Normal girl goes metal

Looking at me, you might not expect to find me at a metal gig in Belfast. I’m more pink than black

these days, and I don’t exactly fit the stereotype. Whatever that’s supposed to be.

When people think of metal, they picture mosh pits, screaming, and a sea of black clothing. I used

to buy into that image myself. At fourteen, I was fully committed: black skinny jeans, band tees,

and hair dyed with the darkest Schwarzkopf shade I could find. Not in a chic, Chanel “little black

dress” way. More in an “it’s not a phase, Mum” kind of way.

And like most phases, it came with consequences. Mine peaked in Paris, in thirty-degree heat,

dressed head-to-toe in black for the sake of a My Chemical Romance T-shirt. While everyone else

queued for a boat tour in summer clothes, I stood there slowly overheating until I fainted and had to

be dragged out of the line by a teacher.

At the time, it felt dramatic. Now, it just feels ironic. Years later, standing outside venues like

Limelight and Voodoo, I realised something: the metal scene I thought I understood from the

outside was nothing like the one I was stepping into.

At the door, as usual, we get ID’d. I get it. Apparently pink makes you look younger. I’ll take the

compliment. The bouncer immediately recognises my boyfriend and waves him through without

hesitation, while I stand there in a pink Hollister baby tee with a Hello Kitty keyring hanging from

my bag looking like I’ve accidentally wandered into the wrong queue.

Inside, though, nobody really cares. That surprised me most.

There’s a strange assumption from people outside alternative music scenes that they’re hostile

places if you don’t “look the part.” In reality, Belfast’s metal scene feels less interested in perfection

and more interested in participation. Nobody stopped to interrogate whether I knew enough bands

to deserve being there. Nobody asked me to prove myself. Most people were too busy enjoying

themselves.

That’s not to say appearances don’t matter at all. Metal has its own unofficial dress code: black

cargos, patched battle jackets, chains, old band hoodies faded from years of washing. Even

individuality has a uniform sometimes.

I noticed this most while standing near older people. A a man old enough to be my granda. He was

probably in his early sixties, dressed entirely in black denim despite the humidity inside the venue.

He looked me up and down. The pink top, the eyeliner, the tiny Sanrio keychains hanging from my

bag, before laughing. “You’d fit in better if you committed to the look,” he told me. After he

complimented my boyfriends patch work jacket. He wasn’t cruel about it. If anything, he sounded

amused, like someone offering advice rather than criticism.

A few years ago, I probably would have taken that comment to heart. Teenage me would have gone

home and immediately ordered another pair of platform boots and enough silver jewellery to set off

airport security. But standing there now, drink in hand, surrounded by distorted guitars and people

screaming lyrics at each other, I realised I didn’t actually want to blend in anymore. The older I get,

the less interested I am in performing an identity for strangers.

There’s something slightly ironic about alternative scenes that pride themselves on rejecting

mainstream expectations while quietly creating their own. The metal scene isn’t unique in that.Every subculture has rules, even unspoken ones. What changes is whether people make you feel

unwelcome for breaking them. Belfast, in my experience, largely doesn’t.

If anything, standing out became a conversation starter. Girls complimented my outfit in the

bathroom while adjusting fishnets and reapplying eyeliner. If anything the girls I’ve seen at gigs

also have a love for Sanrio. There’s common ground there. Maybe that’s the thing I misunderstood

most about metal culture. From the outside, it can look intimidating aggressive even. Loud music,

dark clothes, people throwing themselves into mosh pits with alarming levels of trust. But

underneath all that noise is an oddly welcoming kind of chaos.

The stereotype suggests metal is about anger. Sometimes it is. But Belfast’s scene also feels deeply

rooted in community. Regulars recognise each other instantly. People remember faces. Bands hang

around after sets talking to audience members instead of disappearing backstage. Even the chaos

has etiquette. If someone falls in the pit, people pick them back up. There’s something reassuring

about that.

For a scene supposedly built on rebellion, the thing I found most surprising was how ordinary it felt.

Not ordinary in a bad way. Ordinary in the sense that everyone there is just looking for somewhere

they can exist comfortably for a few hours. Somewhere loud enough to drown out whatever they

brought in with them. And maybe that’s why I keep coming back, even dressed like the human

embodiment of a Glinda the good witch from wicked.

Authenticity matters more than fitting the aesthetic. And if a girl in pink can find a place for herself

in Belfast’s metal scene without changing who she is, maybe the scene is more open-minded than

people think.