EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY:
“MASTER OF PUPPETS”
BUCHAREST, ROMANIA (1989)
Every picture tells a story. Even an unremarkable, blurred, nameless photograph that I very nearly tossed away, that is, until I studied it more closely and began to think back to the memories of that instant.
During the Romanian Revolution of late 1989, I was standing in a massive crowd near the Communist Party Central Committee Building and saw this protestor wearing a patch from the rock band, Metallica. It was on the back of his coat.
This might not seem like a big deal, but it was.
Pre-revolution, everybody in Romania dressed a drab clothing. Not by intention. There were simply no other options. Mostly grays. The rest of the world was in vibrant living color, but Romania -and much of the East Bloc- was stark depravity and depression in a blurred endless haze of black and white. So, seeing *anything* the least bit different was an instant outlier. The eyes instinctively tune towards anomaly. A pair of blue jeans. A tourist t-shirt with a city from the West, likely sent behind the Iron Curtain as a gift by an expat relative. A patch sewn onto a jacket showing a heavy metal band.
Not just any rock band, but Metallica. If the Romanian Revolution had an anthem, it was the 1986 song and album title track by Metallica released three years before the collapse of communism in Europe, “Master of Puppets.” The title alone said it all. Then, there were the incendiary lyrics:
Master of puppets, I’m pulling your strings
Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams
Blinded by me, you can’t see a thing
Just call my name, ’cause I’ll hear you scream
Master, master
Just call my name, ’cause I’ll hear you scream
Master, master
Revolutions are sparked by small things and the flames of mostly young men inevitably will ignite and then burn. That passion fueled by testosterone comes in all forms, good and bad. In the late 1980s. Romanian twenty-somethings were enthralled by underground heavy metal, which was banned on all official outlets of Romanian state media, such as television and radio. Rock albums weren’t sold in stores. Nonetheless, the music got through anyway. It was played at parties, not too loudly, of course. But it was played, and sang, and the more they tried to ban it, the more popular it became.
The strangest oddity of all is that many Romanians didn’t speak a word of conversational English, but they still knew the words to the most popular rock anthems. For instance, Beatles songs were known by everyone under the age of 60. They may have sang along to “Yesterday” and “Let It Be” with thick bushy Romanian accents, but the genuine lyrical interpretation was unmistakable. And when we think of music that has truly transformed the world and has seeped into more corners and crevices of isolation, the Beatles were unmatched. Later on, perhaps Michael Jackson had the same global impact, especially in the Third World and in Asia. But a generation after their split, the Beatles remained the undisputed kings of rock.
About 6 months after this photo was taken in central Bucharest, I attended a late-night party with lots of drinking and singing and cigarettes, then more drinking and singing and cigarettes, that was filled with off-duty soldiers in the Romanian Army. A teacher at the American School had invited me, and this was way too cool an opportunity to pass up. By that time, the Embassy’s “non-fraternization” policy was fading, so hanging out with Romanian Army soldiers was frowned upon, yet not exactly forbidden. The party host, a Romanian, had a collection of prized cassette tapes he’d somehow culled off a secret and thriving Black Market that served as the house party soundtrack. About midnight, the host put on “Master of Puppets,” the song by Metallica. The party made a full stop. Suddenly, everyone was singing, make that shouting, the lyrics to a Metallica song. And those in Romanian Army uniforms sang the loudest, of all. A song of protest and revolution and even anarchy had become the scripture of a generation.
That’s the power of music.