violence, a scrawny good old boy getting his kicks the only way he knows how, but I’m sure he was a very nice man.) And that sock full of cash was weighing down my crotch. And neither of us had any idea what BJ Thug Life really was or where this brotherhood of hoodlums could be found.