Tales from the Maidenverse: The Band, the Fans, and the Madness Between

Azas

Azas

No Rest for the Dead
Azas Strikes Again! Welcome to the Maidenverse Thread

This thread is dedicated to both the fans and the band. Here, everyone is welcome to post AI-generated stories (shush!) about Iron Maiden, the fandom, and all the madness in between. The goal isn’t to grumble about AI but to have fun and build a kind of fictitious Maidenverse.

To keep things from overwhelming the thread (and the forum), each user can post a maximum of two AI-generated stories, poems, or whatever else per day—whether they’re funny, serious, or downright strange. However, if you're sharing your own original fanfiction, there's no limit.

Don’t worry—I won’t abuse that rule by flooding the thread with AI-generated content and pretending it's my own writing.

To kick things off, I’ll repost a story from another thread. And no, it doesn’t count—it was the inspiration for this whole idea!

Let’s go!
(I asked AI to correct my gibberish English for the first time ever. Live and learn!) (It shows or not?)
***
The Mods’ Burden: A Heavy Metal Soap Opera I
The Maidenfans Mod Council: A Forum in Flames

The meeting had been called under the strictest emergency conditions, which, in the world of Maidenfans.com, meant that one of the political threads had, once again, descended into a full-scale s*** storm.

The moderators gathered in their sacred space—a private channel on ModCord, the forum’s official messaging app—each arriving with the solemn resignation of janitors called to mop up a flood of sewage.

IronThrone77: Alright, people. We’ve got a problem.

Eddie’sLeftSock: Just one?

Killers1981: Let me guess. The "West vs. East" thread again?

IronThrone77: Bigger. "Freedom of Speech vs. Forum Rules."

A collective digital groan rippled through the chat.

PhantomMod: Oh, for the love of Steve Harris. Not that one again. I thought we locked it.

StratocasterKid: We did. They made a new one called "Why Was The Other Thread Locked?"

Eddie’sLeftSock: And when we locked that one?

StratocasterKid: They made "Censorship on Maidenfans???"

Killers1981: Oh, bloody hell.

IronThrone77: Look, we have to do something. This is turning into a full-on flame war. Users are picking sides. Metallica vs. Megadeth levels of hostility.

PhantomMod: Ban 'em all. Let the gods of metal sort them out.

Eddie’sLeftSock: Steady on, mate. We’re supposed to be moderating, not running a digital inquisition.

Killers1981: Yeah, plus if we start mass-banning, they’ll just migrate to Reddit and complain about us. Again.

IronThrone77: We have to strike a balance. We want people to have discussions, but we don’t want another disaster like The Great Bruce vs. Blaze Debate of ‘22.

A hush fell over the chat. No one spoke of that day. The scars ran too deep.

StratocasterKid: What if we just let them fight it out? Survival of the fittest, forum-style. Only the strongest opinions remain.

PhantomMod: YES. LET THEM BATTLE. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD.

Eddie’sLeftSock: That sounds dangerously close to democracy, and I think we can all agree that democracy is a nightmare.

IronThrone77: Democracy is a great concept in theory. In practice, it’s 47 pages of people calling each other "sheep" and "bootlickers."

Killers1981: Alright, compromise time. We let the thread run, but we set some boundaries. No personal attacks, no conspiracy nonsense, no using "freedom of speech" as a get-out-of-jail-free card for being a raging lunatic.

StratocasterKid: So... basically, rules we already have but that people will ignore anyway?

IronThrone77: Exactly.

PhantomMod: I still vote for a purge.

Eddie’sLeftSock: And I still vote for a beer and ignoring it entirely.

Killers1981: I think we all just want to log off and listen to Powerslave instead.

IronThrone77: Alright. We keep an eye on it. We step in if it gets too ugly. But let’s try not to strangle discussion completely. We want Maidenfans to be a place for—

At that exact moment, another notification popped up.

New Thread Created: "MODS ARE NAZIS?????"

Silence.

PhantomMod: Banning them all. Final answer.

And with that, the mods logged off one by one, each contemplating the eternal truth: that running an online forum was the closest thing to hell one could experience without actually dying.
 
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The Mods’ Burden: A Heavy Metal Soap Opera II

THE FINAL FRONTIER OF MODERATION

The moderators of Maidenfans were gathered once again in their sacred digital war room—otherwise known as a private thread ominously titled “Preemptive Damage Control – Album Release Edition.”

The latest Iron Maiden album was dropping at midnight, and they all knew what that meant. The forum would soon be flooded with users complaining that the songs were too long, the production was bad, and the cover looked like someone forgot to finish it before the deadline. Again.

IronClaw sighed and cracked his knuckles. "Alright, lads, we all know what's coming. Who wants to take the first shift in The Thread?"

BanHammer laughed darkly. "The Thread. Like it’s some cursed artifact. Which, to be fair, it is."

OptimusShred, ever the voice of forced optimism, adjusted his virtual tie. "Maybe this time will be different. Maybe people will just… enjoy the music?"

A long silence followed. Then, OldManHeadbang finally spoke. "Are you insane?"

"He's new," ThePowerSlave muttered. "He hasn't been through this before. He doesn’t remember The Great Tracklist Leak Wars of 2015."

WaffleDestroyer cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, we have three major incoming attacks. First: Song Length Complaints."

"Always," said GrumpyPriest.

"Second: Steve's Basement Sound Quality."

"Yep," said NeckSnapper69.

"And third: ‘Lazy’ Cover Art Rants."

A collective groan filled the chat.

"Why do people always act surprised?" asked Dragonforce88. "Maiden covers have looked like PowerPoint slides for years."

"Right?" said TrollHammer. "It’s like they forget the Dance of Death CGI disaster ever happened."

"That one was... historically bad," admitted RiffWizard.

"Alright," said BanHammer, "so how are we handling this? Full mod intervention? Let them tear each other apart? Or my personal favorite—make a post so sarcastic they think we're agreeing with them?"

"I like the sarcasm idea," said OldManHeadbang. "Nothing confuses trolls more than when you out-troll them."

"Problem is," said IronClaw, "some of them don’t realize we’re being sarcastic and think we’re on their side. Next thing you know, we have another 40-page thread about how the band should fire Kevin Shirley and record everything in some mystical analog paradise that doesn’t actually exist."

"Speaking of," said ThePowerSlave, "anyone want to place bets on how long before someone says Martin Birch would’ve done it better?"

"Thirty minutes," said TrollHammer.

"Fifteen," countered GrumpyPriest.

"Two," said Dragonforce88. "It’s probably already happened."

"I don’t get the Shirley hate," OptimusShred said. "The albums sound fine."

Silence.

And then—chaos.

"'Fine'?" sputtered OldManHeadbang. "They sound like Steve’s mixing them with cotton in his ears!"

"They sound modern," said OptimusShred, defensively.

"Modern? No, no, no. Modern is Senjutsu. That was decent. But The Book of Souls? Sounded like it was recorded through a wall!"

"Better than Virtual XI," WaffleDestroyer muttered.

"That’s like saying a stubbed toe is better than stepping on a LEGO," said ThePowerSlave.

"Okay," said Dragonforce88, rubbing their temples, "we are literally doing the thing we’re supposed to prevent."

A pause.

Then BanHammer sighed. "This is what Maiden does to people. Even the mods."

"Alright, alright," said IronClaw, taking control again. "Here’s the plan. First, we let them vent for 24 hours. No heavy modding unless it gets personal. Second, sarcasm only in moderation—pun intended. And third, if things go completely off the rails, we make a ‘Calm Down and Listen Again in a Week’ thread."

"That never works," OldManHeadbang pointed out.

"No, but it makes us feel better," said IronClaw.

The chat fell silent as everyone prepared themselves. The clock struck midnight.

And then, like an ancient prophecy fulfilled, the first thread appeared:

"Album Too Long. What Happened to 3-Minute Bangers?"

It had begun.
 
Azas sat alone at home, staring at his computer screen
He gave a moan as MaidenFans turned off their politicking
"Why, oh why!" With a groan he slouched back upon his little chair
"There's nothing else going on," poor Azas pulled out all his hair

He browsed the forum, saw that there was nil
Boards in the doldrums, what a bitter pill
It's enough to make you mad
Poor Azas was very sad

Then, oh boy! ChatGPT appeared on his computer screen
Azas stared, mesmerized, looked the computer right in the eyes
What a joy! Oh, can it be? It's like something straight from a dream
Do he dare exercise the techy cells floating in its mind?

He typed in phrases, searching for the lines
Creating pages of magic, a sign
To share to all MaidenFans
This is where his journey ends

Now the board is never dull, AI's better than Jethro Tull
Azas posts all dignified, and no more his smile must he hide
Diesel watches in the lull, dreams of a world beyond man's soul
Where creativity dwells inside and all of this AI
can fuck off.​
 
I honestly do not understand such stance. AI is here to stay, we must embrace it in a positive way. My goal was not to be bitter, but to bring some joy, even if it's AI generated. Oh, I think you've liked my original post in a 1,000,000 thread and when learned that it was computer generated, went berserk. I guess, you were AI'ed :D
 
Azas said:
I honestly do not understand such stance. AI is here to stay, we must embrace it in a positive way. My goal was not to be bitter, but to bring some joy, even if it's AI generated. Oh, I think you've liked my original post in a 1,000,000 thread and when learned that it was computer generated, went berserk. I guess, you were AI'ed :D
Click to expand...

And I thought you’ve been creative. Sad!
 
From the Sands of Time to the Sands of Nassau: The Chaotic Birth of Powerslave

By Randall "Riff" Kensington | METAL MYTHOS MAGAZINE, October 1984 (Lost Edition)

When Iron Maiden chose to record Powerslave in Nassau, Bahamas, they weren’t thinking about tax breaks or sound quality. No, according to our sources (who may or may not have been bribed with rum), the decision came after Bruce Dickinson lost a drunken bet with a parrot.

Legend has it that Bruce, in a moment of competitive bravado, insisted he could out-squawk a particularly aggressive Caribbean macaw named Bloodbeak. The bird won. The band was then obligated—by some unspoken, possibly supernatural code—to record their next album on an island surrounded by crystal-clear waters, questionable moral decisions, and the occasional rogue stingray.

A Studio Like No Other (Because It Was Infested with Crabs)​

Compass Point Studios had everything a metal band could want: state-of-the-art recording equipment, tropical inspiration, and a steady supply of rum. What it did not have, however, was a solution for the army of land crabs that had taken up residence beneath the mixing desk.

“It was like recording in a haunted seafood restaurant,” Steve Harris later recalled. “You’d be laying down a bass line, and suddenly there’s this little clicking noise. Not tape hiss—actual crabs. We had to bribe them with scraps just to finish Aces High.”

Meanwhile, producer Martin Birch, a man known for his patience and legendary drinking stamina, spent a good portion of the sessions chasing the largest crab—whom the band had named "Clive" in honor of their former drummer—out of the control room with a broom.

Dave Murray: The Beachfront Philosopher​

Dave Murray, gentle soul that he is, spent most of his free time wandering the beaches, gazing wistfully at the horizon, and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Locals quickly took to calling him El Hombre del Sol, assuming he was some kind of lost, perpetually smiling prophet.

“He’d just walk along the shoreline for hours,” said Bruce. “One day we found him sitting in a tide pool, staring at a hermit crab. We asked what he was doing, and he just said, ‘He knows things, man.’”

Adrian Smith: The Party Viking​

Whereas Dave sought spiritual enlightenment, Adrian Smith sought... other things. He embraced Nassau’s nightlife with the determination of a man on a mission. Most evenings ended in dramatic fashion, including (but not limited to):

  • Accidentally challenging a champion limbo dancer to a duel (Adrian lost).
  • Getting into a heated debate about who invented rock ‘n’ roll with a group of elderly jazz musicians.
  • Briefly being declared "King of the Tiki Bar" before being dethroned due to “excessive enthusiasm.”

Bruce and the Curse of the Pharaoh​

Bruce, ever the history buff, became convinced the band was cursed after writing the title track, Powerslave.

“You don’t just write about ancient Egyptian gods without consequences,” he muttered darkly.

This paranoia wasn’t helped when he woke up one morning to find a mysterious amulet on his pillow, left by an unknown party. No one ever claimed responsibility. Steve Harris swore it wasn’t him. Nicko grinned suspiciously and said, “Mummies, mate. You never see ‘em coming.”

From that moment on, Bruce was certain strange forces were at work. This belief intensified when he stubbed his toe four times in one day and a coconut narrowly missed his head while he was rehearsing vocals.

Nicko McBrain vs. The Iguana​

Nicko, being the free spirit he is, adopted a large, surly iguana he named "General Horace." The two were inseparable—until the iguana made a home inside Steve’s bass amp.

Tensions escalated when Steve, unaware of the situation, fired up his amp and played the first few notes of Rime of the Ancient Mariner, causing the lizard to bolt out like a scaly bullet and land directly on Adrian’s lap.

There was screaming. There was running. There was a very dignified retreat to the nearest bar, where the band agreed never to speak of it again.

The Masterpiece Emerges​

Despite the distractions—animal invasions, philosophical beach wanderings, and the occasional questionable life decision—the band delivered Powerslave, an album that would go on to define their legacy. The soaring Aces High, the galloping 2 Minutes to Midnight, and the epic Rime of the Ancient Mariner were all crafted amidst the chaos, proving that true greatness often emerges from the absurd.

As for the crabs, they remain in Compass Point Studios to this day. They are still waiting for their album credits.

(Editor’s Note: No iguanas, crabs, or tiki bars were harmed in the making of this article. Adrian’s dignity, however, remains in question.)
***
Above article is pure truth and not a fan fiction :ninja:
 
Diesel 11 said:
Azas sat alone at home, staring at his computer screen
He gave a moan as MaidenFans turned off their politicking
"Why, oh why!" With a groan he slouched back upon his little chair
"There's nothing else going on," poor Azas pulled out all his hair

He browsed the forum, saw that there was nil
Boards in the doldrums, what a bitter pill
It's enough to make you mad
Poor Azas was very sad

Then, oh boy! ChatGPT appeared on his computer screen
Azas stared, mesmerized, looked the computer right in the eyes
What a joy! Oh, can it be? It's like something straight from a dream
Do he dare exercise the techy cells floating in its mind?

He typed in phrases, searching for the lines
Creating pages of magic, a sign
To share to all MaidenFans
This is where his journey ends

Now the board is never dull, AI's better than Jethro Tull
Azas posts all dignified, and no more his smile must he hide
Diesel watches in the lull, dreams of a world beyond man's soul
Where creativity dwells inside and all of this AI
can fuck off.​
Click to expand...
Well played sir, well played :applause::applause::applause:
 
This poem is written entirely by me. Without much thinking, just a stream of thoughts. From the heart, as they say. (Now, at my work place)

Skiriama Grifui

Jis mano, kad rašyti moka jis tik vienas
Ir skausmo stygom groti -
Aštrus tai plienas

Įkopęs į pagiežos stingdančią viršūnę
Mojuoja vėliava juoda -
Pažemintas mišrūnas!

Pavirsta ereliu štai mūs šaunuolis
Ir puola auką taikliai -
Durti! Kirsti! Žeisti uoliai

Jau paniekos snapu jis smaigsto priešininko kūną
Įgudusiai darbuojasi -
Štai koks žiaurus galiūnas!

Pasigėrėjimas ir pergalė kokia,
Viršus juk jo!
O sieloj tuštuma...

***
Google translate is of pathetic quality (in my language it rhymes and is poetic, though I am not saying that it is great):

Dedicated to the Vulture

He thinks he's the only one who knows how to write
And play the strings of pain -
This steel is sharp

Having climbed the freezing peak of resentment
He waves The black flag -
The mongrel is humiliated!

Turns into an eagle, here's our handsome
And attacks the victim accurately -
To stab! To cut! To wound diligently

With his beak of contempt, he stabs the opponent's body
He works skillfully -
What a cruel strongman!

What a delight and victory,
He's above him!
Just empty is the soul...

***
Google translate ignores poetic aspect of my writing, just direct translation. I asked AI to translate my poem from Lithuanian into poetic English:

Dedicated to the Vulture

He thinks that only he can write,
And pluck pain’s strings—
A blade so bright.

Ascending spite’s cold, bitter peak,
He waves a flag of black—
A mongrel, shamed and weak!

Behold! A mighty eagle now,
He strikes his prey with deadly aim—
Slash! Strike down!

With scornful beak, he tears apart
His fallen foe—
A ruthless heart!

What triumph! What a victory!
He stands above them all!
Yet in his soul—emptiness calls...

***

I think you get the idea. (Looking more at it i see that AI potentialy misunderstood the part with mongrel. Not the Vulture is mongrel but his victim, in that aspect google translate was on point etc.)

edit:
He believes that only he knows how to write,
And play the strings of pain—
Sharp as steel.

Climbing to the frozen peak of hatred,
He waves a black flag—
A disgraced mongrel! (again, Vulture disgraces mongrel, not the other way around: A mongrel is humiliated!)

Now, he transforms into an eagle,
And strikes his prey with precision—
Stab! Slash! Hurt, with zeal!

With a beak of contempt, he jabs the foe’s flesh,
Skillfully toiling—
Such a cruel titan he becomes!

Admiration and victory, what glory,
For he stands atop!
Yet within his soul—emptiness.

This tries to capture the stark imagery and tone of the original, while maintaining the intensity and structure of the Lithuanian verse.
 
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"The Burden of Legacy: The Bleak Creation of The X Factor"
By Marcus Holloway, Iron Gospel Magazine, Winter 1995

It rained the day they started recording. Not a dramatic storm, not the heavens splitting open in apocalyptic fury—just a steady, miserable drizzle that seemed to seep into the bones. Steve Harris sat in the dim studio, fingers idly tracing the worn wood of his bass. The light from the mixing board flickered across his face, making the deep lines under his eyes seem deeper. He wasn’t a man who spoke much about feelings. He preferred to let the music carry the weight for him. And now, more than ever, that weight was unbearable.

Bruce was gone. That much was fact, and Steve didn’t dwell on it. No point in staring at an empty chair. But the absence was a living thing, pressing against the air in the studio, making every note sound just a little heavier, a little darker.

Blaze Bayley had arrived weeks ago, wide-eyed, uncertain, shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of expectation. He wasn't an idiot—he knew the score. He knew what people whispered, the inevitable comparisons, the smirks from the skeptics. He had a voice like weathered iron, rough and strong, but every time he stepped to the mic, he felt the ghosts of "Aces High" and "Run to the Hills" breathing down his neck.

"Again," Steve would say, his voice level but firm. Blaze would nod, swallow hard, and start again.

Nicko McBrain spent his nights in the casinos, chain-smoking over card tables, pushing chips into the void like offerings to the gods of probability. He still cracked jokes—Nicko would always crack jokes—but there was something missing behind the eyes, like he was playing a role he no longer quite believed in.

Janick Gers had stayed in England. He came down to record his parts, then went back to his small town, back to his quiet evenings in the pub, where nobody cared that he played guitar for one of the biggest metal bands on Earth. He would sit by the fireplace with a pint and stare into the flames, remembering the stadium lights, the roar of the crowd. It was fun while it lasted.

Meanwhile, Dave Murray had exiled himself to Hawaii. If the end was coming, he had no interest in watching it unfold. He spent his days wandering the beaches, the golden sun reflecting in his ever-present grin. The waves lapped at the shore, and Dave let them take his worries out to sea.

The songs were coming together, but they weren’t easy. Sign of the Cross sounded like the weight of the world pressing down on a man’s shoulders, which, to be fair, it was. Steve pushed the band harder, chasing a sound that felt both vast and suffocating. The Edge of Darkness was recorded in near silence, only the red glow of the studio lights and Blaze’s steady, grim voice filling the air.

"You all right, mate?" Janick asked Blaze after a particularly grueling session.
Blaze exhaled slowly. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to be here."
Janick clapped him on the back. "None of us are. But here we are."

There was no great camaraderie, no drunken, triumphant nights. They worked because they had to. Because there was no other option.

One evening, near the end of recording, Blaze sat alone in the studio, staring at the microphone. The others had left. Even Steve, who rarely left before the night swallowed morning, had wandered off to find a moment of stillness.
Blaze leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke into the quiet. "I'm not him," he said to no one in particular. "I never will be."
The silence did not argue. The tape reels sat still, waiting.
Then, slowly, he stood, rolled his shoulders, and let out a long breath. He reached for the mic.
And started again.
*
/It's only a fan fiction. Not how it was, but how it could have been. Presented human flaws are fictional, just a dramatisation of events/
 
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The Birth of the Beast: The Utterly True (Mostly) Story of How Iron Maiden Began​

By Reginald “Reggie” Fletch, Senior Metal Correspondent, Louder Than Bombs Magazine

The Origin of Species (But With More Hair and Leather)​

Picture this: London, 1975. The pubs are dark, the beer is warm, and the air smells faintly of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and the kind of ambition that doesn’t quite know what it’s doing yet. Somewhere in East London, a young man named Steve Harris sits in a pub, staring into his pint like it might contain the meaning of life.

Steve is a bassist, which means he already knows two things: (1) He will never get as much attention as the guitarist, and (2) That’s fine, because he’ll be the one actually holding the whole thing together. More importantly, he has a vision. A band that is faster, heavier, and more dramatic than anything the local scene has to offer. A band with harmonized guitar leads, thunderous basslines, and songs about battles, madness, and possibly the occasional execution.

He does not, at this stage, have a band.

The Great Audition Massacre of 1976​

Finding musicians for a heavy metal band in 1976 is a bit like assembling a flat-pack bookshelf with half the instructions missing and a manual that keeps insisting you really ought to consider playing disco instead.

The first drummer to audition, “Mad” Terry Higgs, is a man of great enthusiasm and absolutely no sense of rhythm. He insists on drumming while standing up, a practice that does not catch on.

Then there is Clive “Thunderhands” MacKenzie, who can keep time but refuses to play anything that isn’t a polka.

The guitar auditions are somehow worse.

Nigel “The Duke” Featherstonehaugh-Smythe plays classical guitar and refuses to strum on principle. "I believe the plebeians call it... 'riffing,’” he says, plucking at a single string like he’s afraid of offending it.

Trevor "Two-Finger" Jones turns up, plays the entire solo from Stairway to Heaven using only his pinkie and index finger, declares himself a genius, and leaves immediately.

A man named Barry “The Axe” Perkins arrives, brings no guitar, and attempts to join the band based purely on his ability to look incredibly metal. This is, Steve concedes, impressive but ultimately useless.

Steve begins to lose hope.

Enter Dave Murray: The Man With the Eternal Grin​

And then, when all seems lost, in strolls a lanky blond guitarist named Dave Murray.

Dave is the kind of man who seems permanently relaxed, as if life is a pleasant holiday and he’s just happy to be here. He picks up a guitar, plugs it in, and promptly melts the wallpaper off the walls with a solo that sounds like it came from another planet.

Steve, who has spent the past year being forced to listen to men who thought Smoke on the Water was a personality trait, realizes that this—this—is what he’s been looking for.

“You’re in,” Steve says, before Dave has even finished playing.

“Cool,” says Dave, ever smiling.

The First Gigs: Triumph, Tragedy, and an Angry Landlord​

By 1977, Iron Maiden is a band. The lineup changes approximately every three weeks as Steve slowly figures out that keeping a stable metal band together is harder than running a small country. But they have songs. They have passion. They have a van that only starts on Thursdays.

They play their first gigs in London’s finest (read: cheapest and most structurally unsound) pubs and clubs. The early shows are met with reactions ranging from “What the hell is this racket?” to “What the hell is this racket, and when can I hear more of it?”

One night, during a particularly raucous performance at The Cart & Horses, the landlord storms onto the stage. “You can’t play this loud!” he shouts, seconds before Dave Murray’s amplifier explodes.
The band is banned from the venue.
They return the following week under the name Iron Maiden II.

1978: The Year of Almost Not Making It​

The late ’70s are a difficult time for metal. Punk is in full swing, disco is refusing to die, and record labels are about as interested in signing heavy metal bands as they are in setting themselves on fire.
Iron Maiden, still unsigned, records a demo: The Soundhouse Tapes. They hand it out to anyone who will listen. Steve develops the ability to appear, ghostlike, in front of DJs and insist that they play his band’s tape.
It works.
By 1979, Iron Maiden is selling out small venues, gathering a devoted fanbase, and generally causing an increasing number of people to say, “Hey, these guys are really good.”
The record labels, finally catching on, start sniffing around.

The Deal, The Future, and The Legend to Come​

At last, after years of sweat, lineup changes, and enough bass gallops to terrify a herd of actual horses, Iron Maiden signs with EMI.
Steve, ever the strategist, has already planned their domination of the world. The first album is on the horizon. The band is ready.
As for Dave Murray, when asked in later interviews how it all felt in those early days, he will simply smile that eternal smile and say:

“It was brilliant, wasn’t it?”
 
"Iron Maiden and KISS: The European Unmasked Tour – The Greatest Shambles Never Seen
Loud and Outrageous Magazine
By: Freddie "Screech" McAllister
Issue: Vol. 17, September 1980

It was 1980, and somewhere between London and Paris, in the glittering haze of rhinestones, spandex, and general rock ’n’ roll mayhem, the most ridiculous, chaotic, and oddly magical thing happened: Iron Maiden—Iron Maiden—somehow found themselves opening for KISS. Yes, the KISS, the same band whose antics at the time made your average reality show look like a documentary on the migratory habits of snails.

But how did this mismatched pairing come about? Well, let’s just say that life, much like Gene Simmons’ wardrobe, was full of surprises.

Gene Simmons’ 'Creative' Approach to Lineup Management​

It all started when KISS, fresh off their Unmasked tour in Europe, needed a band to warm up the crowd while they set fire to their fans’ brains with their shiny, slightly-too-tight outfits. Enter Iron Maiden, the hungry, fiery British upstarts who could barely spell “stage presence” but were somehow already screaming their heads off in front of 2,000 people every night.

Rod Smallwood, Iron Maiden’s manager, with his famous ability to juggle the impossible (like making The Sound of Metal seem like a well-oiled machine), took a deep breath and told the boys, “This is going to be good. Just don’t start anything too absurd.” Naturally, he knew exactly what he was getting into, but as always, Rod’s optimistic streak was both his blessing and his curse.

Dave Murray and the Great KISS Make-Up Incident​

One night, as Iron Maiden was in the middle of their high-octane opener, KISS guitarist Ace Frehley had something of a “moment” (read: several bottles of whiskey and an unhealthy obsession with not standing). The band had been performing their usual antics: Gene would spit blood, Paul would do his flying acrobatics, and Ace would... well, Ace would be Ace.

On this particular night, Ace had one foot in the realm of drunken oblivion and the other foot in the infinite abyss of hysterical laughter. Gene and Paul, after some frantic but baffling deliberation, turned to Dave Murray, the mild-mannered, endlessly polite Maiden guitarist, and asked him a life-changing question: “Hey, Dave, how would you like to wear the makeup tonight?”

Dave, who until that point had only been familiar with makeup in the form of "heavy eyeliner for the brave," stood in shock for a moment. “Me? Really? But I’m not—well, I’m not KISS material!”

Gene looked him dead in the eye and said, “You’re about to be, Dave.”

And so, Dave Murray found himself backstage, staring at a mirror, holding a tube of KISS-style face paint, wondering if this was really happening. As he smeared black-and-white stripes across his face, he thought to himself, “Maybe I should try modeling. There’s definitely an untapped market for ‘shy rockstar meets flamboyant glam.'”

When he finally emerged as a passable version of “Space Ace” (or, to be more accurate, “Mildly Confused Space Ace”), Gene Simmons gave him a nod of approval. “You’re ready. Just don’t fall off the stage,” he quipped.

And so, under the spotlight, in full KISS regalia, Dave played the second half of the show in a daze, pretending to be Ace, while the real Ace sat in the wings, staring at the ceiling, chuckling to himself like a man who’d just invented sarcasm. The crowd, naturally, didn’t notice anything odd. In fact, they thought Dave Murray’s rendition of “Shock Me” was quite moving—especially when he tripped over the mic stand halfway through.

Paul Di'Anno, Clive Burr, and the Ace Frehley Hotel Room Afterparty​

While Dave’s impromptu role as Ace left him slightly questioning his career choices, Paul Di’Anno and Clive Burr were busy doing something else entirely—celebrating Frehley-style. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the ‘Frehley Method’ of partying, it involves an unnerving amount of whiskey, smoke machines, and loud laughter echoing down hotel corridors until approximately 6 a.m.

Every night after the show, Paul and Clive would stumble into Ace’s hotel room—often with an unholy amount of takeaway food and a carefully curated mix of wildly unnecessary party accessories (think neon-colored boas, confetti, and a portable karaoke machine).

Ace, of course, would barely acknowledge their presence. He would merely sit in a chair, raise his eyebrows and mutter, “I’m a genius,” before taking another swig from a bottle only slightly larger than himself.

No one really understood how it was possible to party harder than the legendary KISS guys, but somehow, the Iron Maiden lads—especially Clive and Paul—took it as a personal challenge. After all, they had to keep the vibe alive until dawn, in true heavy metal fashion. By morning, Paul’s bandana would be around his neck like an actual weight, Clive would have forgotten his shoes, and Ace, still slightly amused, would tell them, “You guys are the real stars. I just get the free champagne.”

Steve Harris: The Lion War Paint Chronicles​

It wasn’t just the members of Iron Maiden and KISS who were indulging in the absurdities of the road. Steve Harris, ever the stoic, no-nonsense band leader, had his own personal madness moment one fateful night. After an especially wild afterparty, he emerged from his dressing room, ready to perform the Maiden set—only this time, he wasn’t wearing his usual attire. No, no. He’d decided to paint his face like a lion.

Not a KISS lion, mind you. A real lion, complete with a snarl, whiskers, and a look of absolute determination. This was Steve Harris as he saw himself: fierce, untamable, and perhaps a tad confused.

Rod Smallwood, upon seeing the transformation, simply sighed and muttered, “Well, I did promise them this tour would be memorable. Guess I should've said for all the wrong reasons.”

Rod Smallwood’s Herculean Effort to Keep Things ‘Somewhat’ Together​

Meanwhile, Rod Smallwood, manager of Iron Maiden and the designated “responsible adult” on the tour, spent his days weaving through the chaos like a rock ’n’ roll version of the calm, collected eye of a hurricane. Each time something ridiculous happened (which was about every five minutes), Rod would approach Gene and Paul, put on his best British smile, and say something like, “Gentlemen, I assure you, tomorrow all the boys will be back in line. No more distractions. We’ll focus on the music, yes? Definitely, a bit more music and definitely no more face paint… not until the next tour, at least.”

Gene would grit his teeth. "Tomorrow’s a new day, Rod."
Ace, of course, would cackle from his chair, blissfully unaware of the tension. “Yeah, baby! Party time!” Peter, perched next to him, would join in with an exaggerated giggle, the two of them laughing like they’d just discovered the concept of fun.

A Final Thought from Dave Murray​

As Dave Murray sat on his bunk that evening, scrubbing the last of the KISS makeup off his face, he reflected on the madness. “Maybe I should give this whole makeup thing a proper shot,” he mused. “I’ve got the look. I’ve got the pose. And it’s definitely better than playing guitar for a room full of screaming, pyrotechnic-crazy lunatics. Right?”

Dave thought about that for a moment. He then realized he was covered in glitter, his hair was in a state of complete rebellion, and the only thing he truly wanted was a nap. “Maybe tomorrow, Dave. Maybe tomorrow.”

And so, the Unmasked tour came to an end, leaving behind a trail of glitter, face paint, drunken rockstar legends, and the faint smell of overcooked kebabs from the late-night takeout runs. Rod Smallwood’s efforts to corral the chaos were, as ever, mildly successful, but at the end of the day, it was the music—and the madness—that made this European leg of the KISS tour unforgettable.

As for the Iron Maiden lads? Well, they went back to being the best damn band in the world. Just with a few more stories that made the KISS guys look like amateurs.

Next Month: The Hilarious Story of How Lemmy Kilmister Took Over a Small Village in Sweden."
***
None of the stories portrayed in this article are true. None of the above is intended to harm the image or legacy of any band members. It's purely fan fiction, meant to bring at least a shadow of a smile. AI is doing the heavy lifting, but I steer the wheel when it comes to the story's direction. The decision to put Dave “Maybe I should try modeling" and Steve in makeup is my fault, etc., etc.
 
IRON MAIDEN FINALLY GET IT RIGHT
"No Prayer for the Dying" – The Masterpiece We’ve All Been Waiting For!

By Johnny Thunderstruck for Rebel Yell: The Magazine for People Who Think Guns N’ Roses Invented Music

Let’s face it. For a decade, Iron Maiden had been almost great. Sure, they had the galloping riffs, the epic storytelling, the twin-guitar harmonies. But something was missing. Something crucial. Something… dirty.

Well, rejoice, true rockers! Because with No Prayer for the Dying, Maiden have finally abandoned their keyboard-laden fantasy epics and embraced what we all knew was their true destiny: good old-fashioned, no-nonsense, booze-soaked, street-fighting, dirty rock and roll!

A Barn. A Vision. A Revolution.​

Most bands would book a fancy studio for an album. Not Steve Harris. Oh no. Steve looked at all those sterile, soulless recording spaces and thought, Why not record an album the way nature intended? Surrounded by hay, farm animals, and the lingering smell of manure?

Thus, No Prayer for the Dying was born in Steve’s barn. A move of unparalleled genius.
"Some people say you can hear the cows in the background," Steve later admitted. "That’s just atmosphere, innit?"

Bruce Dickinson, meanwhile, took full advantage of the rural setting, spending his free time riding around on a horse, dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte. "It’s about commanding presence, you see," he explained. "A frontman must be regal."

Janick Gers, newly recruited to replace the ever-too-serious Adrian Smith, spent his downtime perfecting his signature onstage prancing, a carefully choreographed mix of interpretive dance, aerial ballet, and possibly an exorcism in progress. He would often disappear into the barn’s loft, muttering, “I need more… twirls.”

As for Dave Murray, well… Dave was not entirely pleased.
“There’s no beach,” he lamented, staring wistfully at the vast, rolling fields of Essex.

THE SONGS: PURE, UNHINGED GENIUS​

While some people might try to argue that Maiden’s previous work—say, The Number of the Beast, Powerslave or Seventh Son of a Seventh Son—was their pinnacle, let me be absolutely clear: No Prayer for the Dying obliterates them all.

Take Tailgunner. Oh, you liked Aces High? Cute. Tailgunner is Aces High after a twelve-pack and a bar fight. It’s raw, it’s mean, and Bruce sounds like he’s ready to kick down your front door and steal your TV.

Or Holy Smoke, a song so brilliant it makes one wonder: Why has Maiden been wasting time on dark, moody storytelling when they could just be yelling at televangelists?

Then there’s Bring Your Daughter… to the Slaughter. Not just a song. Not just a moment. But a statement. A movement. A religion. It’s what happens when you take the sleaze of early Mötley Crüe, the swagger of Appetite for Destruction, and the pure, unfiltered insanity of an Iron Maiden that has decided they no longer care about subtlety.

And it does not stop there.

No Prayer for the Dying​

The title track is what happens when Iron Maiden suddenly realizes they don’t always have to gallop at 200 mph to make you feel something. It’s a slow-burning, brooding, haunted masterpiece. Bruce croons like a man who’s just seen the bill at an overpriced steakhouse, and Janick delivers a solo so emotional it probably made Steve’s cows weep in the barn.

Public Enema Number One​

Some say this song is about political corruption, but let’s be honest: with a title like this, it’s about exactly what you think it’s about. And I respect that. It’s a streetwise, snarling punch in the gut, proving that Maiden has finally learned to mix social commentary with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face.

Fates Warning​

This song is Iron Maiden doing philosophy. But not the kind with dusty books and quiet contemplation—this is existential dread, screamed at you from the top of a mountain while riding a motorcycle through a thunderstorm. If you don’t at least consider rethinking your entire life while listening to this, you’re doing it wrong.

The Assassin​

A song that answers the question: What if Iron Maiden wrote a theme for a Bond villain who was also a professional wrestler? Bruce hisses and sneers like he’s hiding in a dark alley with a trench coat full of knives, and the riff slithers around like it’s looking for someone to strangle. It’s the sonic equivalent of an unhinged hitman in a cheap suit, and I love it.

Run Silent Run Deep​

Submarine warfare? Check. Dark, lurking tension? Check. A chorus so dramatic it makes The Phantom of the Opera sound like elevator music? Check. This is Maiden proving they don’t just tell stories—they drag you into them, lock the door, and throw away the key. By the time the last note fades, you’ll swear you can hear sonar beeping in the distance.

Hooks in You​

This song has hooks in you. Literally. This is where Janick Gers proves that he didn’t just replace Adrian Smith—he reinvented Iron Maiden’s ability to sound like they belong on the Sunset Strip and in a medieval battle at the same time. Bruce delivers the lyrics like he’s about to start a bar fight, and the whole song radiates the kind of dangerous swagger that could only come from a band recording in a barn and embracing pure chaos.

If these songs don’t convince you that No Prayer for the Dying is Maiden’s finest hour, then I don’t know what will. Perhaps you should consider getting your ears checked. Or your soul.

MEANWHILE, IN A DARK ROOM SOMEWHERE…​

But while Maiden was out in the countryside, embracing their true calling as rock and roll’s most dangerous band, one man watched from the shadows.
Adrian Smith.
Sitting at home, a single candle flickering beside him, Adrian stared at his television. Onscreen, Def Leppard performed Pour Some Sugar on Me, each chorus dripping with record-label-approved perfection.
Adrian narrowed his eyes. He sipped his tea. He plotted.
One day, he thought. One day…

THE VERDICT: FIVE MILLION STARS​

If you, like me, have always thought, Iron Maiden are great, but what if they were a little less Tolkien and a little more Guns N’ Roses?, then congratulations, your prayers have been answered.
No Prayer for the Dying isn’t just an album. It’s a revolution. It’s history. It’s a barn full of destiny.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go listen to Holy Smoke for the fourteenth time today.
 
Azas said:
By Randall "Riff" Kensington | METAL MYTHOS MAGAZINE, October 1984
Click to expand...
Azas said:
By Marcus Holloway, Iron Gospel Magazine, Winter 1995
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Azas said:
By Reginald “Reggie” Fletch, Senior Metal Correspondent, Louder Than Bombs Magazine
Click to expand...
Azas said:
By: Freddie "Screech" McAllister
Issue: Vol. 17, September 1980
Click to expand...
Azas said:
By Johnny Thunderstruck for Rebel Yell: The Magazine for People Who Think Guns N’ Roses Invented Music
Click to expand...
For several different writers for several different publications, they sure do use the same layout every time.
 

THE MAKING OF DANCE OF DEATH: A STORY OF MUSIC, PROCESS, AND… WELL, MORE PROCESS​

By Clive Hammersworth, Senior Writer at The British Music Review Quarterly

There are many ways to make an album. Some bands choose to experiment, some rely on improvisation, and some seek inspiration from wild, unpredictable sources. Iron Maiden, however, recorded Dance of Death in a manner best described as "thorough."

This is the story of how that album was made.

PRE-PRODUCTION: DECISIONS WERE MADE​


In early 2003, Iron Maiden decided they would record a new album. It had been three years since Brave New World, so the time seemed appropriate. The band members met and agreed that making an album would be a good thing to do. There were discussions. Many discussions. Some of them involved tea. Others involved recording schedules.

Once the band agreed that they would, indeed, make an album, the next logical step was to write songs. This process took some time. Notes were played. Chords were selected. Tempos were debated, but ultimately, they all settled on ones that made sense. Some lyrics were written. Some were rewritten. In the end, everything was written.

THE RECORDING PROCESS: IT HAPPENED​

Recording began at Sarm West Studios in London. The studio contained all the necessary equipment for recording an album, which was useful. The band members arrived and set up their instruments. A recording engineer was present. The recording engineer pressed record. Then, music was played.

Each band member performed their parts separately, as is often the case when making an album. The guitars were recorded using microphones placed in front of amplifiers. The bass was also recorded. Drums were played. The band recorded multiple takes, selecting the best ones. Sometimes, takes were not perfect. In those cases, they recorded again.

Bruce Dickinson sang the vocals. His voice was recorded using a microphone. Lyrics were sung in the correct order.

Mixing followed. The individual tracks were adjusted so that they could be heard at appropriate levels. This took some time but was ultimately completed.

THE SONGS: THEY EXIST​

There are songs on Dance of Death. Each of them has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Some are faster. Some are slower. Lyrically, themes include storytelling, historical events, and general observations about life and death.
  • "Wildest Dreams" – A song that begins the album. It is about having dreams that are, indeed, wild.
  • "Rainmaker" – A song with lyrics that reference rain and the making thereof.
  • "No More Lies" – A song in which lies are rejected.
  • "Montségur" – A song that is based on a historical event.
  • "Dance of Death" – The title track. The words “dance” and “death” are both relevant to its content.
  • "Gates of Tomorrow" – A song about the future, which, as the title suggests, has gates.
  • "New Frontier" – A song that explores new things, which can be considered frontiers.
  • "Paschendale" – A song about a battle. The battle was called the Battle of Passchendaele, but the band opted for a shorter spelling.
  • "Face in the Sand" – A song that discusses a face and sand.
  • "Age of Innocence" – A song about innocence, and possibly its loss.
  • "Journeyman" – A song about journeys and those who undertake them.

POST-PRODUCTION: FINALIZATION​

Once recording and mixing were complete, the album was mastered. This involved ensuring that all songs were at the appropriate volume and clarity levels. The band approved the final version.

The album artwork was created. It depicted figures engaging in what could be described as a dance of death. The cover was met with reactions.

THE RELEASE: PEOPLE LISTENED TO IT​

Dance of Death was released on September 8, 2003. Upon release, it was listened to by many people. Some enjoyed it. Some had opinions about it. Reviews were written. The album sold copies. Iron Maiden then performed songs from the album during concerts.

CONCLUSION: IT WAS MADE​

In the end, Dance of Death was an album that was made. Its creation followed all necessary steps. Each part of the process was completed in the correct order. The album exists, and it continues to exist.

That is the story of how Dance of Death was made.
 
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