I first got into “writing” in elementary school, really. I had a grandma who was bored most of the time and taught me to read and write before kindergarten since we didn’t have enough money for me to attend a proper pre-school. My mom still has a sticky note from when I was 2 or 3 that says “Kelsey Legg Kid Genius.” Apparently I sat at the kitchen table asking her how to spell things, and this was one of my super modest creations from that time.

 

Once I hit middle school and discovered rock n’ roll, I decided I wanted to be a beat poet like Allen Ginsberg or his obvious copycat Jim Morrison–please feel free to giggle gratuitously any time now. I filled composition books with precocious and horrifying poetry and songs about love, sex, obsession–anything I felt like putting on paper at the time that helped me deal with the unmatched pain that is being an adolescent girl in love with long-dead rock stars. Luckily, that phase turned into a real knack for essay writing, and I used that skill to bullshit my way through advanced English classes and a gig writing restaurant reviews for the local newspaper in Putnam County, WV. I felt like such hot shit when people I’d wait on during my day job at Bob Evans recognized me from my column’s thumbnail.

 

  As far as writing now, I certainly haven’t achieved any crazy dreams. I have fun doing a little research here and there and contributing to Skulltoaster weekly for my dear friend Seth Werkheiser, and writing for MetalSucks is something I love trying to pull off, but I feel inadequate as a writer in almost every aspect. I’m painfully insecure about my ability to string together interesting words, and as a musician myself, it’s hard for me to look at something someone has done in ernest and say “Your art is not good, and this is why you should listen to my opinion.” I suppose someday that part will fade away and I’ll feel more authoritative, but goddamn do I ever wince at people who walk into it with a chip on their shoulder thinking they deserve to rub shoulders with people who have worked tirelessly at this for years.

Homie don’t play that. I don’t mind paying to get into shows or for music, and the only interviews I’ve done were people who approached me first. That being said, I’d totally blow Mike Patton for an interview.

 

I’ll let you decide if I’m joking.

I do indeed, and I fucking hate cocktails, drinking and making. The bar I work at on weekends is beer and wine only, so the only cocktail I make now is the occasional mimosa. Before this, I was working in this high-end tequila bar in Harlem serving gross $4 margaritas to happy hour idiots who didn’t care what it tasted like as long as it got them drunk enough to forget they were paying $2600 a month for 5th floor walkup studio. The good customers are the ones who order the simplest things; I rarely rolled my eyes at people drinking Jack & Coke or Vodka sodas. If you want me to know you’re fucking worthless, order a Long Island or strawberry margarita. Bonus dickhead points if you request either “top shelf.”

 

We’ve established I don’t do cocktails, but once or twice a year I’ll get a wild hair and order a Hendrick’s martini, dirty and dry. I used to drink Manhattans, but that hangover is more brutal than a knife fight in a Dying Fetus pit.

Well, I touched on this in the first question a bit. I don’t like reviewing music one bit. I can sit around with my friends and make comparisons and judgements all day, and it is in fact one of my favorite things to discuss with others in a PRIVATE setting. When it comes to saying things in a public way, I feel like such a piece of shit tearing things down constructively knowing listeners might somehow let my opinion mold their experience with an album or band. What if someone had told me before I listened to Led Zeppelin when I was a kid “Yo, this band fucking sucks” ???!? That would have changed to course of my ENTIRE LIFE. I can’t be responsible for that, but I totally respect people who feel okay with it.

 

As far as critiquing music, obviously I pay quite a bit of attention to drummers. I’ll never stop wanting to be John Bonham when I grow up–heavy hitters are where it’s at for me. That’s where the sex in the music is for me; obvious parallels between hard pounding aside, a good drum part feels like an exaggerated heartbeat–natural, innate, and vital to existence. I’ve also always been quite enamored with attractive front men, but for different reasons. I have none of that swagger or coolness, but jeez louise do I ever love watching it. It must be exhilarating to be so cocksure, so positive the world is wrapped around your finger. It’s the thing I think today’s music lacks the most, and I’m always thrilled when someone successfully pulls it off in a modern setting.

 

The worst review I ever got came from a judge in a solo drumming competition in Ligonier Pennsylvania at a Highland festival in 2002. To preface: I started playing drums in a bagpipe band in 1997 when I was 9, and continued to do so until I was 16/17 regularly, then did a few more gigs throughout my early and mid twenties. So anyway, I had been competing solo at Scottish festivals for a few years already at this point and got totally fucking arrogant about my abilities after winning the East Coast championship the year before in my grade. I walked out and played the worst competition of my life that day, and the judge showed no mercy. I wound up in 6th place if I remember correctly, and the score sheet was painful. It helped though–I started practicing harder and taking drums more seriously. Sometimes you need a good kick in the ass from a stranger to realize you’re fucking up.

This is a huge question that I could spend days weaving an intricate answer for, but I’ll keep it short and simple: intersectional feminism, LGBT rights, racial equality, and all those other “SJW” things are very important to me and I try to weave that into my writing where it fits. People like to say metal or punk is about rebellion and caring isn’t very rebellious, but it fucking is. The most rebellious thing you can do is forge ahead amidst the noise of a bunch of racist homophobe pricks and say “It’s time to change the culture in which we’re raising our children.” The world is only going to continue to move forward, and a reversion to the practices of yesteryear is short-sighted, ignorant, and painfully conservative. Progress is  rebellion, and caring is metal as fuck.

It’s kind of a tie:

 

First up, I got carried outside by two large men when I was bartending at a redneck biker bar one night, and one of them took my clothes off while the other held me down and shoved his tongue down my throat and various appendages elsewhere. This was while a packed bar was feet away–nobody could hear me because of the live music. They only quit after someone came outside, but I have never been that scared in my life.

 

Secondly, I divorced an abusive man a few years ago and had to deal with years of judgement and harassment from his friends who were convinced the “nice guy” who was their friend could do something like beat my head against the corner of a wall until I collapsed.

 

I gave him a year to go back on his medication and get therapy, but instead he continued to physically abuse me and started a smear campaign to ruin my reputation. I still get to deal with his some of his more voraciously ignorant friends’ comments when I go home and see one of them in a social situation (small towns are so lovely). It took me a long time to process what I had gone through and open up about it, but without a doubt, getting out of that relationship and starting my life over from scratch at 25 was the most horrifying thing I’ve gone through. On the plus side, my life fucking rules now and I wouldn’t change a DAMN thing, nor would I want to come across me in a dark alley. Fighting a man will turn you into a tough ass broad.

Future plans as of now include finishing the huge snakefight on my right thigh, which is my least favorite spot to get tattooed, so I’m in no rush. As far as whatever else–who knows? A week after my 18th birthday, I had two, and I sort of assumed I would just have a few small, scattered ones at that point. Then three years later I was getting a substantial piece on my forearm and it just kind of gained steam from there. There is no master plan, I’m just going to continue getting more until I feel like I’m ready to stop.

 

I’d say my favorite right now is my chest piece. I got it at the end of a long string of painful relationships, and I sat for twelve. fucking. hours. Do you have any idea what kind of endurance that takes? I was a madwoman. There’s not a chance in Hell I could do it again, but at that point in my life, I had everything to prove, and I think it was a testament to myself that I was capable of going through with whatever I put my mind to.

 

How’s that for a cornball tattoo show story?! I also have Satan wearing a monocle on my left arm, so suck on that, TLC.

 

The secret to doing it all is something that evades me, and probably why I’m not particularly successful in any of those endeavors! After spending the first 8 months of this year working 6 or 7 days a week and going to band practice and writing and planning a wedding and seeing three shows a week, I’ve made a very conscious effort to slow down. Lately I’ve been really into staying home, watching movies with my husband, and eating too much Chinese delivery food.

 

As far as the secret to eternal youth, I’ll let you know about that after my first consultation with an aesthetician in a couple of weeks to discuss preventative botox. Not kidding. Booze, drugs, cigarettes, and strange men sustained me for a few years there, and it’s time to make sure they all stay firmly in the past where they belong.

Don’t be dick! Sit down, shut up, and learn something from all those who came before you. That’s what I’m doing, and what I’ll continue to do until I feel like a real writer I guess–if that ever happens.