In grade one and two, I was definitely into heavy metal and

Hear, O children of music and memory, the confession of Tobias Forge, who declared: “In grade one and two, I was definitely into heavy metal and Satanic rock music, bands that had attributes that were quote-unquote ‘Satanic,’ even things like the Rolling Stones with Their Satanic Majesties Request and Sympathy for the Devil, but also like Motley Crue and Kiss and Alice Cooper.” Though his words are wrapped in the garments of youthful fascination, they speak to something eternal: the allure of the forbidden, the curiosity of the young spirit, and the power of music to awaken both fear and wonder.

The meaning is thus: from his earliest years, Forge was drawn not to what was safe, polished, or pious, but to the wild energy of heavy metal, the theatricality of Satanic imagery, and the defiance of bands that dared to challenge norms. Such music, though accused by many of corruption, was for him an awakening, a way to peer into the darker corners of art and see that even shadows have something to teach. For in the chants of rebellion, in the thunder of guitars, in the whispers of the so-called “devil,” the young boy found not damnation but discovery.

This pattern is ancient. In every age, youth have been tempted to gaze into the abyss of the forbidden, not always to embrace it, but to understand it. The Greeks told the tale of Orpheus, who descended into Hades with his lyre, not because he worshipped the darkness, but because he sought truth and love even there. So too did Forge descend, in his way, into the kingdom of roaring guitars and fiery symbols, not to bow before them, but to emerge with a deeper grasp of art’s power to unsettle and inspire.

History offers us also the example of Romantic poets like Byron and Shelley, who scandalized their age by writing of demons, vampires, and cosmic rebellion. Their words shocked the upright, yet they revealed truths about desire, fear, and human longing. Just as Tobias Forge listened to Alice Cooper and Kiss, these poets embraced imagery that seemed Satanic to their contemporaries, not to corrupt the soul, but to challenge the mind. For only by daring to look at what is shunned can one discover the limits of society’s fear.

The essence of Forge’s reflection is that art need not be agreeable to be meaningful. “Sympathy for the Devil” may unsettle, but it also asks the listener to reflect upon the nature of evil, complicity, and choice. Motley Crue may shock with excess, but they embody the spirit of rebellion that has always animated the young against the confines of the old. Alice Cooper may drape himself in horror, but behind the mask lies theater, a reminder that man creates devils as much as he fears them.

Let the lesson, then, be this: do not fear the imagery of darkness, but seek the meaning within it. For shadows can teach as much as light. When you encounter art that unsettles, do not close your ears or your eyes. Ask instead: what is it showing me about desire, about rebellion, about humanity itself? The ancients taught that wisdom comes not from turning away from fear, but by walking through it with courage.

What, then, should you do? In your life, do not shun all that shocks you. Listen, read, observe, and then discern. Protect your heart, but do not close your mind. Support the art that uplifts, yes, but also examine the art that provokes, for both can shape you. Teach others, especially the young, that curiosity is not sin, but that it must be guided by reflection, by balance, and by the pursuit of truth.

Thus, Tobias Forge’s words reveal not a boy corrupted, but a boy awakened—a soul who learned early that art’s power lies not only in harmony, but also in dissonance. And so may you learn: that sometimes the path to wisdom runs through strange valleys, and that even the “Satanic” in art can become the teacher of those who seek meaning beyond fear. For the brave face the darkness, and in doing so, they learn how to guard and honor the light.