I first encountered Drexophilous Vasektomy about a year ago. It was a blustery night in October, and he appeared just as you see him in the photo, here, as he walked down Metropolitan Avenue in Brooklyn.
He fascinated me, because devotion to black metal in this form doesn't extend to day-to-day activities. Later, when I was made privy to his Twitter, Facebook, and OKCupid pages (yes, Drex is looking for love, just as we all are) we struck up a tenuous discourse.
I decided to ask him some questions about being a true Norwegian black metaller living in Williamsburg.
Nonstop Sound: Would you please tell us about yourself?
Drexophilous Vasektomy: I am your greatest fear, the blackest void, and the loss of your mother's affection. I am the putrid embodiment of theocratic worry and deistic contempt for the true void. I am a black canvas for your hatred's spittle, looking for love in the big city. I am the Lance Armstrong of misanthropy, and my performance is enhanced only by the muscle milk of your disdain. Also pursue freelance graphic design, search for mate.
NS: What is the most disparate aspect of living in Williamsburg from Norway?
DV: I could live off horse cartilage and dried fish all winter in my Norwegian isolation shack. Now I live with pet snake Trismegistus who demands quinoa, and inferior roomie Spencer, who eats his weight in Boca burgers every fortnight. Disgusting. Besides foods, most disparate aspect is the available supply of attractive flesh, and overwhelming inferiority. In Norwegian fjordlund, so isolated even dried haunches of horse jerky can appear as a beautiful woman! Ha! Ha! Ha! But serious, still searching for my queen of brutality. Started OKC profile to change state of crippling loneliness, but created levels of self loathing high enough to climb to Valhalla. Find me a mate, inferior!
NS: How do you deal with the exorbitant ticket prices of top-tier kvlt bands on the salary of a graphic designer?
DV: This top tier of kvlt consists entirely of bands you have never heard of who would never come to flabby-minded, theocrat-stroking America. True kvlt black metallers string their guitars from the guts of fjord cats and power their amps on misery pumped in from the urban centers. In this way the problem you have posed dissolves, and I can again submerge myself in a vat of black solitude wearing the long shorts of my ultimate disdain.
NS: Was one of the reasons you moved to Brooklyn the easy accessibility to vermin -- rat kings, feral cats, alligators -- for ritual sacrifice?
DV: Ritual sacrifice, and companionship. I also found a hearty dinner, and great practice of taxidermic arts. Why do women in New York not appreciate a rat -- stuffed, regal and defiant -- as an offering on first date? Flowers die, but a posed rat, monstrous, fang bared, eyes most evil red, that is something you want in your child's room, and children's children's room. As protection.
NS: How do you deal with corpse paint and leather in New York's humidity?
DV: My putrid ambivalence does express itself in an olfactory mode. Fortunately, I am by no means the worst smelling thing in New York at any given moment. Activate your pitiful imagination. The humidity forces the hate out of my pores and blemishes my noble Viking visage. I moisturize with the force of 30 Viking rowers heading to pillage. Alternately, the leather becomes only more pliant with time and sweat.
NS: What are you most excited about musically right now, in New York City and in general?
DV: I am a simple man who only requires slack production values, tremolo picking, double bass, incoherent screaming, and a commitment to end all belief systems.
In this place of New York or Brookline, I am vexed and enraged at the perpetual tide of mediocrats washing up on the shore. They gasp with their goldfish mouths before being squashed under the foot of a playful child. No one cries. Why a generation reaching adulthood or mid-adulthood would recapitulate their awkward teenage romances and call it fine art is beyond me. It reeks of inferiority. Retreat to your Dawson's Creek fantasy or degenerative synth-plops. I'll be watching friends, and shredding until the blood from my fingers begins to bleed, and when that stops I'm lighting a pentagram in your front yard and calling your mother to tell her she raised a weakling and a failure. Look at the world, Slayer says more about human experience than the last decade of "indie" rock.
NS: Like a lot of people in Williamsburg, you have a roommate. His name is Spencer and you seem to despise him. Where did you and Spencer meet?
DV: Spencer is an inferior I attracted via the nether realm of Craigslist. He's always moving my skull collection and inviting attractive women home to listen to his "acoustic demos." He invites me to his "DJ night" and wants me to "meet his friends." I want him to meet my fist, at high velocity, and with maximum damage. How can you not despise one who goes through life as if it won't end, as if there wasn't an Earth hole or incinerator or drainage ditch waiting for all of us? His lackadaisical demeanor is an affront to all. I apologize for even mentioning this brown puddle of a "man."