Even the most open-minded Metal people have to clear a lot of hurdles on the path to Type O Negative fandom. Though hampered sonically by a fuzzy, bubbly, direct-to-board sound, Type O has bigger problems, all of them originating in singer-bassist Peter Steele's crotch. Whether spouting off thinly-veiled racist bullshit, warbling in sub-audible tones about nuns who want to be fisted by Jesus or something (shit, can anyone tell what "Christian Woman" is about?), or waving his schlong around in naked dude magazines, Steele drenches a formidable pop-doom-metal band's brilliant catalogue in silliness. It's not that the antics of Pete (and lil' Pete) are standing in the way of mega-stardom for the Drab Four, who peaked on the brain-rattlingly awesome Life Is Killing Me, but it sucks that dudes chuckle derisively about the bedonged frontman every time I'm trying to blab about my theory that Type O Negative is what The Beatles would've sounded like had Lennon and Harrison converted to Black Sabbathism after Hey Jude*. Forget about that shit! I'm fuckin' talking here, people!
Anyway, recent jail time and drug rehabilitation now lend Steele some graveness, which is positive, though nobody is trying to hear his yucky born-again, pro-life shit. Our Peter is the unsmiling, pitch black-humored bonehead who is assuring you he's not gay immediately after boasting sourly about the multitudinous propositions he fields from the world's homos. Hey I just wanted to take a picture with ya, Pete. That I was wearing only a mesh thong is pure coincidence. Jeez tell the neighborhood.
*That pussy McCartney woulda been home teaching his wife the tambourine
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