With the internet and social media facilitating the spread of culture globally, various strains of metal, especially the more extreme death metal, have found fertile ground all over Africa, from the former Portuguese colonies of Angola and Mozambique (a nascent scene documented in the forthcoming film Terra Pesada, directed by Leslie Bornstein) to the English-speaking countries of South Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia and Tanzania. Even the East African nations of Kenya and Uganda boast burgeoning metal scenes.

Despite attracting die-hard fans worldwide, metal has never been taken seriously by the mainstream, caricatured in films like This is Spinal Tap and ridiculed as the expression of suburban teenage angst à la Beavis and Butthead. Comedian Richard Pryor skewered the genre in a 1977 skit, taking the stage looking like a member of KISS as the frontman of an imaginary outfit known as Black Death. In an ironic twist, a real band from Cleveland, Ohio, assumed that name a year later, becoming the first African-American heavy metal band, though they have been relegated to history as a novelty act. However, what is going on in Africa today is no novelty.

It all goes back to the 1990s, when metal splintered into various subgenres, including grindcore, black metal, doom, and death metal. “Death metal is the extreme genre of metal, marked by its intense speed, notably fast double bass drumming style, serious virtuosity, and deep guttural vocal delivery,” says Edward Banchs, author of a forthcoming book, Heavy Metal Africa: Life Passion, And Heavy Metal in The Forgotten Continent. “South Africa began to produce a lot of bands that composed and recorded their own original material first,” he says, attributing this to the country’s musical infrastructure — the promoters, venues, and festivals which supported the scene — being on a par with Europe or America. Another factor was the international boycott of the 1980s, which served to economically isolate the country while simultaneously stimulating local industries. With a population of 48 million, South Africa was large enough to support a small community of metal fans, so the music gained a creative foothold on the continent while also opening up a touring market for bands like Metallica and Sepultura.

In the mid-90s, two white South African bands — Voice of Destruction and Groinchurn — signed to the German label Morbid Records, which also released a 1994 compilation showcasing the local scene, The Death Of Africa, Volume 1. The first bands boasting an all-black lineup, such as Botswana’s Metal Orizon and Last Year’s Tragedy in Kenya, were also formed around this time, inspiring their own homegrown scenes. By the early 2000s, the music was spreading organically across the continent, producing bands like Rock of Ages in Kenya, Neblina in Angola, and female-fronted thrash metal band Sasamaso in Madagascar.  

Today it’s Botswana, a small, landlocked country of about 2.1 million people, that has become the new face of African metal, largely thanks to South African photographer Frank Marshall, whose images of African metalheads geared up in leather, spikes and cowboy hats a la Judas Priest or Iron Maiden went viral in 2010.

“There is a culture of rock attire in this country, and it kinda makes one feel like a rock star,” says Tumelo Matshameko, aka Stux Daemon, lead singer and guitarist for Botswana’s premier death metal outfit, Wrust. “It draws a lot of attention even from faraway places like the States and Europe.” The band’s striking look also caught the eye of documentary maker Raffaela Mosca, whose 2013 film March of The Gods: Botswana Metalheads goes deeper into the heart of the grassroots movement. Looking like extras from a Mad Max movie, on film the subjects of Marshall’s photographs come across as more thoughtful than their dress code might suggest. Wearing a studded cowboy hat and a tasselled leather jacket, a man who calls himself Trooper says matter-of-factly: “People may perceive us as Satanists — they perceive you how you dress — but actually I’m just a very good guy.” His friend Taliban, who serves in the army when not wearing his leather uniform, adds: “We are into the love of music and the brotherhood. The association that we have with each other is what we like.” Observing his subjects, Marshall himself is admiring: “They really are the most passionate fans of any genre that I’ve ever known.”

March of The Gods: Botswana Metalheads focuses on Stux and his band as they juggle day jobs and family, putting up posters for their own concerts just like struggling musicians everywhere. Charting their slow progress, the film culminates with their first gig outside of Africa at SoloMacello festival in Milan, where a burst of monster riffs, double bass drum blasts and Stux’s tortured howls signal their arrival on the international scene.

“When I first started the band it was fucking tough,” says Stux, who was introduced to rock when he was 13 through an hour-long program on national radio, and later through tapes of AC/DC, Def Leppard, Jimi Hendrix and Black Sabbath which the older kids in his neighborhood circulated. “It’s almost impossible to imagine that the band would have lasted this long with no [rehearsal] space – shitty guitars, no audience whatsoever, no support of any kind except from our metal brother Metal Orizon, who made it possible,” he says.

Similar sentiments are echoed in other parts of the continent. Chris Lilako Yagami of Kenyan band In Oath says starting from scratch “wasn’t easy, but we never gave up. We went onstage and got inspired by bands that had been in our position before. Metal music in general is not everyone’s cup of tea in Kenya, as is [the same] with most of the world, but the fanbase never dies and always appreciates our efforts as bands.”

Victor Tebuseeke, aka Vickonomy, guitarist and vocalist for Uganda’s only doom metal band Vale of Amonition, agrees. “People are still sleeping on this music, and society here is just as trendy as anywhere else, and metal’s nature is of the underground quality. It is subversive, it is esoteric, and nothing will ever change that. It is a taste not many Ugandans are willing to acquire.” Metal’s Satanic associations don’t fly in this predominantly Christian country — not to mention the aggressiveness of its sound — making the music a hard sell. Like everywhere else on the planet, metal remains a subculture. “Metal will never be accepted by the mainstream in Africa. It will always be underground. And you know what? That is just fine with most of us,” says Vickonomy. What ultimately matters more is recognition and acceptance among metalheads worldwide.

“The metal community is tight. We know each other from the back of our heads,” says In Oath’s Lilako Yagami. “Shows have mostly been established by the local fanbase and supporters of our kind of music. There aren’t as many, but when there’s a show, it’s always worth it to mingle with the community and enjoy local bands.”

“We do it because we love it,” says Stux, “and it’s fun to share what you feel in front of people who understand your kind.” While social media and the internet have put the movement on the map, “it is not enough without radio sponsorship or TV,” he says. But progress can be measured by recent coverage on CNN and Vice, and bands like Wrust, In Oath, Vale of Ammonition and many more are continuing to make albums and play shows.

At the conclusion of Death Metal Angola, Flores observes: “We are at the beginning of the story. Fifteen or 20 years from now people are going to say, ‘Hey, you’re one of the people who inspired all of us that now love and play rock.’” The advancement of any movement requires blood, sweat, and time, and though the African metal scene is almost two decades old, it’s only just beginning to make some noise.

Photo credits: Frank Marshall