Khemmis Archives - Elizabeth Maria Naranjo

Photo by Abigail Naranjo

We often describe writing as a lonely endeavor, a creative process best engaged in alone. But even in our most solitary moments, there are those we bring with us. They are the fellow storytellers whose work feels symbiotic to our own, whether it inspired us beforehand or because we discovered it at the same time, so that within their works of art we see our own story’s reflection. These companion creations come in many forms—in novels, in movies, in poetry.

And in songs.

I’ve written before about the sublime nature of music and how it can transcend a seemingly impassable distance, connecting us to what we need most. In childhood, when we are alone in our rooms and a tangle of confusion, we find the songs that speak for us, that seem to know us before we even know ourselves. As we grow older, if we’re lucky, we hold on to that old sense of magic yet rediscover it through new songs.

For me, the music that captured so much of my childhood—from the melodic cadences of Iron Maiden to the dark poetry of Ronnie James Dio—threads to the music I’ve connected with most as an adult, especially in the form of doom metal. If my own writing were a music genre, it would surely be this one: sparse, languid, and melancholy. In these songs so much of the story is told in the spaces between words, those haunting riffs and plaintive melodies that carry the listener along, in the way I strive to tell my stories through atmosphere and in the meaning of things left unsaid.

One of my favorite doom metal bands, Khemmis, blend the best of the genre with traditional heavy metal—a perfect mix. Their 2016 album, Hunted, came at a time when I, like many others, found myself blindsided by a world that had broken open to reveal such depths of vulgarity and hatred that I necessarily retreated from it. Hunted was there for me when I desperately needed to surround myself with something beautiful.

A few years later Khemmis released another album, Desolation, and once again gifted music that came at the perfect time. Songs like “Isolation” and “Flesh to Nothing” helped me through an unplanned period of reinvention, and when I became willfully lost writing The House on Linden Way, I brought the song “From Ruin” with me—a stunningly beautiful song so inextricably woven in the writing of that manuscript that it feels like part of my own story now.

Recently, my daughter and I had a chance to see Khemmis in concert. Days before the show she suggested we upgrade to the VIP package for a chance to meet the guys in person. I balked at first; the concert was on a school night, and having to teach the next day would be hard enough without making the night even longer. But then the idea took hold. I changed my mind.

It’s not often you get to meet, face to face, those storytellers whose works you’ve lived with for so long and connected with so deeply. I wondered what I should say. I wondered if I was being a little selfish showing up for a meet and greet and saying anything at all to performers who already give everything on stage.

And yet, as a writer, I know what a rare and wonderful surprise it is when someone reaches out personally to tell you how much a piece resonated with them. Khemmis are a young band whose momentum was frustratingly stalled by the pandemic; they’ve worked hard to stay connected to their art and to their audience, and they need to know how much they mean to their fans.

So I’m glad I decided to meet the guys. They are kind, funny, incredibly sweet, and just so talented. It felt pretty special being able to shake their hands and tell them what their music has meant to me over the years. Another reminder that, as writers who choose to send our stories out into the world, we are never truly alone.