Chapter Seven
While I wait for Dax, I claim one of the available tables, extracting my laptop from my dingy yellow JanSport and connect to Grindcore’s Wi-Fi.
Grindcore is the kind of coffee shop that could only exist next to somewhere like AP.
It’s less soothing hues of latte browns and acoustic guitar covers and more slap-tagged tables and industrial decor, its baristas more concerned with flipping the vinyl every four songs than expediting drinks.
The excuse I gave John for wanting to think it over isn’t without merit. Messy history aside, I love this band, but I’m not sure where I’d even begin. What angle would make for the most interesting read? As a fan of their music, what would I want that’s not already out there?
Opening a new browser window, I search “Final Revelations.”
When the results populate, my heart aches. Below the expected links to the band’s website and a YouTube video of their infamous screamo cover of Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” are a handful of articles popular enough to make the first page.
A Billboard link states, “Final Revelations’ Frontman Makes a Fool of Himself, Band Somehow Redeems Reverie Fest Performance.”
Then, Mike Song’s Offbeat article from eight years ago—the one that launched my mentor’s career and made Final Revelations stop talking to the press. My mouse hovers over it, but then I chicken out.
Toggling over to the images tab, my frown turns into a fond smile.
There are the quintessential metal band photos, all five of them in incredibly dark settings, backlit.
There are photos of them playing festivals, and seeing them in daylight feels wrong by comparison.
There are a lot of photos of Dax—some lifted from his now-deleted MySpace, while others are grainy screenshots from the band’s YouTube tour vlogs.
There’s a photo of a young Dax that catches my eye.
He’s squatting against a graffitied wall, grinning as he chews on his hoodie string.
It takes me a moment to realize what’s off about it: He doesn’t have his dimple yet.
His dimple that’s not a dimple. I scroll farther down, my stomach in knots.
If I were still at Offbeat, I know how Mike would ask me to write this piece, the gossip he’d want, that readers would devour, making my interview instantly more iconic than his.
But because I know the Final Revelations guys, I know that’s not what they’ll want.
What kind of article is John expecting? And can I deliver it?
Another photo catches my eye, another picture of Dax.
He looks… Well, he looks incredibly fucking sexy.
His chin is tilted up, and he’s looking down at the camera with a cocky, lopsided smirk, dimple on full display.
Next to him is a photo of Heath Ledger from 10 Things I Hate About You, playing with a Bunsen burner fire.
Someone captioned it “same energy.” I laugh before toggling back over to the main page, Mike Song’s article staring back at me. Mustering my courage, I click on it.
[Excerpt from The Offbeat archives]
The Misrevelation of Final Revelations: Are We Already in the End Times?
By Mike Song for The Offbeat
November 17, 2002
The last time I saw Final Revelations live, they were a mess. If it weren’t for lead guitarist and original frontman, Marcus Bailey, their Reverie Fest performance would’ve been a complete shit show, as their “replacement” lead singer went from sounding like a demon to battling his own.
Dakota “Dax” Nakamura was only seventeen years old when he replaced Marcus Bailey as lead vocalist for the explosively popular Final Revelations.
Three years later, not only have Bailey’s vocal cords recovered from the laryngitis that caused him to relinquish his spot as frontman, but they’re covering for Nakamura.
What was once the most promising band on the metal scene, poised to become one of the greats, is on the precipice of fumbling right before they can cement themselves as one of the rare metal bands to cross into mainstream popularity without alienating their original fan base.
But have they reached too high too fast?
After the band’s performance at Reverie Fest during which Nakamura wandered around the stage seemingly unaware of where he was or that his guitarist was providing the bulk of his vocals for him, Nakamura checked himself into rehab.
Six months later, the band announced they would resume their postponed Euro tour.
I had the chance to sit down with the band and sit in on a rehearsal. If you, like me, were wondering if claiming your suspended ticket is worth the effort or if you should sell it before it loses all its value, read on.
The rehearsal venue has that haunted air that all venues do sans crowd, a fact amplified by the near-demonic noises Nakamura is making over the microphone.
My affinity for metal has always been lukewarm at best, but even I’m unable to deny the appeal of Final Revelations, the range of Nakamura’s vocals, from his growls to his cleans.
It’s rare for a metal band to have a frontman with a range that seamlessly translates live, and in the empty venue, as Nakamura lets out an impassioned “fuck” after a particularly taxing melody, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Final Revelations is back.
But—can they maintain it?
Fresh out of rehab, Nakamura is holding a bottle of water the way you’d hold the neck of a fifth of vodka.
He winces as he takes measured sips, which makes you wonder if there’s something else in the bottle, but that wouldn’t align with the narrative they’re now pushing about rock’s favorite bad boy—that he’s gone straight edge.
If you’ve read my work before, you know my qualms with the term.
Most who claim it don’t actually abide by all three X’s—no drinking, no drugs, no sex.
I don’t waste any time in pressing him on his interpretation of the term—particularly the latter of the three, where most fall off the wagon.
He fingers the sobriety chip around his neck, avoiding my question by delivering one of his own, “You interested?”
While Nakamura looks healthier than the last time we crossed paths, I am not a twentysomething girl; thus, I’m not interested.
I ignore his question as he ignored mine and move on.
When I ask him how his sobriety is going, he simply says, “Fucking peachy.” The newly twenty-one-year-old isn’t particularly known for being loquacious—nor does he seem all that worried about cleaning up his image.
I begin to wonder why I’m even here. If this interview was arranged to set the record straight about the band being on sure footing once again, I’m not convinced.
None of the band members want to talk about what happened six months ago—maybe because even they aren’t convinced they’ve turned over a new leaf?
If anyone had hopes that Nakamura would become the poster boy for sobriety, I’m here to tell you, don’t expect him to be giving inspirational speeches in school gymnasiums anytime soon.
The band only wants to talk “about the music,” with little regard for what the fans want to know: What happened at Reverie Fest? Was the rehab stint a PR stunt? Is Final Revelations really back? Or are we setting ourselves up for yet another disappointment?
After a few hours of grunted two-word answers from Nakamura, it’s apparent only Marcus Bailey was willing to talk, but even then, I only got one answer to the above that was longer than one word:
Nothing.
No.
Yes.
Fuck off.
Make of that what you will. Being in a band isn’t only “about the music” anymore. Just ask their label, Dropkick Records—who, rumor has it, will be “parting ways” with the biggest band on their roster after only two of their three contracted albums. Make of that what you will.
By the time I finish reading the article, my hands are shaking with barely suppressed rage.
I can’t believe I ever considered Song my industry idol.
Nor that, after all this time, his article is still one of the first things to populate when searching “Final Revelations.” That this, one of their lowest moments, will become their legacy.
I click on a few more articles, and even the ones praising their work are threaded with the same incorrect rumors and assumptions.
Their label dropped them for being impossible to work with.
Dax’s rehab stint was a publicity stunt.
Marcus and Dax can’t stand each other. Final Revelations may have stopped speaking to the press, but that didn’t stop the press from writing about them—and Mike Song’s article set the tone for how they would be talked about for eight whole years.
I’d hoped the research would enlighten me, give me an angle to write from, but I’m more lost than ever. The task at hand feels insurmountable. How am I supposed to undo nearly a decade of false narratives?
The door to the coffee shop opens, and Dax prowls in.
There’s no other way to describe how he moves, lithe like a jungle cat, unfairly graceful for someone so tall.
His eyes scan the shop, his gaze somehow cutting and indifferent all at once.
He’s in full stage mode right now, the persona he sinks into when he doesn’t want to be approached.
If it weren’t so effective, I’d find it pretentious.
A few people clustered around mismatched tables exchange knowing looks and nudges, but no one gets up or says anything.
I probably should have picked a coffee shop that wasn’t a favorite haunt of metalheads, but it was the most convenient for me, and at the present, I’m not inclined to inconvenience myself for Dax Nakamura.