The Creation

What gave me the idea?

Death Metal Cats: The Origins of a Mockumentary Metal Madness

Death Metal Cats started as a tongue-in-cheek homage to a particular corner of the music world—one that takes itself far too seriously. I’ve spent over two decades working in computer graphics, but throughout that time, I’ve always gravitated toward heavier music. The death metal scene, however, is notorious for its seriousness and, frankly, its self-centered attitude. While I was a fan of the music, I wasn’t a fan of the ego that often came with it.

My inspiration for Death Metal Cats was drawn from the same absurdity I loved in mockumentary films like Spinal Tap and Bad News, as well as the classic documentary Anvil: The Story of Anvil. There’s something inherently hilarious about musicians who pour their hearts into a genre that is so niche, so brutally intense, and yet, often filled with a delusional sense of grandeur. And if I’m honest, I was guilty of that same arrogance once upon a time.

The idea for Death Metal Cats hit me when I retired from the film and video game industry in 2018 and returned to New Zealand. One day, I saw a poster for a band I had known nearly 30 years ago, still trying to make a go of it. My first reaction was a cringe. These guys, now in their 50s, were still chasing the elusive dream of "making it" in the death metal scene. I won’t name them, out of respect, but they proudly market themselves as the longest-running grindcore band in New Zealand.

Now, I was in this band more than three decades ago. I played bass with them for about two years, though I wasn’t particularly good at it. At the time, we could hardly get any gigs, and the audience turnout was always small. Not much has changed. Of the original lineup, only the founding member and his best friend (who plays bass now) remain. I could barely play a proper riff back then—just awful Iron Maiden knockoffs—and eventually left to start my own band. Ironically, my band ended up doing better than theirs, and that caused a rift between me and the founding member.

When I saw that poster in 2018, something clicked. There was a comedic goldmine in the idea of a band that had been struggling for decades, still convinced they were on the verge of success. It’s that stubborn persistence, that refusal to accept reality, which is both tragic and hilarious. The founding member of the band once said, “If you haven’t made it by 25, you should cut your hair and become an accountant.” Yet, there he was, years later, still slogging away.

I went to see them play live. The venue was nearly empty—maybe ten people in the crowd. It felt like I was watching New Zealand’s answer to Anvil, a band determined to break through but hopelessly stuck in obscurity. I thought, “This is the perfect inspiration for a mock band, but instead of making it a sad story, I’ll turn it into something humorous and lighthearted.”

Thus, Death Metal Cats was born. I wanted to capture the absurdity of the grind—the idea that, at some point, you need to accept that you’re not going to make it big, but instead of wallowing in self-pity, you can embrace the absurdity of it all and have fun with it. The fictional band’s journey is one of missteps, awkward gigs, and delusions of grandeur—but it’s all wrapped in a playful, satirical tone.

Would the real band I based this on find it funny? Absolutely not. But that’s the beauty of Death Metal Cats. It’s a love letter to everyone who has ever chased a dream long past its expiration date, but with a heavy dose of humor.

So, if you want to experience the musical chaos firsthand and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, follow Death Metal Cats. It’s a rock 'n' roll saga that doesn’t take itself too seriously—because, really, what’s the fun in that?

Smudge Miramar