It all started in late 2006. I was 19 years old, aimlessly trying to navigate adulthood. I had a crummy, dead-end job at a grocery store, spending my bi-weekly minimum wage paycheck on clothing from Hot Topic and guitar and bass magazines. I fancied myself a “future metal musician.” For about two years, I had been experimenting on a dedicated home computer, making demos and honing my skills as a musician. With hopes of becoming the next “Slayer” or “Pantera,” I kept my expectations high and my learning curves low.

I wanted to perform with my older brother—me on bass and vocals, him on guitar—along with a drummer we could vibe with. I envisioned us as a straightforward heavy metal band with thrash and industrial influences, a mix of late '90s Slayer and Danzig, with just a touch of Crowbar sludge. To top it all off, I crafted the most offensive, try-hard lyrics that would make any 4Channer nod in approval. This was the path I saw myself on for the foreseeable future. In retrospect, it wasn't going to last long. Most bands with that "try-hard" attitude either ended up getting canceled or lumped in with the "MAGA" cult. Something didn’t feel right. The music was "cool," but the lyrics were dull. My heart felt uninspired.

I always found myself drifting back to my first loves: rock opera, adult contemporary, Celtic, and new-age. Nothing gave me that fuzzy feeling quite like the soulful epicness of Meat Loaf, Jim Steinman, and 1980s Cher. Nothing made me feel like I was soaring quite like Enya, Josh Groban, and Celine Dion. Nothing made me think quite like Vanessa Carlton, Billy Joel, and Elton John. I loved metal because it made me feel powerful. I loved everything else because it made me feel real—which meant being vulnerable. And I just couldn’t connect those two worlds.

Flash forward to a random autumn night in 2006. My brother was probably on the road in another state for work. My parents were likely asleep, and like most nights, I was endlessly recording and experimenting, getting nowhere. I took a break and opened a guitar magazine. That’s when I saw them: Herman Li and Sam Totman, the guitarists for DragonForce. It was an advertisement for DiMarzio Pickups, which they exclusively played. The ad hyped them up as “the fastest band in the world,” with quotes from Metallica’s Kirk Hammett saying something like, “I’ve never heard anything so fast.” The ad called them “epic” with “lightning licks.” Herman had gorgeous long black hair that hung well past his waist, just as I had always wanted for myself. Sam looked like a wild man and brought a fun energy to the duo.

I admit, I was defensive. I was a teenager who hated being told what I should like. But I was curious. Were these guys really as awesome as the ad claimed? In that era, I could look them up in an instant to see if it was all just hot air. So, I did just that.

I ran to the family computer in the back of our living room—the only computer in the house with an internet connection. I started it up and quickly found myself on YouTube, a relatively new video-sharing site still in its infancy but a great resource for free music at the time. Albums were still a thing, and streaming hadn’t taken off yet. If a band’s music wasn’t available on YouTube or Myspace, you had to buy a download from iTunes or the whole CD from a brick-and-mortar store. Luckily, that wasn’t the case. I swiftly found DragonForce, who had just released a new music video for their latest single, “Operation Ground and Pound.”

“Epic.” “Lightning licks.” “Fastest band in the world.” I was going to be the judge of that. I hit play. I was never the same.

The video was a five-minute edit of their eight-minute single, but it was enough. I had found it—after years of searching. The feeling that thrashy, riffing metal gave me, combined with the soaring butterflies that rock opera evoked. I felt powerful, inspired, in touch with my heart—all from this nonsensical speed-metal track, which DragonForce dubbed their own genre: “Extreme Power Metal.” I was immediately enamored. I needed to study this. I needed to recreate it. The drums. The riffing. The leads. The chord progressions. All of it.

I ran to my bedroom and started recording with the best of my knowledge and ability. It sucked. It felt like learning all over again—which, in a way, I was. I worked on it all night with no real vision, just trying to create something, anything that could make me feel the way I did listening to DragonForce. Hours passed. I hadn’t gotten any closer, but I knew I had a long way to go. Still, I felt the buzz. I saved the project as “Epic Rock.” I didn’t even know what to call it. But I was about to find out.

The next day, I drove to Best Buy, the go-to place for CDs in my town, and bought a copy of DragonForce’s newest album, Inhuman Rampage. I put the disc in my mom’s 1998 Crown Victoria and instantly heard what would become DragonForce’s signature song, “Through the Fire and Flames.” I knew then it wasn’t a fluke. They were legitimately always this epic—high speed, unafraid to play in a major key, with constant machine-gun riffs and drumming blast beats. I listened to that album front to back, ending with the ballad “Trail of Broken Hearts.” I literally felt like crying. If I wasn’t such an emotionally closed-off little hard-ass, I probably would have. I let the album consume me, immersing myself in its sound and emotions.

It took me about a week before I realized the lyrics didn’t make much sense. But it didn’t matter. The music was so beautifully composed that it barely needed to be in English to move me. I interpreted it however I wanted, and I loved it even more for that.

About six months later, I composed and recorded my first power metal demo: an overblown, 12-minute snooze-fest inspired by Inuyasha, of all things. It wasn’t perfect (far from it), but I had to prove to myself that I could do it. And whereas I certainly came up short, I also proved that I was on the right track. Over time, I grew embarrassed by that song. Then, years later, I became proud of it. I had no clue what I was doing, but I did something. Something new and different at a time in my life when vulnerability wasn’t an option. I was terrified. And the few people who had the “duty” of listening to it didn’t mince words. It hurt to suck so much, but I was bound and determined to create something even one-tenth as good as DragonForce.

But why?

It took years and several breakdowns to understand. Why did I want to capture that feeling so badly? Why was it so important to me? Why did it become my ultimate goal?

My brother started a family. Music was no longer his main concern. Admittedly, I felt abandoned. My father passed away in 2007. I felt less pressure to be tough and stoic. MySpace made me feel less alone, and I was beginning to make friends. I traveled to different cities and experienced life for the first time. But in the back of my mind, there was still that need. A need to help others understand how I felt that autumn night.

I was a different person before that night—a person I didn’t want to be anymore. Since then, I’ve changed many times, sometimes not for the best. But I always return to where I need to be because I allow myself to be vulnerable. Because I let go of that tough-guy facade long ago. Because I allowed myself to feel.

DragonForce helped me do that. And so did other power metal acts like Stratovarius, Power Quest, and Masterplan. I studied them and figured out what made them work. What gave me that feeling?

That feeling.

That’s why I love power metal. That’s why I created MettleWings. To be one 19-year-old’s salvation—his hope and inspiration. To save him. The way I was saved.

Invisible magic of the heart

Can’t be seen or touched, but it’s a start,

To the wonders in our souls,

Where the unseen love unfolds.

-Miah