(The following essay contains spoilers for Sinners  Read accordingly.)

*

The thing that created the danger of the moment was what I loved—bodies pushing against each other, pressing a little too close, creating a sense of near-panic. One of my favorite metal musicians had just come onstange, jet-black hair whipping around his pale face as he threw his energy into the first song. We jumped. We headbanged. We couldn’t go anywhere else. Just moving, those first few moments feeling like hours. And in that closeness, I felt a particular sense of unity. I was able to ignore the hazard of a crowd crush, just for a moment, to feel like I was part of something. My issues with sensory sensitivity were not a concern here: this was music I liked, songs I was familiar with.

Eventually, our crowd spread apart as the band slid into the first notes of a slower bluesy song, one of their most popular tracks. Everyone went wild. I liked it okay, though I was more a fan of others. He is so good with the blues, people liked to say. You know that Elvis cover album he did—it wasn’t bad. He’s a blues guy.

I went ahead and agreed with them. Again, I felt like I was in a place I belonged.

*

At this concert—one of a few that year, in 2013, when I started exploring my taste in heavy music—whenever I looked at all the guys standing in groups with drinks in their hands, with their black tees and denim, leather jackets and kick-you-in-the-head boots, I so badly wished I were one of them. Many of the women around had awesome style—meticulous makeup jobs, piercings and jewelry everywhere—but I realized that I wanted to dress more like the guys. I felt like it matched the person I was inside. And so I did, at more concerts after that.

Being a mixed race woman immersed in a music culture dominated by tall white dudes can be interesting. I know that not everyone has the same experience, and am very thankful that mine has been mainly positive. Not many negative interactions have imprinted on my memory. Maybe some weirdos who stare a little too long from across the room, or someone pushing too closely to get to the front of a venue, but nothing really major. In those early days of starting to go to more metal shows, I’d often feel invisible, but that was okay—I was there for the music. Usually I’d go with family or sometimes a friend, and they were all I needed. If I saw someone who looked like me, or a non-white person in general, that’d be a nice bonus; I’d get a sense of security. If I’m honest, it still gives me a profound joy.

I do believe in the cheesy idea of music bringing people together—and often at shows, I feel like we’re part of the same thing. All headbanging in unison. I’ll always remember that feeling manifesting during that concert twelve years ago, as we moved in our almost-dangerous mass.

After that show, heavy music was added to my eclectic combination of what I’m drawn to—oldies jazz, punk, classical (I’m a ballet dancer), sea shanties, darkwave. Though, I would express a particularly strong dislike of rap and hip-hop—including hip-hop dance, even though I was quite good at it—stating that they were really “not my thing.” I wanted to separate myself from them, crinkle up my nose at them. I wouldn’t outright say anything mean about them—but the feelings were there. At the time, I didn’t really go too deep in questioning my strong dislike toward these styles. I disregarded the fact that they could be looked at as actual forms of art, which was how I looked at rock music.

A few years later, I started to feel a strange sense of discomfort, and it was when I was taking a History of Rock Music class in college. I’d generally known some of what was covered already, but the class went into more detail, covering the genre’s roots in Black history and culture. I saw names I didn’t recognize, backgrounds I hadn’t known—as did the majority of my classmates. There was a moment when I had to pause to let this sink in: my lack of knowledge, and that of others, of all the Black artists in the beginnings of rock. And the same with many other genres of music and art. The amount of people rarely talked about, those who deserved more credit that had gone to other artists who were white—it was a large amount, and it was made more clear. I felt a whisper of embarrassment at not fully knowing. And the discomfort would later arise particularly if some artist I admired would do a song in a certain genre or talk about how they got into rock (“I grew up listening to Elvis” was a frequent one—Elvis, who himself credited Black artists as his inspiration, but was, and still is, widely recognized as the King of the genre).

The expansive genre of “rock” itself has of course morphed and changed, reaching far beyond where it started. But learning what I did when I took that class made me listen to my favorite musicians with a deeper understanding. I obviously couldn’t say I knew more than the band members themselves—“Excuse me, Mr. Dave Mustaine, but you know the original musicians of the style of that partially acoustic track you did on your fourteenth album, right?” But even at a show, soon after this understanding arose, that twinge of discomfort remained in the back of my mind. I questioned the sense of togetherness. I almost felt guilty about my preference of these almost-all-white bands.

My thoughts were on Sister Rosetta Tharpe, an early influence on the use of the electric guitar, as I walked home from class one day. I am simply a fan of one of the styles of rock, I thought, listening to my music on Shuffle. Should I be feeling so uncomfortable?

I wondered where else, outside music, this might be true. What other histories needed to be talked about.

*

Sinners wouldn’t come out until almost a decade later, but what if the “me” of then, with my newly gained perspective thanks to a college class, had seen the movie? And what would that version of me have thought about the not-just-a-vampire-flick, incredible commentary film? I do know that I’d have been struck by two concepts: a story told through music, and the desire to take what isn’t yours. And I would have fallen in love with the soundtrack, which I felt carried these concepts perfectly. My deep connection to music, my ability to be profoundly moved by a song, and my synesthesia—seeing sounds—affect me greatly when I listen to movie scores.

On my first viewing, I felt carried through the 1930s South by acoustic guitar, harmonica, swaying strings, authenticity, joy, heart, home, and the gliding voice of our hero, Sammie. And then with the introduction of our main antagonist, Remmick, and his first attack as a vampire, I was taken off guard by the presence of a new theme. For a few seconds, it clashed completely with everything else. Dramatic and otherworldly, it felt like it was from somewhere else. The crash of drums in particular made me think of…heavy metal, actually. I was immediately into it.

I was highly curious now as I watched Remmick and his gang of fellow vampires go on to pursue Sammie and his community at the juke joint, drawn by a desire to have Sammie’s music. Even though a fair amount of Irish folk music plays when Remmick is around due to his being Irish, I couldn’t help but also associate that original “heavy metal”-sounding theme with him and the other vampires. My mind had fixated on it. I found it an interesting musical choice and just couldn’t let it go. It felt similar to what I listened to regularly and, because of that, I (unfortunately) thought the vampires were kind of cool. I loved hearing the dramatic theme come up again later, blending with the rest of the score at the escalation of conflict.

I thought about this after seeing Sinners that first time and, taking into account my Irish ancestry and being half white, laughed as I wondered: Am I part vampire? Yes, it goes a little deeper than that in the film, but, still, funny to think about. Though of course I didn’t want to be drawn into their culty gathering. I didn’t want to be an accomplice in stealing our hero’s music. Right?

*

The multilayered film opened doors to things I wasn’t expecting to address within myself. Part of it has to do with the incredible scene of Sammie’s performance that summons spirits from the past and future, to be present all in the same place. I felt the fourth wall vanish as I became immersed in this celebration of Black music and dance through years and generations—a stunning space with artists of all kinds. All of it, important, historic, and sacred, as one character calls it. It is my favorite scene. It’s easy to get emotional viewing it. I wish I’d shown it to the “me” of before. I would have loved the way the music flowed between classic and modern sound.

I thought about how I once shunned rap and hip-hop. How would the past me have felt about the rockin’ musician with an electric guitar at the beginning of that scene, or the ballet dancer a little later, sharing the space with hip hop dancers, breakdancers, rap artists, and countless others? Everyone, together?

It was like a version of that original questioning about the togetherness at the shows I went to. As my mind replayed the scenes after I left the theater, again I wondered: In what place would I be, in the film? What would I be willing to do, to be, to become a part of something? And which “something” am I wanting to be a part of?

The odd combinations of thought fragments were held together by a thread in my mind. I was supposed to be done asking these things. What happens in the film is maybe not quite the same as where these concerns were going…but it started something in the back of my mind. Now, I was looking. Examining.

*

So, what is the connective piece between it all? Can these thoughts be put into something more cohesive—in my mind, or on paper? Is there a way to make everything more organized?

Maybe not right now. But these are ideas that need to be explored, regardless of if there is a conclusion or not. So what happens at this point? It’s not that I can tell every person I can at the next concert I go to where the music we all love came from. I can’t expect my favorite artists not to touch certain styles or cover certain songs. The shadow of guilt at my enjoyment of various types of rock has shown itself before; will it come up again?

One thing that’s for certain is that we can’t bury the history. And it’s of utmost importance that original artists—particularly the non-white artists, the ones who should be credited, the ones at risk of being buried—are honored as much as possible. Doing my best with this, over the years, I’ve gained more confidence in moving away from the need to feel that guilt. And, more recently, I’ve been getting to see some more amazing metal and hardcore groups with non-white artists at the helm—current favorites are Zeal and Ardor (combining Black spirituals and black metal), Bloodywood (Indian folk metal), and Ho99o9 (punk rap), all of them killing it. There are countless others, many that don’t have nearly as big of an audience as they should. So at least give these guys a listen if you haven’t, or tell your metalhead friends about them.

I could say so much about Sinners. It’s a film that’s inspired, and continued, conversations much needed; it’s both come at the right time and should have come a lot sooner. I’m glad it’s here. But yeah, I do still think the vampires are kind of metal (it probably helped that Lars Ulrich and Jerry Cantrell brought their Metallica and Alice In Chains energy, respectively, to the soundtrack). Symbolically, too—taking and transforming music that isn’t yours, and all that. But I think as long as we keep conversations like these going, then I can feel a little more okay about listening to the songs I love on Repeat. And I can still feel a comfort in that particular togetherness at my favorite shows.

I have to say—I do love that we see an older Sammie, having held on to what he loved, rocking out all those decades later (and portrayed by none other than Buddy Guy). I like to say that he followed his dreams. Another cheesy saying that I am a fan of.