Read my cover story on the Armed (or just look at the photos if you’re simple)

I went to Detroit to learn more about the cult I'm in.

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If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. Wait, not dead. On vacation. That’s what I meant, sorry. I’m on vacation. Sort of the opposite of dead, when you think about it. But I deserve this vacation. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I spent the end of May running my body into the ground traveling around the country in an attempt to collect the most epic story ever told. I hopped from plane to plane, I slept on couches, I got my credit card scammed, I found myself in some odd places. I got sick, I recovered, I got sick again. I finally returned home and slept for two days among my recorders and notebooks like the kid in Almost Famous. But I’m pleased to report that I succeeded. I penned the greatest piece of music journalism ever published.

So I’m writing this from a cafe on an undisclosed Greek island to share it with you. It’s a cover story for the Fader about Earth’s greatest band, the Armed. This was not just some assignment I took on for money. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was paid handsomely (though never handsomely enough in my opinion). This was a story about a vaguely spiritual movement that has consumed my entire life and a groundbreaking new album, Perfect Saviors. It spans five years and four states. It has it all—cult leaders, Middle Eastern food, riveting supermarket board games, late nights with Queens of the Stone Age, and bodybuilding. It should win an award for music journalism. And if that doesn’t exist, they should invent one and name it after me. I’m kidding of course—they should really name two awards after me.

Here is the lede:

It’s springtime in Los Angeles and the Armed is about to take the stage. The elusive Detroit collective doesn’t perform very often and has never played this major city in 14 years of existence. People have traveled great distances to witness this rare appearance, and the anticipation in the room is starting to grow intense. A man approaches me in the crowd and slaps a red sticker on my chest that reads HELLO MY NAME IS DAN. Granted, this is my name, but all the stickers say this. I look around and everyone is wearing one. A sea of Dans. “Dan” is Dan Greene, the shadowy mastermind behind the Armed. Our mysterious leader. The man pats the sticker onto my chest muscles, which are lean and tight. I have been following a strict daily workout routine for the last ten months in preparation for this show, as the band has instructed. The man looks at me and smiles. “Refract, brother.”

Refract. This has become the official mantra for the band, an all-purpose affirmation we say to each other as members of the Armed faithful, although no one seems exactly sure what it means. On the way out later, I ask a man wearing an Armed shirt what the word means to him. “Refract?” he repeats skeptically, as though I have just asked him the world’s most obvious question. “It just means to… refract.” And he’s not wrong. That’s what it means to me, too.

I never imagined I’d be part of a cult. No one ever does, I suppose. I could waste time feigning denial about it but let’s cut to the chase and face facts: I use a secret codeword to communicate with a roomful of strangers. We give each other a nod of quiet solidarity whenever we pass each other in the real world. I have altered my diet and added ten pounds of muscle to my body because a man I’ve never met and who may not actually exist named Dan Greene told me to. I wear a logo, a boxed-in X, on every item of clothing I own. Many disciples have it tattooed on their limbs. That all sounds like the makings of a cult to me. The Armed is the closest thing I have to religion.

You can read the rest of the story by clicking the button below, though I do feel I have a duty to inform you: Reading it comes with a terrible price. You will not be the same person after finishing. You have been warned.

Alright I won’t talk it up any further and will instead let the story speak for itself. And because I appreciate your dedicated patronage of this newsletter, I am including some exclusive photos I took in my travels, which barely even scratch the surface of this long and wild journey. And yes, they’re all stunning photographs. Writing, photography, newsletters—I can do it all effortlessly and flawlessly. “Wow, Dan Ozzi, ever heard of humility?” you might be asking. To which I say: Why be humble when you can be in the Armed?

Ah, wait. Did I just say I was in the Armed? Apologies. That was a typo. Forget I said that. I am not a member of the Armed. Just a bystander. I swear.

(Also, I recently discovered that if you’re reading this post in your inbox, the photos don’t look as good as in the browser. So click the headline at the top if you want to look at them larger.)

“This is simply not enough content!” you are saying as you pound your fists on your desk in a seething rage. You demand a photo of me, America’s Only Music Writer™, at work, getting a tour of the Armed’s secret headquarters. Alright fine, here:

Anyway, I must return to the ocean now. I have a long day of tanning and being hand-fed grapes by sirens of the Aegean Sea to attend to. My filthy assistant will be sending this email on my behalf. If you have any issues, you may take them up with her.

Refract.

Dan ⋈

Oh, and if this was not enough Armed content for you today, feel free to revisit my 2021 interview in this very newsletter:

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