Living in a third world country means facing daily challenges that many take for granted - from healthcare access to basic rights protection.
But being a metalhead in such a place during the late '90s and early 2000s? That was a different kind of struggle altogether.
My love affair with heavy metal began at 14, when I first heard Sepultura's "Arise" on the radio at 6 AM. That moment changed everything.
From there, my hunger for heavy metal grew insatiable - not the nu-metal that dominated the airwaves, but the old-school heavy metal like Slayer, Iron Maiden, and the like.
However, in my corner of the world, finding this music was nearly impossible.
Local record stores, if they carried metal at all, stocked albums from obscure places (if at all) at prices that were astronomical for a high school student with no income.
This is where the real labor of love began, specifically in my case, in Manila.
Enter Recto's hidden treasure: a place called Nizzle Dazzle.
This haven of bootleg records became my sanctuary, offering albums from the most obscure metal bands, death metal groups, and black metal outfits with names and album covers that would make George Romero blush.
Yes, bootleg records were illegal, and the artists never saw a penny from these sales. It was a moral dilemma that weighed heavily on me, but with no Spotify, no streaming services, and legitimate albums being either unavailable or unaffordable, what choice did we have?
The pilgrimage to Nizzle Dazzle was an odyssey in itself - a one-and-a-half-hour journey through Manila's maze of public transportation from where I lived. Bus to jeepney to another bus to train, followed by a trek on foot.
But once there, heaven awaited. The records were cheap, around 50 pesos (less than a dollar back then), making them actually accessible to kids like me.
Here's the thing about buying music in those days: you came in blind.
Unlike today's instant gratification of sampling songs on Spotify and quickly moving on if you don't like what you hear, we had to commit.
When you bought an album, you lived with it. Sometimes it took weeks or months before something clicked, before you discovered the beauty in what initially seemed like noise. There was no skipping to the next artist with a simple click.
The hunt for new music was a massive time investment. Between the travel time and the browsing, you could easily spend hours just to find a few albums worth buying.
Was it inefficient? Absolutely. Was it sometimes disappointing? You bet.
But looking back, that was the beauty of it all.
Today, everything is easier. We can access virtually any song ever recorded in seconds.
While this accessibility is incredible, something has been lost. The challenge, the pursuit, the dedication it took to be a metal fan in a place where metal was nearly impossible to find - that shaped not just our music taste but our character.
This isn't about romanticizing hardship - nobody's life was at stake in the quest for music that I like. But there was something special about the lengths we went to for the music we loved.
Every album in my collection represented not just songs, but journeys, sacrifices, and the sweet satisfaction of discovery.
In today's world of algorithmic recommendations and infinite playlists, I sometimes miss those days of blind faith purchases and long journeys to Nizzle Dazzle. The music might have been harder to find, but maybe that's what made it sound so much sweeter when we finally pressed play.
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