The commercialization of doom metal has reached unspeakable levels. Bands these days think that just because they have a pedalboard larger than a coffin and a smoke machine, they’re entitled to “gigs” at “venues” with “audiences.” But let’s get one thing straight: if you’re playing doom metal anywhere besides a dimly lit basement surrounded by empty pizza boxes, mildew, and three indifferent cats — you’re a poser.

True doom is not performed for applause. It is performed for the judgmental stare of Mr. Whiskers as your amp hums at 120 dB during a 17-minute feedback intro. It’s for your mom yelling down the stairs that dinner’s ready while you’re mid-riff in Swamp Priest’s Funeral Dirge (Part VI). If you haven’t tuned your guitar by feel, brushed cat hair off of the strings, and recorded vocals through a 1990s karaoke machine — you’re doing it wrong.

Venues? What are you, a jazz fusion band? Real doom doesn’t need a “PA system” or a “crowd.” It needs a broken space heater, a moldy rug for acoustics, a general feeling that it has been way too long since the cat litter has been changed, and that one guy named Trevor who brings his own bongos even though you told him it’s not that kind of band.

And don’t even think about charging for merch. True doom merch is a burned CD-R in a sandwich bag with hand-drawn runes that may or may not be from Dungeons & Dragons. If someone Venmos you for it, refund them and hiss.

Let the posers enjoy their big lights and two-drink minimums. Those who dwell in the subterranean tomb of true tone know that the heaviest music is created not in concert halls, but next to the washer/dryer unit while a tabby sits on your Orange amp and sheds judgment.

So next time you see a doom band on a festival lineup, ask yourself: have they ever played a two-hour set in front of three cats, a lava lamp, and a stack of unpaid utility bills? No? Then they’re not doom. They’re drama.

Support real doom. Support your mom’s basement.