City of Perpetual Resonance

On The Beatles' "You Never Give Me Your Money"

2011-09-09T20:56:00.001-07:00

Inspired by Bret Easton Ellis recent obsession with the song, I wanted to peel back the layers of that perplexing and transporting Beatles deep cut (well, as close as they have to a deep cut), "You Never Give Me Your Money", the halfway point of their last album Abbey Road. Also: I can get really intense about The Beatles so...

It's the official starting point for the Side 2 song suite. Actually, I think "Because" might be but "...Money" is the first movement in the segue. "Because" seems related because it does all the things that the suite does that Side 1 does not. That is to say, every song on Side 1 has impugnable integrity. This does not imply quality but rather that these songs are unto themselves, complete, and wanting for nothing. Every song in the suite seeks the next one. I realize this is an artifact of never having perceived these songs any either way but I'd also argue that their inherent qualities are such that any alternative presentation would be impossible.

If "Because" is the primal soul burst that presages the searching song suite, "You Never Give Me Your Money" is the elaborated taffy pull overture. Paul McCartney never met an idea that he didn't like, or was unable to cram on top of, in front of, or during an otherwise complete piece of music. That the five separate movements of this song not only work but sound organic against each other is a testament not simply to McCartney's songwriting acumen but to tapping into the weird conflicting winds of his band's dissolution.

"You Never Give Me Your Money" is about endings and beginnings, just like the suite is about endings and beginnings. And like the suite, the song connects ideas that don't seem to have any relation to one another. Which brings me to...hard stop here...what the hell is this song about? There's that plaintive intro (which is weirdly the only iteration of the chorus) about "negotiations" and "situations". It sounds like a bad business deal, or perhaps a divorce. Then we're transported via parlor piano to the situation of virtually every middle class twenty-something (and shit, some thirty-somethings) in the Western world: out of school, broke, and in debt. What did this person have to offer in the negotiations of the preceding section? This might be a story told out of time, with the narrator seeking refuge in the nostalgia of simpler times, hence the jauntiness.

"But oh, that magic feeling/nowhere to go"

This is the precipice of an emotion that we are about to dive into headfirst, wading through a forest of "oohs" and "aahs" and heavenly arpeggiated guitars. This is the first climax of the album and its a foreshadowing for the "real" one in "Golden Slumbers" but this is the one that hits home for me. Once Paul takes us off that cliff with his last "nowhere to go", we are in that uncanny spot that he was in, realizing that his band was done without it actually being done yet. And he was finding peace and joy in that moment while still realizing that the end was nigh. We mirror our incidents onto that if only because at that point, people who heard this record when it came out had to have realized that they were halfway through the last Beatles album.

This shot in the arm of joyous sentiment sends us into the "one sweet dream" motif which is introduced by Lennon's strange prog-y guitar solo, climbing and reaching as far as it can go before dropping us down into the dream, which feels like an escape, which doesn't feel exactly like what the narrator originally wanted to do but "step on the gas and wipe that tear away," he does. What is the "one sweet dream"? Is it the strange menagerie of characters, ad-libbed weirdness, and psychedelic images that comprise the rest of the suite up until "Golden Slumbers" (which gets us back to the grounding bummer theme of dissolution)? That's a convenient summation but who knows.

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7/All good children go to heaven"

I have no clue what this means but it's sung with such sincerity and conviction that it relieves the emotional consternation of the preceding. I have no doubt that Paul McCartney sincerely believes that hearing some variation on "it's gonna be okay" is a very real way to alleviate stressful circumstances. Perhaps it's a testament to The Beatles' talent (and a by-product of the legendarily grueling recording regimen they were subjected to) that they could churn a handful of seemingly disparate ideas slap them together and defy them not to make narrative and musical sense, while speaking to the depths of their mental states at the time. And perhaps stitched-together ideas, as William Burroughs once opined, will make a greater sense than we allow ourselves to make in real time. This is all to say that this song is a joy and a lesson and far ahead of its time.

Enjoy:

An(other) update

2011-06-13T10:44:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a novel.

There's a bunch of other things going on as well, but the one that I am most excited about, particularly because it seems the most daunting, is a full-length prose novel.

WHAT IS KNOWN SO FAR:

It's an SF/fantasy story set in 1983. Its locale is the West San Fernando Valley near LA, which is where I grew up. This book is important to me for a lot of reasons but that stuff is better to share when you have the actual book in your hands. For now, I'll explain a little bit about what I want to pull off with this book.

The idea in a nutshell, is that this book be both smart and entertaining. I want it to be both a quick, plot-heavy read and a dense slow-burner with hidden layers for those who wish to take their time. Also: topping out at 200-250 pp. max. Books are SO goddamn long, aren't they? Who are these motherfuckers in 2011 who think they have 500+ pp. of interesting shit to say? I want to trim the fat and make every paragraph just thick with ideas, images, and moods. This book will be edited within an inch of its life--no wasted scenes, no gratuitous references to my favorite indie rock song, no chapter-long expositions.

Oh, also remember how I said it was an SF/fantasy book, but it's set in the Valley in '83? Yeah, that doesn't mean there will be a door in our world that leads to another dimension where people are named Terl and fly on multi-headed winged beasts. Nothing against that stuff (really) but I'm trying to achieve a tone of believability that I don't often see in the genre and have it play as realistic. This will be a book for people who pick up genre fiction and go, "ugh, not this again," and for people who pick up experimental or 'high' literature and wish there was a plot. It's about a father and his son and that's all I should say for now.

It's called The Anglekeeper, I'm about 1/3 of the way done with it, and I can't wait to share it with the world.

-A

Vista 2: The Young Murderers

2011-03-12T15:55:00.000-08:00

Vista 2: The Young Murderers
[Stardate: 20110315]

“Keep all your heads DOWN! I’ll tell you when it’s your turn.” I’m lying face-down in Timothy’s Market at lunch time, feeling a pool of someone else’s blood soak my last clean white shirt. My right eye scanned the room wondering who was alive but everyone else is on the ground too. I hear moans, encouraging moans. My name is Kevin Dwight Page and I do not want to die in the town I grew up in.

My bruised lip touched the cool linoleum. Oh god, it felt so good. A wave of guilt accumulated and hit me like a motherfucker from every time I felt comfortable while others suffered—when Kally got sick after her abortion and I went to Reno with Rick and Jeremy Renfro, when my mom didn't eat for a whole week while we were on food stamps and I had stashed a Hostess Cup Cake that I wouldn't share, when my brother died in Iraq at the exact time (I figured it out) I was getting a blowjob from Christy Sanders. If I get out of this, I will reverse my desire to be on the receiving end of the gifts I find in this world. I have to give someone else that gift.

--

Jesse Klier and Mike Beatty came down from the hills overlooking Parable, CA (pop. 1400) to Timothy's Market during lunchtime (when barbeque is served) expecting fifteen but they only got five men and women, lambs to carve with their angel of death-looking scythes. The first hit was Dr. Carter, who got a hack to the thigh so deep, the rusty teeth lodged into this femur. Mike had to step down on his leg so he could pull the blade out; he stepped so hard, Dr. Carter’s leg just snapped like plywood. His screams cut through the air for the duration of the slaughter. The weird part was that these screams, instead of weighing on the hearts of the killers, made their work easier. There’s something about a perpetual sound, no matter how horrid, that starts to become soothing. It loses its edge because it literally has no end: a scream with no shock and no cut. So they cut more and felt less remorse, severing flesh, gouging eyes, tearing limb from torso. While Mr. Carter wailed like an infinite stuck pig, they were getting into the physicality of it all, realizing they were naturals at the sport of hacking the human body. If Dr. Carter knew that he was making it easier for them to kill, he’d have winced in silence, holding back the pain past tears and vomit.

Before this, neither Jesse nor Mike had even so much as punched another man. Today was about transformation—they could feel every new kill in their bones, in their blood, infusing their being with responsibility, irrevocable gestures that they had no choice but to own. Their weapons breaking skin slowly and tentatively at first—Jesse held them down (he was the sturdier of the two at 260 pounds, 6’2”) and Mike ran the blade—then graduating to precise butcher-like flesh rending. It felt good, they thought, to exercise their ability to change the reality. Outside, the freezing cold crystallized the green of a new spring.

In the aftermath, this will be characterized as a senseless tragedy. It was a tragedy. It wasn't senseless. The sense that Mike and Jesse had was that on the deepest structural level, nothing would ever change. Kings are born kings but these two young men received the poor fate to serve. Only tearing at the fabric of their fate would force God to sew them a new one.

Jesse Klier’s mom is the Queen of Dumb. I say this not to be unduly obnoxious but to highlight that she’s never said a single insightful or clever thing in her life. I give Jesse a break because I cannot imagine a more exceptionally unfortunate fate than to be born to a woman like Bernadette Klier.

Because there is literally nothing else she can do in this life in exchange for payment (including housekeeping) she assigns numbers at the DMV in Redwood, CA, about two and a half hours drive from here. Half her daily paycheck goes to the gas she uses to get there and back, which bothers Jesse way more than it does her. She comes home, heats up a red-beef burrito and opens an orange soda, and watches this television program about a kid who solves crimes by talking to his dog. A constantly thickening layer of Ho-Hos and bad TV dulls her senses to where she can barely turn a deadbolt. If I could see anything in Jesse’s eyes it was fear—fear that callousness like that was even possible. I think that’s the only thing that’s different about us. I see that and I want to leave this place, put myself as far away from it as possible. He sees it and he starts to sink…

A damp iron chill hung in the air. My lungs filled with cold blood vapor. Jesse stood over us with his head arched. His upper lip twitched up at the corner of his mouth as he looked over the carnage, physically unable to have an opinion about it but under the impression that he processing it. The twitch was the humble morality of a guy who’s never done shit in his life revisiting a body that was now occupied by the Black Angel of Death’s right-hand man. The profound division inside a body fueled by cheetos and orange soda made him so sick he felt he’d throw up his internal organs. For the first time in his life, he felt what a “splitting” headache was.

Mike—whose arm was drenched elbow-deep in blood from plumbing Vicki Sanchez's belly with a bladed knuckle (his own invention)—was, of course, our Black Angel of Death incarnate. He was mainlining Christ’s blood, feeling the power of a god while on this earth. This inverse divinity was so far off the map of his fated path, you could practically see the universe ripping around him, shafts of light emerging to close the gaps in the realm of the perceived. The screams of Mr. Carter have faded to reveal the eerie low groan of the newly dead. There’s one body left before the Black Angel’s feast completes; then he’s a free agent again. Occupation is the name of the game in the hungry spirit world and (apparently) no one’s hungrier than Death.

“What are ya thinkin’ about?” Jesse barely mumbled these words, thucking me in the stomach with his steel toes. He did this lightly for a 260-pound guy, which is to say I tasted this morning’s mac and cheese coming back up.

I don’t know why I said this: “I was wondering…why are you lettin’ me live?”

Mike rushed to interrupt this little moment here: “Hey yo, Jesse, don’t listen to this fuck. Who says we’re letting you live? You see how I’m killing motherfuckers? Wait your turn!”

“You’re talkin’ to me. You didn’t talk to anybody else. Didn’t even wanna look at them.”

“What, fucker?!?!” Even with the teeth of that blade on my neck, I was convinced: he would have done it by now.

“It’s too late. You can’t do me.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” The words rang in my ears so bad, I didn’t even notice he had kicked me in the head, and harder than before. Blood ran down my mouth leaving a metal taste against my lips and creating that light-headedness that comes from the sensation of lifeforce oozing out of my body. Oh god, I thought, this is really happening. They’re all dead and I’m very likely dying. I think I’m taking this more seriously than my attackers. And that might be a good thing.

Mike kneeled down to press his arm against the back of my throat. “You wanna know what? It was Jesse’s idea.”

“SHUT UP, MIKE!”

“He thinks you’re smart. He looks up to you. I mean, come on, you’re smart.” He was whispering this to me in a conspiratorial tone. Was he trying to get out of this, and get out of it with me?

I REALLY don’t know why I said this: “I’m not special, Mike. Tell you what—you both leave and I’ll say I did this.”

“…”

“Don’t fuck with me, Kevin.”

“I’m not fucking with you one bit. You leave. I’ll take the fall. Who would know? They’re all dead. It’s just your word against mine.”

“Why would you do something like that for US?” Mike’s lip was trembling while he touched his blade to my head. “You got a scholarship and shit; y’all gonna be famous. You throwing that away?”

“I want to give you things that no one’s ever given you. It’s just generosity. That’s all we’ve got separating us, man. Generosity.

“The FUCK you talking about?!”

“I’ve already been given chances and I don’t want to stay small.”

I couldn’t see Mike’s face; he was staring at the ground and breathing deep breaths. He suddenly became the linchpin, and seemingly wasn’t pleased with the fact.

“This sounds like…I don’t know…this sounds like…some kinda bullshit. I have an idea, Kevin. You—.”

It happened way too fast. I heard Mike’s wrist snap. That’s all. Jesse had turned Mike’s blade on his gut, forcing the tip of the scythe through his stomach. Forced pounds of pressure set the blade deep before stopping at his vertebrae. It’s fascinating how unaware of his strength Jesse is. His whole body was vibrating as his friend fell silently with this, the last death of the day.

I looked over and Jesse was staring at me, not concentrating but staring fixedly like his daze would produce an answer. When at the point at which I looked so deep into Jesse’s eyes that I could see he was there in a life support capacity only, which is to say no one was home, I projected my self, entered his shell and began to see through his eyes. I observed myself through another person’s body for the first time, which oddly made me feel like my existence was suddenly negated. Phased.

When I say I occupied his body, I’m not speaking metaphorically. I was now in control of the body of Jesse Klier. There is a point at which the animus vacates the shell just so and I have a window of opportunity to take over. It’s sort of like breaking into a house when the person’s on the shitter but you have to be careful—once they’re alerted to your presence, you’re out. Right now though, Jesse, stone terrified by how fucked things had gotten, was more than happy to let me take the reins for the foreseeable future.

Oh, and I didn’t know ANY of this shit yet. I was just looking at my own face thinking I’d died or gone insane and wondering if I’d know the difference.

“Who are you?”

Someone said it. I think it was me. I didn’t mean it to be deep. I meant it in the most boringly literal sense possible. Then I heard it.

“Boy, wassa MATTER w’ you?!”

It was Dr. Carter.

“Wassa MATTER with YOOOOU?!?!”

“Uh…sir.”

“Murderer…’s too young…t’ be a MURDERER!!! Brough chu boys…inna th’ worl…”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“I never...never forget…I don—MMMF.”

Sigh. Deep breath. He was dying. He’d lost a lot of blood for a man his age to even be talking let alone lecturing me. I turned around to face him, as Jesse. It was the least I could do.

“Never forget…a face. Y’do sumpin’ GOOD, son. Sumpin’ fer CHRIST. Don’t die…without…”

Goodbye, Dr. Carter.

Here’s what’s gonna happen: Jesse, you and I are trading bodies. All you need to do is stay here, occupy my body, and NOT fuck up. I’m gonna leave right now in your body and figure out how to get you another chance. We’ll meet back in town when I’m done and trade back. I promise all of that. Jesse nodded with my face. I asked him for my keys and left.

Being poorly versed in the transmigration of souls, I was surprised at how well I was improvising. Mike had chained and padlocked the front door. I, having neither time nor inclination to search his corpse for the keys, remembered I was strong as fuck, covered my knuckles in a shirt, punched through the glass door and walked away from that grisly scene without so much as looking sideways. I got into my car and drove towards Eureka, for once welcoming the hours of unpopulated mountain road that lay ahead.

Nothing precludes the possibility of redemption. With that in mind, I drive north.

Vista 1: The Ex and The Alien

2010-12-07T22:05:00.000-08:00

[Stardate 20101205]

She didn't need me, he realized, walking through a dark, drenched countryside on this most ordinary of November nights. I walk here after dinner to help me digest. I do this with such regularity I don't think it's particularly effective anymore. What a time to think such a thing. It's never when you think it'll happen...

It's not that she didn't love me. I know she did or at least she said she did. She wasn't lying about that. But need is something more. I need her. I want her to need me. Relationships are egalitarian by default, rarely betraying their imbalance. It's like being a character in a D&D game; depending on your skill levels and experience, the same quanta of affection can be overwhelming or trifling. That same force makes the relationship an emotionally tenable idea while it exists and a painfully ironic one when it's over.

I hear ducks from far off (or what sound to me like ducks) and it helps to distract me from this train of thought. Sometimes, the loud quack of a duck can make you laugh and take your mind off the worst shit if you let it. That's the kind of mood I'm in, listening to animals and wishing for a psychic takeover by modest emotions.

When I see ice on the lake, it reminds me of her but not her when she let me go. Her when she was a new world -- a gentle land ruled by 3 purple-lipped princesses with white bare feet, too delicate to stand on our profane Earth. I bring forth this vision and I suddenly feel calmer than a man witnessing the birth of his last child.

There was a time, at the beginning, when we spent every night together. At some point after we fell asleep, I'd feel her fingertips search my thigh until she clasped her hand around my balls. This relaxed me immeasurably, like a bath in warm water. In half-consciousness, I would imagine, that she derived some kind of power from this act. She held my nuts like they were a badge granting her access to some outer dimension otherwise restricted. If she wanted, she could present my nuts to St. Peter and it'd be sufficient currency to enter the heavens. That's what I believed.

Through these seemingly insignificant gestures, she made me unbelievably confident. I could walk through walls. My mind cut through glass. There was an orb, a sephira, inside of my chest that came alight at the thought of these transfers of power. The smaller my mind became, the more this orb would grow, expanding out of my solar plexus, salving and aligning every organ and tissue that it passed on its way out of my skin to surround me, now parting my feet from the ground as it ballooned into a circumscribing vessel. This was my protection.

And just in time, for what should stand before me but H.R. Giger's Alien, all sinewy armored musculature, acid blood stream, and deadly oral protrusion. Standing a full ten feet looming above me, I realized that it was in fact crouched for once its arms spread out and its legs straightened, it stood close to fifteen feet. Shit.

Alien reared back, spouting a fountain of acid skyward (perhaps just to frighten or mock me? Well, mission accomplished for I felt frightened and mocked and perhaps I peed a little.) In one fluid motion, it's torpedo-shaped head shot back down, like a smooth igneous meteor, aimed for my face. I braced myself with clenched teeth for an impact that never came. The beast was shut down, knocked back on its ass by the resilience of my protective orb, my expanded sephira. Dear god: what would I do with this power? Would I be the envy of Ripley and several outer-space Marines (RIP)?

As it turns out, my powers were merely defensive in nature. All I could do, effectively, was deflect the creature's powerful strikes, divert its caustic life's blood, and simply stand my ground. Each attack more powerful than the last, I figured victory would be mine through Alien's eventual exhaustion. Not that I knew anything about the physiology or endurance of the xenomorph. Perhaps it had reserves of energy beyond calculable time and this was, in fact, merely a warmup. I wondered if exertion somehow invigorated this species, causing it to gain as much energy as it expended in a feedback loop of horror that ends with my defenses compromised and my skin and vital organs similarly, gruesomely compromised.

It was Alien's last attack that presented an option. Its death dildo probosces shot with such speed, the inverted energy knocked the beast back many dozens of yards into the cab of an ancient rust-corroded Ford F-150 with the concentrated rubbery force of an injurious racquetball. The beast was so contorted and malpositioned from its forced entry into the otherwise spacious seating area of an American truck, I suddenly realized I would have time to strike back provided I had the testicular fortitude to strike NOW.

Despite all good judgment, I charged the ten yards towards the beast. My orb, as I expected, made impact with the truck and moved it with relatively reasonable ease for a 5000 object. It was, however, on wheels so I dug in my heels and pushed, and pushed until movement begat momentum and at last the truck, with xenomorph in tow, hurtled towards a massive hole in the ground. Said hole is the portal to a subterranean scrapping factory whose many metal levels caved from the weight of the plummeting truck. The fall couldn't be significantly dolorous to Alien but what lay at the base most certainly would be--a metal shredding maw automated to function upon contact. Indeed, upon contact the shredder began to operate without a shred of remorse, gnashing into alien flesh. I could hear the ungodly screech, like a pterodactyl impaled and descending down a long wood stake, somehow living to experience the pain with exponentially increasing acuity.

Mercifully, for me and it, the maw finished its work, its gears and teeth eaten by acidic spew. Smoke rose from the wreckage which looked beyond recognition and betrayed no visible sign of life, structure, or any other cognizable form of dignity. A wretched tangle of flesh and metal remained and Alien was gone. It was all thanks to her. Emboldening gestures of love and affection need not be reciprocated or matched to be real. Real enough to defeat a homicidal alien whose entire existence is predicated upon the hunting of frailer beings. Through this most improbable encounter, I realized that a subtle power builds by letting things just happen. Letting my partner touch my balls while I slept, letting her stay with me even though I knew it would end. Now, with a mangled alien corpse between us, I could let her go. Thanks for the memories, the strength, and an education on the perception (not the reality) of imbalance.

Despite this all, I'm gonna start running now, because I certainly saw Alien's arm protrude forthright from the wreckage. Superhuman shielding forged by sincere affection is quite an ally but so's a head start.

An actual update

2010-12-01T14:56:00.000-08:00

A friend mentioned that they'd bookmarked my blog so I've decided to start updating it again. So what's been up you ask?

I've been doing a lot of metal journalism for Invisible Oranges, the metal blog edited by Cosmo Lee. Here's a link to my entries. I used to write a MySpace blog called The Metal Apologist (all entries of which are collected on THIS blog) and my writing at IO can be considered a substitute for MA.

The Atomic Bomb Audition has been my main focus as of late. We just self-released our 3rd album, Roots Into The See. It's available on vinyl LP and high-quality digital download ONLY. You can buy or listen to it here: theatomicbombaudition.bandcamp.com

Lastly, my ongoing concern has been a first attempt at a large-scale writing project. This is a graphic novel script entitled Silver. I'm reluctant to share script pages; how much meaning can one glean from a technical comic script with panel descriptions and lettering instructions substituting for evocative prose? I can, however, share my essential pitch/logline:

Silver is a point of convergence: a potent chemical, a revolutionary device, a woman with staggering psychic powers—these 3 elements synthesize to create a great weapon that unravels the fabric of our reality. This is the story of the inevitabilities that lead to this convergence and its consequences.

Anything regarding this story that seems "shareable" (i.e. suitably protected and developed for your profane eyes) will make its way to CoPR.

Alee Karim & The Science Fiction will record new material this Winter to be shared in 2011. Be prepared for mega sonic evolutions and LOTS of synth via Shayna and Norman.

Cheers and thanks for reading/caring,
A

The Metal Apologist - Mastodon, San Jose, 21 November 2009

2009-11-27T14:43:00.000-08:00

If you attended the Mastodon/Dethklok/Converge/High On Fire show and you were paying very close attention, you could see the quiet journey of a bright soul led into the black. Basically, I think it's a case of the proverbial bottom line butting up most obnoxiously against the art of the thing. Now don't get me wrong - I completely understand that marketing, product placement, and dumb dude dollars are a necessary evil, an engine of the entertainment business. I stopped crying sellout when I realized it's worth it to make some concessions so you can do your art for a living rather than scoop ice cream at the drug store to keep your integrity intact. And really you have to give some respect where it's due to the people who do all the shitty work to advertise and provide infrastructure to our fun. But you know, sometimes the cheap commerce side of things sinks its fangs way too deep into the true beating heart of artistic divinity, reminding you that our tolerance veils its nature, haggard and vampiric by the light of the latter.

Let's start at the top: Brian and I arrived at the San Jose Events Center circa 7pm. Actually it was 7:15pm and I was confused as to why Converge were on stage given that High On Fire were set to go on first. Well, a marginally helpful young man (who seemed genuinely confused as to why I would talk to him) informs me that High On Fire DID in fact go on, hewing precisely to the scheduled 6:30pm start time. Wow. Who made it down here (that is, from the greater Bay Area to South Bay; I assume that's a decent portion of the audience but I could be wrong) on a Saturday night before fucking dinner time to catch these fellas? I have to remember to reset my internal rock clock for these big venue shows - mercilessly on-time. Also where's the respect for HoF, these now elder statesmen of the scene? It's kinda heartbreaking; like when you see 70-year-old men working at Walgreen's. There needs to be a Musician's Scene Cred Roth/IRA that you start building up when your band forms so that in 10 or 15 years, no matter how many times Pitchfork or the white belt crowd pass you over, your band is assured teacher's salaries and mid-size venue headlining tours. Jeez, lest we forget the ironic fact that headliners Mastodon met one another at an HoF show over ten years ago.

On to Converge, who from the moment we arrived were seemingly tearing it up. Let me rephrase that: they were indeed tearing it up but that was not the perception of a plurality or at least a very vocal minority in the audience. I've never heard such savage booing for an opening band. They ate it up like pros and I was kinda teary-eyed and inspired to seem a band react so bravely. Their set ended and I really needed to know: what was Converge's transgression? We asked two separate groups of kids what they thought but they were either mildly enthusiastic about the band or benignly indifferent and... well... I'm a bad journalist because I gave up after surveying .01% of the control population. I didn't learn much either as the guys we spoke to were also perplexed at this bad reception. For me, the distorted guitars, the gruff vocals, and the massive collusion of bass, drums and guitars forming what we refer to as the "riff" seems like common enough ground for all four bands to...converge upon. So what got everyone's ire up? I'm the worst judge for this; I'm an artist, not a critic. The thing is that my taste in music is kinda like the positive flip side of the stereotypical mom who says all that heavy metal sounds the same. It isn't all the same when you get down to the details but for most intents and purposes, on a fundamental level it IS the same. Catharsis through volume, sonic shrapnel, massive emotional bloodletting - that's what Iron Maiden, Morbid Angel, Godflesh, Opeth, and Emperor (for a few examples) all have in common for me. And apparently if you put each of those bands' diehard fans all in the same room, the collected will NOT agree on much. My guess: the hardcore-flecked vocal delivery, the scruffy and natural-sounding guitar, the dynamic, not-constant-pitter-patter-of-double-bass-drum-pedals probably equals total turnoff for an audience weened on that perfectly cut 24-carat diamond that is the modern death metal recording. That kind of flawless, Pro-Tooled horse stampede was yet to come. That's just my theory though I do feel some solidity there. Shit, maybe even I couldn't have gotten on board with something like Converge if I were a little younger. Well, yeah I could have but if I hadn't, I don't know what would have compelled me to actually BOO the band. Hey kids: stop being such fucking townies or risk growing up to realize you're 40, have experienced nothing more exotic than the cajun taco roll at 7-11, and drive by your high school once a week with tears in your eyes. I might be exaggerating.

Fortunately, I think all those bad vibes got inverted into some extra-keen enthusiasm because we all went apeshit when Mastodon took the stage, my cynical ass included. Seriously though, I had a really good reason. I happen to believe that Mastodon's Crack the Skye is no less than this generation's Led Zeppelin IV - epic storytelling enrobed in heavy cinematic rock music that crosses over without pandering; that is, it transcends. Of course, the riffs are still brutal and metal-borne but what I'm trying to say is, for example, you don't think of Stevie Wonder as a guy who plays R&B or soul or pop - you think of him as something unto himself. His music is obviously rooted in identifiable styles but he doesn't fit squarely in any of them and eventually he created the Stevie Wonder spot, a kingdom of one. Diehards accused Mastodon of getting too glossy and too proggy with this record, a stance articulated fairly enough in a pretty scathing review via Invisible Oranges. I think Cosmo's on to something in his analysis if not his conclusions; the band have drifted considerably from their straighter metal roots. However I think he misses the point for though they've become less metal, they've become convincingly more themselves. Personally I think their early years yielded their safest, least distinct output. In fact, I think this may have been the key to their early success: they baited an audience with simple, satisfying metal, gradually switching in the epic sweep that came to a head with CtS. They're like your new friend who's into all the same shit as you (metal and beer) and then gets drunk and comfortable and admits he cried when he saw "Beaches".

If I ever harbored a doubt that Crack the Skye was Mastodon's victory lap it was certainly allayed by the bluster with which they executed the album live. As Cosmo Lee points out, what Mastodon lack in overdubs live (and Crack the Skye has a bazillion of them, albeit mostly for textural purposes) they more than make up for in raw power and the sheer charisma with which they wield it. Every one was feeling it too, singing along to every word in this strange double-headed story that intertwines the tragic suicide of drummer Brann Dailor's teenage sister many years ago with the purported transmigration of Rasputin after his assassination many more years ago. That's exactly the kind of nebulous, unwieldy semi-story that makes for the best concept album in my opinion, the kind that has a sturdy sense of narrative while giving room to dream.

And dream I did. These immersive sound worlds each inhabit their own compositional logic. Motifs unfold rather than progress, transitions emerge as inevitable results of the riff's genetic code. This is a story of re-incarnation, of one soul inhabiting seven shells represented by the seven unique yet interconnected musical movements that comprise the record. Mastodon's serpentine motifs can seem a little top-heavy at times, as though they could have shaved off a note or five and saved themselves some trouble. Yet CtS finds this approach better illustrating the complex landscape of psychic travel - this is, after all, the sound of teenagers transmuting into czars. It's not all quantum physics either as they eke real dimension by seesawing between the Neanderthal and the abstruse with alchemical deliberation. Exultant, airborne arpeggios are soon dragged down into tar by massive gravitational doom-chords, moving our minds through the spheres via Byzantine sonic architecture.

Five older songs followed Crack the Skye and then just like that, Mastodon were calling it a night. Despite their confidence and swagger onstage, the dudes were downright bashful when they said their thank yous and goodbyes. It was charming in that Southern way. They were clearly humbled by the adulation and dare I say by the music itself, privileged to have made a truly classic album in the vein of old Floyd or Zeppelin. How strange then that the house lights soon came up, signaling there would be no encore. Huh? Now, I'm not a big fan of encores generally; I'm all for a band saying their bit within the margins of a set. I think the margins in this case were a bit narrow though. They couldn't have played for more than ~85 minutes and as Mastodon were surely the stars of the night, maybe they could've languished in the spotlight a bit longer. Right? I guess not. I couldn't help connecting this unceremonious end with the audience's reaction to Converge. Was a fickle audience in charge here and worst of all, were the masters of ceremony abiding their whims? Don't play too long. Don't play these sounds. Are audiences in 2009 severely allergic to having their expectations challenged?

On to Dethklok, remarkably the world's second animated band. I found myself in the confusing position of feeling uncomfortable during their set despite being a huge fan of "Metalocalypse". First off, the live band format really robs the whole Dethklok universe of its charm. Brendan Small's earnest death metal facsimiles successfully buttress the hilariously clever story arcs of the show. Without those stories, the songs come across as pretty vacant. It's that same lack of narrative that makes the interspersed animated clips fall flat as well. These focus on banter between the characters, sight gags, and... video game endorsements. So you're left with a de-fanged disassembly of a musical parody. Really? This is what we've been led up to all night? There was something so cynical and disappointing about seeing this after the emotional rush of Mastodon's set. It was so weird to negate the profundity of their and Converge's music by serving Dethklok as the final dish. Surely, whoever put this together could have exhibited more class. Now let me say this: I have sincere respect and admiration for Mr. Small's work. But certainly some deference was in order. It's so impossibly ironic that three hard-working, blue-collar bands with an astonishing THIRTY-FIVE YEARS of touring between them got lapped for draw by the two-year-old made-up band. More apropos at least if the order had been first cartoon band, then Mastodon. Furthermore, I wondered if Mastodon even needed the pull of a co-headliner or if Dethklok were just padding to ensure turnout. I get that business is business but at the same time, it's all based on judgment calls so it's imperfect too. I'm no promoter but I had a feeling that they could've drawn the same without Dethklok, that the latter were just a pleasant diversion for most.

Ultimately, I think this situation alienated me a little bit more from seeing live music and I was already a little bummed about live music anyway. My peak musical experience will always be listening to a record in private from top to bottom. That's where the emotions and dreams really take flight. Everyone goes off about the exhilaration and visceral nature of a live show and I get that but I also can't forget that I'm there to buy a beer, and buy a shirt, and pay a service charge and really, the music is secondary to all that. One look at this video of Van Halen playing an out-of-tune "Jump" ought to tell you that. I'm skeptical of how dumb crowd momentum overshadows a sense of humor, complete thoughts, and other things that I find valuable in art. On the other hand, you have ear-shattering volume, human energy and interaction, and pretty lights. I like those things. At long last, it's not the end of the fucking world if the cartoon band brings in the bucks and dumb kids boo the hardcore band, etc. I think these bleak economic times find the more principled folks among us conceding to those aforementioned dumb dude dollars to keep doing what they do. But goddamnit, it's time for a band like Mastodon to step to the front of the class - headlining arenas, 2-hour sets, rabid fans screaming until they're hoarse for a five-song encore. It reminds me of something that the band HEALTH said in an interview not too long ago. To paraphrase, they wondered aloud whether a 21st-century band can truly arrive in the classic sense given the all but disintegrated state of the music industry. In Mastodon's case, it remains to be seen and I wouldn't rule anything out for their future. Perhaps it's merely a question of confidence on the part of the band or their management. There's a legion of people out there who will be very on board with a little more audacity from those fellows. Of that I am sure.

New review of "Light Will Remain"

2009-07-29T13:09:00.001-07:00

Read it below or visit speed, glue and music to check it out all pretty-like there.

"My co-writer here at Speed, Glue and Music tells me that there are people in San Francisco that actually read this blog!! Is this true? Feel free to leave some comments or share your blogs with us! Anyway since San Francisco is showing us some love, I thought I would review a SF an Oakland band that as far as I know hasn't really received much exposure yet (I could surf the internet to verify whether or not this is true, but I'm lazy). This is a band that Mr. Destroy the Scene and I randomly saw 3-4 years ago, by accident. We had left our luxurious apartment at the intersection of Mission and Precita and ducked into El Rio for a few drinks, and this band was playing. And we were blown away! Never before had I accidentally ended up watching a band I liked so much. And then... I didn't hear anything about them for years. Not, in fact, until I was board-operating an interview with Dub Trio at KUSF, and they mentioned that Atomic Bomb Audition were opening for them at the Hemlock. Did I know anything about this band, they inquired? Yeah! I said, suddenly remembering the band I unintentionally saw years back. What do they sound like, the dude from Dub Trio asked. "They sound like umm.... really heavy.... you know but also, like.... textured.... sort of shoegazey but also..... heavy" I said, and the dude from Dub Trio nodded solemnly, secretly amazed and envious at the breadth of my knowledge of music and the more technical terms pertaining to it. Anyway, I wasn't able to go to that show, and then next I heard of them is when I came across this album, Light Will Remain. Apparently this is their second album, and I'm curious to hear what their first album sounds like, because by this release they already have a very full and well-developed sound. Much like contemporary Deftones (yeah I said Deftones), Atomic Bomb Audition incorporate a lot of 90's indie, shoegaze and emo into their sound, but much, much louder and heavier. Except the Deftones ended up in their heavy-shoegaze incarnation coming from nu-metal, whereas this band seems much more natural in their melodic sensibilities. They also incorporate a lot of post-rock and prog into their sound, and the result is long, complex songs that alternate between lush melodies and heavy riffing (I just barfed a little as I wrote "lush melodies"). At various times, this band reminds me of Built to Spill, Dinosaur Jr (in particular the vocal melodies at the end of "Copernicus: Perigee"), Mogwai, Isis, Amesoeurs, The Angelic Process (who RULE and I will definitely write about soon) and Explosions in the Sky. Yet at no point do they sound derivative of any of those acts- they have a really interesting and unique sound, and I'm eager to see what they do next."

Prologue to a story in progress.

2009-07-17T15:13:00.000-07:00

{this story began circa 2005-6, perhaps. finished just the other day (July 2009)}

Brothers

Two men met in the hallway of their work and shook hands. Speaking to each other in slow cigarette-burned morning voices, they exchanged pleasantries.

“Pleasure to meet you. Name’s Jim.”
“Howdy…George. George Welles.”
“Taverner. Jim Taverner. It’s good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you.”
This is the interior of Silver. It is configured out of steel and blue, illuminated by white light. The place was designed in such a way that you would forget where you were particularly upon entering; it’s a queasy big breath of lightheadedness that smacked on one’s brain such that you felt as though this were your grandma’s basement when you were seven years old just as easily as it was the office where you work now that you are forty-two. It is damp, thick and gray outside for it is the end of summer and thunderstorms are prominent in this part of the South.
We are in Atlanta, Georgia. Traversing the virtually infinite hallway that separated the West and East wings of the building, George and Jim proceeded silently side-by-side.
“What do you think we’re doing today, George?”
“Watching a training film.”
“Alright, then.”
Jim was a little older but was built like a skinny young runner, which he was about three decades ago. He kept his light brown hair slicked-back and his cookie-duster mustache coifed and bushy. His face wore every one of his forty-seven years in a groove on his skin. George’s burly torso and thin, dark pate combined with his sloping shoulders got him the name Bull since he was in high school. They proceeded to the stone-walled archive in the basement. Jim and George were independent contractors finishing eighteen-months-long stints at Silver which required their particular expertise in the interpretation of topographic maps. Their analysis kept them focused on one particular strata, rock and dirt forging sub-harmonic coalescence whose contours can only be signified by their complements in adjacent strata which information they are forbidden to avail themselves of. As is planned for no one in their project division is made privy to integrations of the elements. It was not at all necessary that they know and probably merciful that they did not. That is why everyone at Silver has an awareness of their subdivision like they were seeing one inch ahead of their nose. How could anyone keep a life as life is known if made aware of Silver’s doings? There’s no answer to give. It’s not a possibility.
“You seen the message then?”
“That’s right. You come from the farther end.”
“Well, today I do. I ain’t never been in these corridors before now.”
“Me neither. I haven’t seen the film.”
“I haven’t seen it either. I have no idea.”
“It’s a silent film. It’s not pre-sound but it’s likely that it will be…silent.”
“That right?”
There were 154 bookcases, each 25 shelves high, for every row of which there were 14 total in the archive. Along the length of each shelf sat a good dozen boxes. They picked one of these and opened it.
“The filing catalog is 47G-1E9-I25O. That’s strata 47 sub G, family 1 paired E group 9 and cell I body 25 route O.” He opens the box, removes the tan leather case within and presents a reel of film. He stares at it as though he will trance it out of existence. “This must be it.”
“I’m not familiar with that at all. We confine our research to strata 13-16.”
“So this is technically against your protocol?”
“Yes, but this overlap is completely sanctioned. You know this strata but you ain’t never been down here, is that so?”
“If the notes hadn’t been so specific...I wouldn’t have known where to look. I thought this was an old storage floor. But if this is active data everything on this floor far exceeds our clearance. We shouldn’t be allowed down here.”
“If I’m not mistaken there was a coffee machine at that last corner.”
“I think I need some.”
“Alright now, that is a plan.”
He returned with two steaming cups of coffee and set them down in the main conference room at the foot of a four-foot tall tripod hoisting a great film projector with two great spools atop one end of the massive pill-shaped conference desk (which seats each of eighty-three men and women as comfortably as a handicapped restroom stall) that dominated the only available space in the archive that did not stock media.
They sat and drank nervous, large gulps of rich brown coffee. For some reason, that machine churned out the best coffee around – prepared with hefty amounts of roasted beans and just enough clean, pure water to thin the sludge. Sitting on either side of the projector, swallowing warm doses of caffeine, cream and sugar they felt the sheets of a heavy calming descend from the humming chassis that loomed above.
The projector was a huge gray steel assembly of antiquated mechanism, fourteen feet tall, over a quarter-century old and utterly pristine and functional as though it had emerged from a long suspension. Jim loaded the reel onto the spools and George flicked the great silver switch to start the projector, twisting the fine focus knobs until the shadows emerged sharp. Heavy machinery whirring behind images of clouds descended upon a verdant field punctuated by high slopes of the sort that one rolls down as a child. They were like great green dunes surrounded by a perimeter of thick forest and beyond that only a grey-white sky punctuated by the bright spots where sun emerged.
Almost immediately, the great white frame came into relief as did the two hammock swing structures that held end to end from the opposing horizontal bars that ran the width of this 4-story-tall structure. The two hammock swings were made of thick white rope and each held a man laying flat suited in the garb of a ninja with his face concealed, arm extended at an angle holding a sword at the ready pointed at the other – essentially these looked like great fish nets each holding a man inside. The two men at the zero position of their respective pendulum lay fifteen to twenty feet apart from one another, both focusing on the sky with a kind of serene awareness. And though their blades were drawn they held in abeyance – the way a dancer holds for her partner in a moment. Yet this moment has been magnified from a tumbling sand grain to the stride of a great continental landmass as through an electron microscope of the gods fueled by the clap of one thousand bursting stars. A wind blows and the hammocks sway but the men do not move. And so the two men waited, intent as poised triggers – just utterly still as some interminable interval passed.
This stillness generated a tension that amassed as a giant blue sphere between them which was visible only in the mind’s eye of an implied monk that hovered over the proceedings, detecting the flurry of activity that the still air hid. It is a kind of awakened mind director’s cut that he watches with his eyes closed.
The two brothers pictured here are powerful opposites, each the ambassador of a subtle dimension residing far below movement or breath. That they will battle one another is inevitable – they are simply the most recent representatives of a line of warriors that meets here…
These two dormant energies exist in opposition to one another, each seemingly tranquil in the face of its reflection. Both recognize themselves as necessarily generated aspects of a trans-dimensional moon – a locus of mutual energies breathed in by one and breathed out by the other. And the two brothers assembled here – harnessed in their swings and armed all through – are the North and South fronts of an indivisible atomic locus; balancing aspects whose emergent is a crystalline city that exists in the mind of anyone quiet enough to see it there when both brothers are present.
And so they begin to fight, legs dangling down from the net to get a running start along the dead grass like two brothers rising up to meet each other on opposing swing sets in the playground but who now have a much different notion of what’s to be done once at the apex and they meet instead in a gleaming silver flurry of blade spars.
Only a momentum just beyond what is easily generated is required in order to reach the physical proximity necessary for contact. Each strike unfolds a condensation of movements, angles of the blade reconfigure rapidly leaving a slime trail of previous motions, subverting the strictures of time to manifest four-dimensional shapes, geometric impossibilities whose structures will remain as imprints on the mind suspended in memory as the true extant artifacts of what took place here on this day.
Thus the one named Arashi-kage pitched the heft of his sword far back over his head to strike with the broad face of the blade but met air and a shave of cloth off the sleeve of his brother, Hebi-mei. Swiping from the side, Hebi-mei aimed at the kneecaps though Arashi-kage managed to remain several steps ahead jumping atop the face of the blade, kicking up the edge off which he leapt to snappily execute a standing three-hundred and sixty degree flip whose return momentum would send his blade into Hebi-mei’s belly. Hebi-mei, however had an imaginative speed only compromised by his relative lack of strength – he clasped the sword on either side between his palms. Rather than attempt to halt him, he took Arashi-kage’s momentum and swung backward toward the swing set, grasped the railing in two spots before every other one of his limbs grasped on and held, reabsorbing his diffuse energies, engaging his breath and heartbeat until they returned to the calm point where his faculties were under his control again.
Here there was a pause in the visible kinetics, followed by a wide light that broke across the clouds just resting on the horizon. The light was a panoramic sliver of amber and the sky looked to be on fire behind the blue cotton candy puffs that hid it. And yet above this, the sky revealed by degrees toward the horizon where before an eternal span of cloud now began to break into chunks and then wisps and this grand expanse of newborn baby’s eyes couldn’t possibly share the space with this row of fire but it did. And for some reason that row of sun that was ready to recede behind the lowest line of trees that an eye could see from the spot where the two brothers prepare their next strike (though Arashi-kage is bleeding really bad right now), that row of sun took too much of the scene from the boundless sky above, for what the eyes see is not what is there but only the shape of the eye as lit from without. The admixture of whatever carries light to the eye with whatever does not creates the photograph and when you wake from each successive daydream you animate movements from stillness and lighten shadows where before there was an unacknowledged blackness. Your mothers and fathers walk with you as ghosts even in sleep. There is a single photograph that develops in the mind and reveals itself through the return of memory; so in this way does the construction of reality reach completion through a slow comprehension. And if you were to breach the perimeter of this photograph, there is not a single thing in this world that can keep you from knowing the inner workings of Silver: why it’s there, how it’s run and—the matter of paramount importance—where to find the keys. And that is a fact, yet that has nothing to do with anything.
And it is getting so late right about now, shafts of light are fading. Arashi-kage is turning paler from all the blood he’s losing and there is a very thin interval of his consciousness that assesses the situation before him to determine that he can win this battle within three more strikes – a cut behind the knee, a cut in the crook of the arm and from that point along the arm toward the wrist. And it’s over. He is not far off the mark but while that is entirely possible in the realm of his skill, he can’t really appreciate the fact that he’s dying.
Hebi-mei can see Arashi-kage taking heaving breaths across the way and as well he can see the way the moon lights up the admixture of blood and rainwater collecting in a pool atop the tall blades of green grass directly below his net. It is difficult for him to understand why his innards shudder like he’s free-falling from thirty stories up in a gondola whose cables have just been cut, at that sudden point of recognition that something can be done if it was at all possible but those options are on another moon and this space we find our two brave warriors in is light years away from our limited conception of the celestial scope.
Space is bent from other angles. On a large evergreen overlooking the horrifying scene before us, three birds sit perched watching two clumped spider webs with prey inside swaying away and toward one another. These two brothers’ battle to the death does nothing to interrupt this silent evening. On a branch just ten yards above, removed from sight, they are causing about as much commotion as photosynthesis. The three birds twitter to one another, poking beaks beneath wings and wiggling their skulls as a breeze floods the tree, every branch swaying delicately as anchored to the earth by extension from the trunk. Twigs snap and fall to the ground when they age and petrify, their ability to handle the changes suddenly just.
Falling to their deaths, men compose whole tomes, complete in form, thorough in arc, surgical in execution, some having never committed a word to paper. To what higher clime do these evaporated thoughts arise? Two brothers lay bleeding on the grass, the warm night air perfuming crimson hues on dry flaxen blades.
Their coffee cups were long since empty with moist grinds collected at the base. The two men turned to look at each other directly in the eyes for the first time since they met this morning.
“Was this his dream?”
“Yes.”
George removed his glasses.
“How did you know that?”
“How did you know that?”
“Are you playing games with me? Did the advisors give you an upper hand on this?”
“Of course not. I could ask you the same thing, y’know.”
“Sure...right.”
“We would never know, of course. And what good would it do to know anyway? That tells us nothing.”
“We could sit here speculating about the content of the alien strata until we up and die.”
“You said it, my friend.”
“So what now, then?”
The two men stood and extended their hands to shake and moved in to hug as well. George spoke to Jim.
“Dreams reveal nothing but themselves.”
“All brotherhoods are eternal and entire despite manifestation.”
“Manifestation is a by-product. A symptom. Not an illusion but not reality either.”
“Unity is eternal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They left Silver, entered their respective luxury American cars, and drove into the warm night. Clouds loomed overhead and fireflies speckled orange and amber on the deep green fields. Thick air mingled with exhaust rose up to the sky like a vapor soon to be drowned by the falling rain.

END.

The Metal Apologist (Part V: Morbid Angel)

2009-07-07T15:19:00.000-07:00

{from December 17, 2007}

Trey Azagthoth used to scare the shit out of me. As a young boy of 15, I came across an interview with Morbid Angel's guitarist and sonic visionary in one of the many guitar magazines I was inhaling at the time. He described with complete candor and lucidity his belief in the Ancient Ones, the metaphysical entities that made up a polytheistic universe for the Ancient Sumerians. I still don't know much about them (their ranks include Chthulu who's probably gotten the most pop culture ink out of all them) but a cursory read of the Necronimicon and H.P. Lovecraft's story of the same name will bring you relatively up to speed. Without going into too much detail, they will freak out any straight-laced, yet malleable, suburban kid from the Valley and shake his tenuous religious beliefs in the omnipresence of a God who will make everything OK if you just attend Sunday School. Of course, I speak of myself...

I was never one of those kids who could say something wasn't real and then just believe that it wasn't going to make me lie awake at night in horror. Whether it was The Ancient Ones, U.F.O.s, or Freddy Kruger, I was always pretty good at enabling these apparitions into being and allowing the thought of them to creep me out. Anyway, Mr. Azagthoth divulged that he finds great inspiration in these entities, and took copious amounts of drugs to commune with them through his music. These days he has developed a more complex, personal, and somehow universal philosophy of being that I'm sure doesn't discard at least the basic tenets of his reverence to The Ancients but also manages to include self-help gurus, Deepak Chopra and Tony Robbins (I shit you not). Add to that his remarkably enthusiastic admiration of Eddie Van Halen (specifically I, II, Diver Down, and Fair Warning - the Ted Templeman sessions...anyone working on that box set?), Mozart (in hindsight, that's not that weird - the dovetailing between death metal and classical...the bombast, the tonal/atonal balance, the harmonies...sorely overlooked), and, much later on, first-person online shooters like Quake and Doom, mystical texts such as the Qabalah...and here was a perplexing figure.

I read all this about Trey before I ever heard his music. And anyone who has ever done that knows how gargantuan their imagination can make the unheard music. When you finally hear the music in question, it tends to disappoint (Jim O'Rourke, in the liner notes to AMMusic, describes how let down he was by hearing KISS after reading so much of their hyperbolic press - was there any other kind of press for that band?) Well I imagined the most intense swarms of blue-gold airborne madness, guitars swirling around your head like Victorian vampire banshees over brutal machine gun drumming. And FUCK if that's not exactly what it sounded like. "Blessed Are The Sick" made my jaw drop when I was 15. I wasn't even sure if I liked it yet. It was overwhelming and weird and kinda horrifying. And yet all these years later, few metal albums sound as fresh and complex and utterly mad, mostly thanks to the guitar work of Trey Azagthoth. Despite his considerable technical prowess, it's really his compositional vision for the guitar - which is virtually limitless and truly without peer in the death metal world - that offers a lens into his achievements. His work is more akin to filmmaking; many of his riff movements are set up like sequences in a Fellini film. Ecstatic, otherworldly, synaesthetic sound-images that evoke a multiverse with their own physics, logic, and gods.

It was only after years of cultivating my own approach to making music which included further processing the work of my forebears that I began to appreciate the intention of Trey Azagthoth's statements from all those years ago. His philosophy is and has always been based on inspiration. And inspiration is very real. It is an animating presence inside the body that serves as the raw materials for manifestation - creative work, that is. Working with this feeling the artist situates themselves thusly: "While the tyrant was busy conjuring sweet wine from sour grapes, we were auto-cannibalizing raw angel flesh to resurrect long dead pagan gods who were forcefully obliged to brutally BUTTFUCK this man of the world into bloody remission" (poorly paraphrased from another Trey, Spruance of Secret Chiefs 3, in the liner notes to Second Grand Constitution and Bylaws). How can you create some serious fucking music without creating your own cosmology? I don't even know anymore. I just thank Mr. Azagthoth for being a light and offering a way towards finding solace in the clarity and peace of your own way rather than being intimidated by the audacity of creating that idea in this world.

Cheers,
A

The Metal Apologist (Part IV: Carcass)

2009-07-07T15:17:00.000-07:00

{from August 23, 2007}

Well, being bored and wired at work are, I think, optimal conditions for posting a new Apologist. Today we harken back to the late 1980s, to England, to the famed seminal death metal label, Earache Records, and to arguably their flagship band, Carcass.

What a band were Carcass. Representing a significant evolutionary step in metal, they were by rights amongst the first proper death metal bands as well as contributing heavily to the development of grindcore. Hmm...this is as good a time as any to clarify a few things about metal nomenclature. So let's say metal is at least loud distorted guitars, which are generally leading the proceedings and enhanced by powerful drumming and usually subservient basswork. Vocals vary wildly from singing to screaming to growling. Well then death metal is particular for a lot of really fast picking on the guitar, and a preponderance of double kick drums. The actual tempo of a death metal song is NOT NECESSARILY THAT FAST!!! Speed metal, although ostensibly less extreme of a subgenre, is as one would expect from the name, the characteristically fast one. But listen to any Morbid Angel tune after 1995 and the rapid double kick backdrop is typically offset by a rather midtempo beat. Yeah...and also it gets really fast of course. Further characteristics include (but are not limited to): blast beats (exactly what it sounds like –a sudden blast of rapid drumming that typically animates the song for a moment. It's auditory smelling salts) growling or shreiked vocals (usually really high or really low in range) atonal or middle eastern melodies in guitar riffs (I am NOT a purist but as long as we're being specific, if it gets too traditionally melodic and harmonic, it's becoming not death metal. That's not to say that it never gets melodic or harmonic in a death metal song. NO WAY! It's just not continuous or consistent within a piece; a hummable riff or melody needs to be an abberation in the song for it work and be properly brutal. Interestingly, Trey Spruance once considered Mr. Bungle to be a death metal band at heart, basically replacing riff changes with full-on aesthetic sea changes.) and/or odd time signatures (this is actually a necessity come to think of it; if a death metal tune rolls along in 4/4 for too long, it loses that off-putting sea-sick quality that really makes it well...DEATH metal. It didn't get that name because it was so appealing...)

So what the fuck is grindcore? Being as how this isn't animal taxonomy, I will just posit my un-Wiki'd definition of grindcore which is death metal crossbred with hardcore punk. Taking everything we know about death metal and just making it less anal and exacting, more dirty and fucked and impassioned and imprecise; a little more "homeless guy ranting on the corner." Now, the Brits (specifically Napalm Death, Godflesh, and–that's right–Carcass) were mad into hardcore punk (esp. the deeply influential British collective Crass) and even had a radical political bent to their music. I hear a bunch of dumbasses crying bullshit about music where you can't make out the vocals marked as radical or revolutionary in some way. Well, the thing about that is that they're musicians and they evolve the music that they play. Their radicalism lies in synthesizing exclusive styles in music that otherwise would not get to mingle otherwise (punks and heshers are notorious for having little overlap; why? No one ACTUALLY knows. Punk might be more working class and Metal might be more middle-class. Punks might be more informed and heshers might more beer swilling. Whatever. Anybody who's met someone beholden to a genre of music for their friendships and opinions and general sense of the world knows that as a class of people they are rather fucking mediocre…) and facilitating an aesthetic overhaul of what music was thought to be; advancing our perceptions and creating things that just didn't exist yet. And making that work…

I haven't even said anything about Carcass yet...

For the purposes of this blog, I will focus on the album that bridged their grindcore years with their leap into what became the wildly popular subgenre of "melodic death metal." That would be Necroticism: Descanting the Insalubrious. You will never meet anyone as opinionated as a metal fan, so when I say that this is "widely considered to be their masterpiece," take it with a grain of salt. It IS, however, an unquestionably special death metal album and a milestone in the genre. Really epic songs, spot-on production, an attention to theme, variation, and development that would make Jerry Goldsmith proud, odd times that would make Meshuggah and many metal bands to follow inspired, and the real tear-jerker? TWO singers–one for growling and one for sounding like an anthropomorphized snake. Twisted riff after twisted riff, it's like they had multiple generations-worth of frequent flyer miles saved up to the first class section of the Virgin Atlantic airliner of riffs. Let me say something about riffs here: they are the bread and butter of a metal musician's life. A great riff is something truly religious and communicates something intangible to you–it compresses everything you have learned and known about life up to that point into an elegant series of sonic orbs, angles, twists, and turns. It's like your favorite inside joke crossed with kissing your darling crossed with a moment of spiritual clarity. How gay is that? OK, replace any of those with "crossed with heaving a broadsword dozens of yards at a great beast breathing fire upon you and generally trying to fucking kill you and marveling as it lands squarely into his heart." Listen to Dopesmoker (a.k.a. Jerusalem) by Sleep for a fucking exegesis on the holy magnitude of the riff.

I almost forgot; death metal songs often can and do start with samples; from movies, typically ones you have seen or can see. That's the idea–to reference something. Well, there's something weird about this Carcass album because NO ONE KNOWS what the really great and unnerving samples (most of which sound like they are from medical symposiums) are originally from. Take this one:

"That's why I find it so amusing that the latter-day saints of this institution, one, attributed to me motives that just weren't there and accused me of corrupting morality which I wish I had the power to.

Prepare to die…"

It's unsettling and righteous at the same time, followed by a fantastically rapid machine gun of a riff. There is something so abstractly satisfying about this record whose lyrical content is largely based on strange gory narratives riddled with willfully obtuse medical school terminology (stories, by the way, range from the gastral consequences of LSD intake to the practicality of using humans as manure–the members of Carcass are vegetarian). From beginning to end this album just owns and speaks volumes about regarding an album as a whole in the process of writing. While not by any stretch of the imagination a crossover record, this is a really dynamically and ambitiously sequenced record, one of the rare metal records that you can and ought to listen to in one sitting (longer too at about 48'). This album just really threw down the gauntlet for the music makers who came across it; those who were thoroughly enthused by metal but who also at times questioned the ambitions of those who created it and were appalled at the reactionary attitudes of its supposed fans. Here was an album that seemed to say, "Metal can and will evolve and crossbreed and progress and do so without compromising or acceding to the whims of the ignorant and static of mind. It is simply assimilating itself into the vast pool of what we know to be music and sound. We understand that and want to convey that to you through the most fucking epic songs we can muster!" At long last, this is a truly progressive piece of music.

So there you have it…Volume 4…hope you enjoyed it. Good day to all!

-A

The Metal Apologist (Part III: Meshuggah)

2009-07-07T15:14:00.000-07:00

{from June 14, 2007}

What do mathematics, the slow complex psychic evolution of humankind, and James Brown have in common? They find a nexus point in Sweden with the arcane metal band Meshuggah. Meshuggah are a REALLY good band. And most people in the metal world know this. But I'm not quite sure to what extent they realize it. Because Meshuggah are equal parts sophisticated and straight-up kick-ass. There's folks who don't give a fuck beyond kick-ass. And since metal is such a ghettoized format (only metal types of people tend to buy metal records; not many other genres find themselves quite so exclusively holed up). Of course, it's not as bad now as it was in the 80s (like I remember the 80s) but from what I understand, metal was SERIOUSLY hated stuff. This was the era that birthed the accusation of Judas Priest as driving a kid to murder. Nowadays, your mom buys the new Mastodon record before you do and the cast of "Friends" raises metal horns (Not really on either counts but you get what I mean). Anyway, my point is that I feel that for all their popularity not enough people get the brilliance of this band. And nothing deters the narrow mind like the tag of metal. So it's their loss but still...something needs to be said for this...

Meshuggah's ostensible quest is to relate dense psychic states through their lyrics and, through a significant refinement of the metal mores, through their music. For example, they never charge or stampede the ear. This is usually a state most bands seek through the sync of drums and guitar in complete cutthroat concert. Meshuggah on the other hand orchestrate elaborate polyrhythms: guitars create complex odd-numbered rhythmic figures that sound not unlike a large spacecraft crashing down to the ground in slow-motion while the drums groove, nay, bump to beats that are big, funky, even reminiscent of Motown. What?! Why, you might wonder? Well, it's hard to explain unless you're actually listening to it but Tomas Haake (their drummer) demonstrates that there's a deceptively easy charm and movement to finding the lowest multiple of 4 divisible by 19. Pretty remarkable.

Again this is unmistakably metal and as such there is a prominent manifestation of lead guitar in their music. But these aren't the kind of solos you're used to. They sound altered, austere, and alien. They don't virtuosic at least not in a demonstrative egotistical way (although make no mistake they are composed with not a little bit of tedious care and craft). They are somewhat melodic but not at all lyrical; something like if the ship in Event Horizon made its own sound like the UFO from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Sinister and mechanical in execution, yet conveying emotions; just not ones that you're used to.

Lyrically, Meshuggah inhabit the mind space of broken-poet schizophrenic cyborgs from 8 Philip K. Dick novels simultaneously. The may be the most obtuse metaphor I've ever come up with but just check it out. From the song "New Millenium Cyanide Christ":

I'm A Carnal, Organic Anagram.
Human Flesh Instead Of Written Letters.
I Rearrange My Pathetic Tissue.
I Incise.
I Replace.
I'm Reformed.
I Eradicate The Fake Pre-Present Me.
Elevate Me To A Higher Human Form.
The Characters I Am,
Made Into A Word Complete,
Then I'll Be The New Norm.

Self Inflicted Fractures.
I Replace My Bones With Bars;
Aluminum Bleeding Oxide;
The Drug Of Gods Into My Pounding Veins

(A Human Puzzle For All To Scorn.
No Face.
No Back.
Directionless.
My Scarred Edition I'll Display;
The Organic Word For Nothingness)

My Receiving Eyes Exchanged With Fuses;
Blindness Induced To Prevent Destruction.
Ceramic Blades Implanted Past My Ribs To Save Me From The Dues Of Inhalation.
I Tear My Worldly Useless Skin.
Staples To Pin It Over My Ears.
Non-Receptive Of Ungodly Sounds -
I Disable The Audio-Generators Of Fear.

Hexagonal Bolts To Fill My Mouth,
Sharpened To Deplete The Creator Of All Violence;
Without Speech There Will Be No Deceit

(My Feet I Crush. The Flesh I Cut Away,
So As To Not Produce The Sound Of Their Presence On Rotten Ground)

Baptized In Vitriolic Acid.
A Final Touch.
A Smoothing Of Features.
Completion Of The Greatest Art;
To Cast The Godly Creatures.
Humans, Once Astray;
Made Divine.
Stripped Of Congenital Flaws.
We're Incandescent Revelations In A World Of Darkened Forms.

(Confide In My New Age Dogma.
Swallow The Indoctrination.
You'll Come To Love It Here,
The Suicidal Atmosphere.
Let Me Into Your Common Mind.
I'll Plant My Thoughts Into Its Soil.
Walk Among Us Self-Made Gods,
Deified Through The Pains Of Self Torture)

Disciples,
Come Join With Me To Save A Failed Humanity.
Follow The God Of Cyanide Into The New Eternity.
Behold; A Sacrificial Rase A Cleansing Worshipping Of Pain.
The New Millenium Christ Here To Redeem All From Lies

(I've Come To Save You All. I've Come To Light Your Way)

Wow, something about the redeemer of the future, today! I didn't know where to begin with this one and I don't know where to end but holy shit, Meshuggah are a REALLY good band.

Cheers,
A

The Metal Apologist (Part II: Pantera)

2009-07-07T15:13:00.000-07:00

{from February 8, 2007}

It seems like I'll be focusing on understanding the depth of lyrical content in otherwise dismissed bands. And I'm not alone in the case of this song. Before me, Kim Deal of the Breeders covered "Fucking Hostile" by Pantera for a compilation to free the "West Memphis 3" (I'm not an authority on this case but these are the kids who under very dubious circumstances were arrested for a murder and the fact that they listened to metal was an attributing factor in the case). This is one of the underlying endeavors of the Metal Apologist; to highlight the aspects of depth that are glossed over in this music and that is exactly what Kim Deal does doing a straight read of the Pantera tune with clearer vocals.

Almost every day
I see the same face
On broken picture tube
It fits the attitude
If you could see yourself
You put you on a shelf
Your verbal masturbate
Promise to nauseate
Today I'll play the part of non-parent
Not make a hundred rules
For you to know about yourself
Not lie and make you believe
What's evil is making love
And making friends
And meeting God your own way
The right way

We stand alone

The truth in right and wrong
The boundaries of the law
You seem to miss the point
Arrested for a joint?
You seem to wonder why
Hundreds of people die
You're writing tickets man
My mom got jumped -- they ran!
Now I'll play a public servant
To serve and protect
By the law and the state
I'd bust the punks
That rape steal and murder
And leave you be
If you crossed me
I'd shake your hand like a man
Not a god

Come meet your maker, boy
Some things you can't enjoy
Because of heaven/hell
A fucking wives tale
They put it in your head
Then put you in your bed
He's watching say your prayers
Cause God is everywhere
Now I'll play a man learning priesthood
Whos about to take the ultimate test in life
I'd question things because I am human
And call no one my father who's no closer than a stranger

I wont listen

To see
To bleed
Cannot be taught
In turn
You're making us
Fucking hostile

So what we have hear is a guy who is trying to thoughtfully reassess the roles of specific authority figures and doing so with remarkably poignant results. Of course, Pantera's read of this song is propulsive and without respite. As such, it took Kim Deal's reading to unpack the emotional resonance of these lyrics and reveal that they are as radical and affecting as any great Minor Threat song for their willingness to challenge heirarchical institutions but do so with brilliance and consideration rather than an easily dismissable "youthful" antagony ("Yes, 'Fuck it!' That's your answer for everything!"). Some real gems here for sure: "I'd shake your hand like a man not a god"? Damn! Take that Socialist revivalism! Marxists everywhere reeling at the powers of populist song...

Phil and co. were not embodiments of social revolution that much is true. But the work is the thing and personally, I find this to be a hearty challenge, a toss of a hefty diamond-encrusted gauntlet, to the standard binary of "happy/sad" music. Check your head indeed...

I believe that's all. Don't be quick to dismiss or dis; In light of this, you might be amiss...

See you,
A

The Metal Apologist (Part I: Black Sabbath)

2009-07-07T15:05:00.000-07:00

{My first task here will be to archive select old writings. Here's the first installment of "The Metal Apologist," which is exactly what it sounds like, from January 13, 2007}

So I've unofficially decided to be the biggest fucking dork ever and put up a (semi-)regular series of posts pertinent to exalting the best Metal that I've encountered and defending it from the disparaging falsehoods and misconceptions with which it is too often saddled.

It started with a listen to Black Sabbath's "A National Acrobat". A brilliant song that kinda chokes me up by how lyrically amazing it is. A much younger Ozzy is powerful and unstrained singing these lyrics (penned by Sabbath's unsung genius of a bassist, Geezer Butler):

"I am the world that hides
The universal secret of all time
Destruction of the empty spaces
Is my one and only crime
Ive lived a thousand times
I found out what it means to be believed
The thoughts and images
The unborn child that never was conceived

When little worlds collide
Im trapped inside my embryonic cell
And flashing memories
Are cast into the never ending well
The name that scorns the face
The child that never sees the cause of man
The deathly darkness that
Belies the fate of those who never ran

Well I know its hard for you
To know the reason why
And I know youll understand
More when its time to die
Dont believe the life you have
Will be the only one
You have to let your body sleep
To let your soul live on
Love has given life to you
And now its your concern
Unseen eyes of inner life
Will make your soul return
Still I look but not to touch
The seeds of life are sown
Curtain of the future falls
The secret stays unknown

Just remember love is life
And hate is living death
Treat your life for what its worth
And live for every breath
Looking back Ive lived and learned
But now Im wondering
Here I wait and only guess
What this next life will bring"

Yeah, Sabbath were basically big hippies but with a little more gravity, grounded in the reality of facing the uglier parts of the universe. But beneath it all there's a profound message of rebirth and understanding the breadth of existence beyond your current form. Heavy stuff. Not dumb. Lest we forget riffs that are still among the most innovative the entire genre has yet seen. Very little has advanced since these guys, Motorhead and, to some extent, Led Zeppelin. Anyway, to address the usual arguments, you can understand what the singer's saying, it's not about Satan and killing, and uh...go listen to some fucking Sabbath!

Yours in metal,
A