In early adolescence, I was both terrified and intrigued by the British rock band Iron Maiden.   In the halls of suburban middle school, rumors ran amok about the band’s Satanic affiliations and powers, personified by the band’s mascot, the demonic ghoul Eddie:

Friends warned me that if I listened to Iron Maiden’s music, I would be cursed into a life of devil worshiping, Satanic ritual, and alliance with the Antichrist.  The number 666 would appear as an omen in my breakfast cereal, and the “Beast” would command me to do things that would appall my parents – and get me terminally grounded.

I believed it.  I avoided Iron Maiden, but couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at other kids in the halls, wearing t-shirts adorned with Eddie’s hateful grin.  When Run to the Hills would play on the radio, my hand eased towards the dial, but my fingers curled back.  I needed to hear Bruce Dickenson’s soaring vocals with the fiery, intricate guitar riffs.

In fact, the image of evil Iron Maiden projected tantalized me.  As I drove home into the repeating pattern of suburbia, a sense of risk gripped me.  Secretly, I bought the album Piece of Mind.  I felt a daredevil’s exhilaration every time The Trooper opened with its unmistakable riff.  My fingers played air guitar into the night.  As the album closed, a flash of dread hit me.  Was I selling my soul to Eddie?

At breakfast, I closed my eyes, gulped, and dared not look down at my Cheerios lest the milk be directed by evil currents.

Time went by and signs of The Beast failed to appear at breakfast, nor did I develop moles thrice repeating the number six.  I never wore an Iron Maiden t-shirt, but I felt a kinship with the kids who did.  It was teen rebellion, facing death by rocking out with a demonic corpse.

Man, I felt cool.

Then one day, I saw a video on MTV.  It was Iron Maiden playing a live concert.  During, the show, Eddie emerged.  As a giant inflatable doll:

As the figure inflated and the lanky, mummified puppet arms dangled, I guffawed.  The Beast was an inflatable doll?

At that moment I had my first epiphany about the power of branding.  I’d seen an inflatable Noid floating above the local Domino’s Pizza.  A puffy gorilla at a local car dealership.  Woody Woodpecker at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

And now Eddie, the harbinger of evil and gatekeeper that would greet me at Hell’s gates, was among them.

I realized that Eddie was a gimmick – a brand image designed to build intrigue and create a theme for Iron Maiden’s music.  As I watched the video, I didn’t see devil worshipers delving into an evil ritual.  I saw people (both the band and the crowd) having fun.  I later learned that the band members weren’t Satanic priests.  They were smart businessmen with families.

In fact, I discovered lead singer Bruce Dickinson pilots their 747 when they do world tours.

Drug-addled, devil worshiping rock stars don’t pilot commercial jets.  Bruce is a sharp guy.  Talk about a contrast.

Iron Maiden is a successful business with an exceptionally effective brand image.  They show the degree in which branding creates an alternate reality to drive interest in a commercial product.

I had not sold my soul to Eddie.  I’d bought an image distributed by a record label.

As subsequent Iron Maiden albums came out, I bought them – I liked the music.

But Eddie was never the same.  I saw him for what he was:  a cartoonish image that was Iron Maiden’s label.  He’s part of the brand that turns a 13-year-old boy’s fright into fascination and makes a 17-year-old think he’s channeling the Dark Side of the Force.

Now, as an adult who works professionally in marketing, am I immune to the effects of branding?  Perhaps.  My innocence died when Eddie joined Woody.

I just thank God Kellogg’s keeps coming out with new versions of Cheerios.  Rock music is one thing, but if I don’t get my Cheerios every morning, I’m positively wicked.

Original version published on Madwire.