Heavens to Murgatroyd

Meet Baghead, the bastardized lovechild of boredom and misanthropy in the workplace.

Perhaps he’s a mistake— he certainly wasn’t planned (and I‘m fairly certain my employer does not compensate me for sketching such morose gobbledy-gook during work hours)— but, instead of stashing him in a trash bag with soiled cotton swabs and rotting bananas, abandoning him on the side of the highway or discarded in an alleyway dumpster, I decided to keep him. I shall train him in the art of seduction until he is old enough to join the military and be sent off to kill whichever nation of brown people is our nemesis at the time. When he asks about his mother, I will tell him that she was mauled by a lion at the Six Flags drive-through safari. Either that or she was kidnapped by primates after disregarding the “do not feed the monkeys” signs and providing the chimps with Cool Ranch Doritos on the roof of my car. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose.

(Click to enlarge)

The Highs, the Lows, and Everything In Between

Sifting through the archives in a creative standstill, I came across a rough draft of the introductory chapter to Life of Riley. Read it, relate it to your life, and weep. That’s it, let it out. Everyone needs a good cry now and then…

Isn’t it funny how I cried at birth and now I laugh at death? I was once overflowing with potential. But that cup fell over and shattered on the floor. Then I stepped on the shards and cut my foot.

What ever happened to all those dreams and ambitions? They must have disintegrated somewhere between my first shot of Jagermeister and my first bong hit. Six years ago I was fresh out of college, ready to sneak attack the “real world.” That bastard must have seen me coming from a mile away. I threw a right hook. My opponent ducked and countered with a massive uppercut. I am still trying to recover, waiting for the referee to stop the fight.

It’s difficult to accept the fact that you are startlingly average. Mediocre. Ordinary. Run of the mill. After six years in sales the only thing I have realized is that I fucking hate people. In my opinion, human beings are the most loathsome, nauseating form of life on God’s green earth. Sure, we can speak and formulate coherent thoughts. Well, most of us, at least. But the people I encounter on a daily basis make me wince at the thought of reproducing. The thought of having sex with one of these creatures is no longer appealing. These women disgust me.

Believe it or not, I was once a carefree bon vivant who reveled in ‘80s glam rock-style hedonism. Until one day the hands of time slapped me across the face. I came to the jarring realization that there is more to life than getting drunk, having sex, and hanging out with my friends. Everyone I associated myself with was being abducted by maturity, one person at a time. Before I knew, it wasn’t cool anymore to get inebriated and wake up with bloody elbows and dried vomit on your chest, stark naked except for a pair of black dress socks. All of a sudden it was cool to save money to buy a house or an engagement ring. All of a sudden it was cool to lead a monotonous life, waking up at the crack of dawn, returning home in the evening, and going to sleep early. Rinse and repeat. Everyday for the next thirty or forty years.

I am a product of my environment. Another free-thinking mind that succumbed to the peer-pressure of the impatient, materialistic, super-competitive beast that is the Northeast.

My life has reached its apex and it’s all downhill from here. That’s a hard pill to swallow though I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I’ve been told that the key to success is to find something you enjoy doing and incorporate it into your career, but once a free man is enslaved by the corporate sharecroppers, he becomes a bitter malcontent who no longer finds gratification in anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. I still somewhat enjoy sleeping, drinking, and getting high, but the law of diminishing returns has set in and return on investment has steadily declined over the years. Growing up, my only aspiration in life was to be a rock star, but certain obstacles got in the way. For starters, I can’t sing for shit. Throw in the fact that I never learned how to play a musical instrument and, for some reason, keeping a band together is rather difficult. For shit’s sake, I occasionally deliver pizzas on weekends to supplement my income.

I could have never imagined a more insignificant existence in my lamest nightmares.

So, yes, I laugh in the face of death. I’m not tough or macho by any means. I’ve thought about suicide, but I don’t have the balls. Fear of commitment, I guess. But if I go to work tomorrow, the elevator cables snap and I plummet twenty-two floors to my demise, I won’t be screaming on the way down. If the tractor-trailer in the lane next to me jackknifes, rolls over and flattens my little piece of tin, at least I’ll go out listening to “November Rain.”

But today I have been issued a fate far worse than death.

I’m dwelling on my mediocrity when it hits me like a kick to the abdomen from a third-degree black belt. I try to fight it, but even the fly on the windshield can tell by my contorted facial expressions that this is a battle I cannot win. I unbuckle my seatbelt. I even undo the top button on my pants in an attempt to relieve the slightest bit of pressure. I find myself Lamaze breathing like a pregnant woman minutes away from giving birth.

It’s at this point you realize, and actually come to grips with the fact, that your only option may very well be shitting your pants.

Now all of those desecrated public toilets you could never fathom letting your sweet cheeks touch seem like a thin slice of heaven. It wouldn’t even cross my mind to line the seat with toilet paper first. Honest to God, I would give my left pinky for this feeling to just disappear.

There is nothing –nothing– worse than being stuck in a car and having your insides torn apart by the vile cretin known as Diarrhea. I’ve talked to gunshot victims, heroin addicts going through withdrawal, even prisoners of war, and none of them have denied this. I’m moaning and squirming around so much, the people in the car next to me must think I have a lady friend giving me a hummer.

It’s amazing what people take for granted. Toilets always seem to be there when you need them. They’re never too far away. Unless you’re driving down a lonely highway. Or, in my case, rush hour traffic. Suddenly, all of your worries vanish. Financial problems? Trouble at work? You caught your old lady sleeping around? Poof! They all disappear. In that short eternity, the only thing you can think about is clenching your sphincter muscles as long as you possibly can. If you lose concentration for a second, you lose a pair of undies.

(To be continued)

Bodhidharma Eye Gouge

Footage of yours truly receiving a hand-poked daruma tattoo from Japanese tebori master, Horitoshi. Respect the culture.

I would like to express my gratitude to the DJ for enhancing the spiritual experience by playing some Tracy Chapman. (sarcasm)

Unfortunately, the soundtrack was not as fulfilling as the actual experience itself. Listening to "Rock and Roll All Nite" whilst watching an Asian gentleman stabbing my leg with a sharp stick probably isn't the ideal composition, but be appreciative that I willfully omitted the video footage on which the solo work of Bret Michaels overtakes the rhythmical sound of needles puncturing and leaving my skin. A good time was had by all.

The capillary action of opening the skin is different with tebori than with an electric tattoo machine and it actually tends to do less damage to the tissue. The hand method is not common in the U.S.; there are maybe a handful of artists that can do it. It is a 400+ year old method and a very serious practice in Japan. It is a great, long process in which the artist serves as a master's apprentice for many years. It's not like in America where you can buy the equipment from a magazine and go scar people up. The artist must have exceptionally great skill, technique, and control. Getting a tattoo from a tebori master like Horitoshi is considered an honor.

Sword of Omens, Give Me Sight Beyond Sight

Cultural hegemony and high school History classes have socialized Americans like myself to believe that the Puritans gallantly fled England due to immense religious intolerance from a ruthless king who would detain his own citizens without charging them a crime and subject them to cruel and unusual castigation. Thus, our fortitudinous forefathers sojourned across the pond to found a utopian society in which the ideals and beliefs of all would be welcomed as a collective part of humanity; a society where many of the norms would be considered radical deviations from those established in their former homeland. The Land of the Free. The Home of the Brave.

Yet, like many oppressed peoples, the Puritans soon became the oppressors. It began with the mass assassination of Native Americans and the Trail of Tears, continued with the enslavement of Africans, and persists today with the general marginalization of all people of color. It seems America's forefathers never wished to create the society their idealistic doctrine implied, but rather create a social order in which they reigned so they could impose their ideas on others. Naturally, this behavior was socialized in their children and their children's children until we ended up with our current society full of inequalities and double standards; a society in which the judges issue a death sentence for any deviation from the norm.

There’s a saying, you know—an old one like they always are—that implies life is circular. Or, in other words, karma is legit. Whether or not you believe old adages or subscribe to samsara and philosophies of the like is insignificant. Deep down, everyone who never talks out of turn and always uses the proper fork houses a self-contained social deviant too lazy to alter the comfortable routine of their lives. But what becomes of that caged beast? Does it die of starvation confined in its tiny cell, surrounded by its own feces? Does it break free from its shackles and unleash havoc at the masquerade party? Or does it just make brief appearances in remote locations from time to time like Sasquatch, getting stoned and shamelessly writing senseless drivel?

Life Soundtrack Vol. 2

I have grown weary of entrapping unsuspecting telemarketers and CVS cashiers in one-sided conversations about the Mountain Goats’ Alpha series and how Cryptopsy’s None So Vile is a benchmark in technical death metal; thus I shall turn to my online outlet and imagine there is someone reading this that actually cares which artists and albums get me as excited as Robert De Niro flipping his sticky fingers through the latest issue of Black Beauties. Here is a smidgen of what blares out of my car’s one remaining functional speaker and prevents me from driving head-on into a telephone pole on the way to work:

Blood Ceremony: Blood Ceremony


Folk-infused doom psych occult rock self-described as the following:
We're anti-war, but pro-horror. Standing before the crimson altar, our minds melted as we gazed into the cosmic eye. Now we slay the stages of the universe with heavy riffs, paranoia-inducing trills and '70s fills.
Honestly, why even try to expand on that? I am really at a loss when trying to describe this band. ‘70s style dark prog with staccato rock flute, heavy blues-rock riffs, and psychedelic organ work, tempered with brooding melodies and runic, funereal lyrics resurrecting the vibe of Pentagram and Black Widow. How’s that? Fuck the world; I love it with all my heart.

Agoraphobic Nosebleed: Frozen Corpse Stuffed with Dope


What’s a band to do when they can’t find a drummer who can emulate a gas-operated rapid-fire machine gun with a revolving ten-chamber drum infinitely fed by a metal disintegrating link belt of armor-piercing, incendiary ammunition? Enlist the help of a drum machine on steroids blasting out a blizzard of 100,000 beats per minute. Regardless of the absence of a human drummer, ANb is a relentless grind force. Track titles including “Bitch’s Handbag Full of Money,” “Kill Theme for American Apeshit,” “Unwashed Cock,” and “Grandmother with AIDS” pale in comparison to dissonant lyrics which revolve around drugs, violence, and whores.

Pig Destroyer: Phantom Limb


Grindcore gets its point across and does it fast. It is a subgenre that contains elements of hardcore, punk, death, black, and thrash metal resulting in a raucous sound that is driven by vocals consisting of guttural growls and high-pitched screams, blast beats, and down-tuned, heavily distorted guitars capable of making a paraplegic rise from his chair and flail his body about wildly. For many, it is difficult to differentiate between minute-long songs that bleed together and adhere to the same brutal formula. Phantom Limb, however, combines the traditional short grind songs that clock in at about one minute with longer, more intricate songs that are three or four minutes in length. There is also a surprising amount of melody with killer riffs and—dare I say—groovy breaks and tempo changes. Pig Destroyer’s discordant mixture of egregious noise can be therapeutic in the grand scheme of things and if you take the time to read the lyric sheet, you can trail a yarn of a man who exhumes the corpse of his dead girlfriend, cuts off her hand, and attempts to have a relationship with the severed limb. Sadly, his plan is not fruitful and he ultimately commits hara-kiri. I am in love with this album.

Mogwai: Young Team


Sometimes I feel like listening to Possessed’s Seven Churches. Other times, I crave something more ambient. This is the musical equivalent of the aurora borealis. While most categorize Young Team under the umbrella of post-rock, I am more apt to proclaim it this generation’s Birth of the Cool. Eleven years after its release, Mogwai’s debut remains one of the most perfect albums to hit my eardrums and “Mogwai Fear Satan” remains the only 16+ minute song that never grows monotonous. Hence, I consider Mogwai a jam band for intelligent people who shower at least every other day. If you have been dwelling in an underground bunker in the Kondoa region of Tanzania for the past decade, I also recommend checking out Mr. Beast, an equally mesmerizing album which may not receive as many critical accolades, but may very well be my personal favorite.

Sarcofago: I.N.R.I.


When many hear black metal, they conjure thoughts of misanthropic, luciferian music recorded in a cave in Belarus or some grim ice fjord in northern Norway. Brazil’s Sarcofago, on the other hand, are one of South America’s greatest exports, which is saying a lot as the continent has produced cocaine and Adriana Lima. Regardless of their origin, Sarcofago’s death metal fury, punk attitude, polemic ideology, and corpsepaint aesthetics were extremely influential to the second wave of black metal in the early ‘90s. Whereas I am far from a cornerstone in the black metal “scene,” I surely can appreciate bludgeoning metal when I hear it. “Nightmare”, for example, is black metal-fused thrash with vomiting judgment day vocals. This is not for the weak of heart. I’m not even sure if it’s for me. But, yeah, I dig it.
Upon completion of this level, one can graduate to Burzum’s Det Som Engang Var. Fare thee well on your journey.

16 Horsepower: Low Estate


Classify it however you’d like, 16 Horsepower are alt-country messiahs with everything modern music lacks—conviction, passion, banjos, accordions, layered vocals, and the fear of God. Plus, sometimes it makes for a strong spiritual balance when combined with Sarcofago’s growling about sodomizing biblical figures. Honestly, I’m not sure whether the lyrics are religious or sexual, both or neither; 16 Horsepower produces brooding backwoods rockabilly neo-goth with a dash of Jim Morrison that sets them apart from their contemporaries. I can listen to the opening track alone on repeat for my entire work day and the rest of the album is just as formidable. I swear to god.

On a side note, I went to the used CD store last weekend, an establishment that instantly earned cool points as soon as I opened the door and heard the soundtrack to Lucio Fulci’s Zombie playing, which was followed by the Body Count classic, “Cop Killer.” I’ll return soon enough with another unnecessary update in the near future. Patience is a virtue, my friends.

I Sip Lithium from the Nape of a Glass As Is Standard Operating Procedure

The old lady and I recently gathered all of our worldly possessions and compressed them into every knapsack, duffel bag, tattered cardboard box, and Hefty Hefty Cinch Sak we could get muster, taking our traveling gypsy show on the road yet again. Our new abode rests in a more affable locale a mere fifteen miles from our prior residence where inbred mutants who blare “I Love Rock n’ Roll” by Joan Jett in the mid-afternoon live above people like me and constantly use my washing machine despite numerous threats of physical harm. No longer is my slumber disrupted at odd hours by an angry neighbor beating down the upstairs door because he doesn’t approve of the creepy fucker’s penchant for black prostitutes. Apparently, Negros aren’t permitted in that posh environment, or so says the lusus naturae upstairs. Quite frankly, the dude should have got clocked in the jaw just for denying his half-breed son a dental visit once in his life.

So, yeah. The other day I was exploring my new terrain in search for the local market where I could exchange American currency for fresh produce, frozen chicken, and the yogurt that comes with the crushed cookies and/or Nestle Crunch pieces to mix in and create a delicious treat when I stumbled upon a street lined with log cabins. I also needed to get cat food. But to see so many homes constructed with logs was relatively intriguing. One mile later, I came across this:

What does this cryptic message mean? And who are the zealots who devoted the time and effort to design a bed sheet banner to brazenly portray this message to passers-by? I mulled it over for a few days. Is this some kind of anti-Christian bulletin? Some sort of twisted anti-war cryptogram? The apocalyptic warning of a crackpot soothsayer? I was entertaining myself imagining the possibilities, but I had to knock on the strangers’ door, introduce myself, and express my interest in the sheet tied to their trees alluding to some ambiguous disaster. A woman hesitantly opened the door and looked me up and down as if I had just crawled out of the primordial ooze.

“Hi, I’m Sparky,” I said. “I moved down the street a week or so ago and I pass your house everyday. I am just so curious about that sign. Church Chernobyl…what’s that all about?”

She asked me where I moved and I explained in greater detail. She appeared more comfortable once she established I am legitimate quasi-neighbor with a genuine interest in her cause as opposed to some big city rapist who wants to steal her identity and sell her jewels for money to buy meth.

“So you hate the church, huh?” I asked. That’s when she educated me on the brouhaha stirred up by the adjacent United Methodist Church which can be seen from her front yard, thus presenting the prime opportunity for her to shake her fist at the building while explaining her hostility. Get a load of this shit. The church has embarked on a deal with T-Mobile to install a cellular tower base in the church’s steeple. As a result, churchgoers have become concerned about the health risks associated with this business venture, going so far as to enlist independent industry experts in the field of RF radiation to analyze the decision. The upside of this is members of the congregation can now communicate with God via text message during mass. I suggested to the woman that the church should open a Starbucks in the front of the chapel and the pastor can bless the Frapuccinos. Coca-Cola can buy ad space on the back of the pews and they can probably get a couple extra bucks from Carl’s Jr. if the pastor wears the fast food chain’s logo on the front of his pulpit robe. She found absolutely no humor in my musings. Not even a little bit. Nothing cute or clever at all.

Remember: Jesus contacts all his homies on the Sidekick 3, so you should, too! Hallowed be thy rollover minutes. Repent or perish.

Non Sequitur III: Non Sequitur's Revenge

Dear National Enquirer,

Want to know what Chef Matt from Season Four of Hell’s Kitchen is doing these days? Seeing 10:20 PM showings of The House Bunny with a storehouse of 5x7” matte prints ready to autograph for his adoring fans or anyone who recognizes him.

“He takes them with him everywhere.” — Chef Matt’s slightly embarrassed lady friend

This makes the time I was waiting in line for the men’s room in front of Bam Margera seem totally inconsequential. Then again, I did intentionally urinate all over the toilet seat with the hope that Bam needed to take a dump and thus, upon the sight of my whiz, would be required to uncomfortably hover over the can as feces excreted from his brown pucker. Since there was no urinal in this restroom, if he did not have to go #2, he would have no choice but to cross the treacherous terrain of pee-pee surrounding the pot and thus track my liquid waste onto the floor mats of his impractical look-at-me blue Lamborghini.

Eat your hearts out, bitches.

Step Into the Light

Renowned for its saturated colors, sensual images, and an unconventional use of space and scale, Yngwie Malmsteen’s “I’ll See the Light Tonight” is at once tangible and boundless. An epic exploration of visual representation, its validity is concrete, yet open to psychological interpretation. Thus it should come as no surprise that the shredmaster’s ingenious production is the fifth video to be decorated in this sanctimonious cock rock adytum.

“I’ll See the Light Tonight” examines, questions, and re-evaluates old and new ideas on such matters as the imitation of nature, the function of tradition, the problem of abstraction, the validity of perspective, and the analysis of expression, all of which reveal that pictorial representation is far from being a straightforward issue. Malmsteen applies the findings of experimental science to the understanding of art, yet retains a sense of wonder at the subtle relationships involved in the process of creation. He also battles sword-wielding demons and fire-breathing dragons with arpeggio chords.


Behold the alpha and omega of power metal videos, boasting the ideal combination of over-rehearsed strutting, around-the-back guitar spinning, and outrageous imagery.

Burn Bridges, Stay Warm

Ken Lomax tiptoes the fine line between genius and insanity ever so gracefully. He’s a man who lives like he drives – a hundred and ten miles per hour with the seatbelt unbuckled, blasting Frank Zappa’s “Watermelon in Easter Hay” or something of the ilk, with a giant Styrofoam cup filled with Glenfiddich resting between his legs. Always a loner, Ken avoids long-term relationships on all fronts and deems the institution of marriage old hat. He considers himself an advanced species that has evolved past basic, primitive needs such as sex, ego, and emotional attachment. That is for beasts, he claims. He personally performs all maintenance on his car and can’t fathom the notion of another man tending his garden, yet he handles currency with tweezers and avoids coins like the Plague. His trusty bottle of anti-bacterial soap has become an extension of himself, always toting the lotion in case he must engage in the barbaric ritual of shaking hands with strangers.

Like I said, Ken is a genius and, like the old saying goes, most geniuses are misunderstood. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from an Ivy League college with a degree in Engineering. From there, he received a full ride to a prestigious medical school where he graduated at the top of his class, though he claims to have never been interested in pursuing a career in the medical field. According to Ken, he took the ride to obtain a more thorough understanding of the human body’s mortality and possibly prolong what he believes will be a short existence on this planet in terms of the modern-day life expectancy of man.

“I’m a trial run; the first of my kind off the conveyor belt,” he once said. “Remember when the hybrid cars first came out? They were ugly, crude, shoddy pieces of shit. But eventually the manufacturers perfected them. Now every company has multiple hybrid models. I’m not built for a long life. I’m lucky if I see forty…but I’m okay with that.”

Nowadays, Ken spends the majority of his time on the road, hopping red-eye flights from state to state, earning his income monitoring the development and implementation of the high-tech software brand over which he presides. He spends his free hours in hotel rooms, finishing New York Times crossword puzzles and bottles of Johnnie Walker in record times. He always packs his own sheets and linens and refuses any maid services wherever he goes. The middle-aged, upper-crust conservatives whom he encounters along his journeys are bewildered by this specimen, having never before experienced a foul-mouthed, hard-drinking yankee with the brain waves of Einstein on psilocybin. He enjoys getting his associates shitfaced off incessant shots of tequila and gin. If they refuse his generosity, he acts offended and disrespected, using his reputation in the industry to coerce them. Those who black out, unable to handle the large volumes of liquor, are often subject to odd experiments. He practiced his med school expertise on one intoxicated colleague in particular, wrapping his entire leg in a plaster cast after a long night of binge drinking. When the rube came to the next morning, he told him that he was rushed to the hospital after falling down the stairs and breaking his femur. If he’s feeling especially giddy, he’ll hide forks, scissors, or even action figures beneath the plaster to add some pain to the area and intensify the effect. He’ll wish the gentleman a speedy recovery and vanish to Gary, Indiana or Jackson, Mississippi or wherever the job requires him to travel next. Shortly thereafter, a licensed medical professional will examine the victim’s injury and discover nothing but a healthy lower extremity and a six-inch Jake “The Snake” Roberts figurine with a rotating torso for delivering a nasty clothesline to his plastic opponents. This has become his calling card.

Well, maybe his tightrope walk between psychiatric labels isn’t that graceful. But he emits an unexplainable electricity wherever he goes. If you were to meet him, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about. As soon as he walks through the door, everyone in the room instantly knows that this guy’s some kind of different. I felt this electricity for the first time in the seventh grade when he gave me my first cigarette – a Virginia Slims Ultra Light he confiscated from his mother’s purse – and taught me how to inhale in the woods behind middle school.

It’s not ironic that the same feeling permeates the air on this fateful autumn night.

If It Bleeds, It Leads

When Jesus comes back, he is going to be mobbed by paparazzi. Unless, of course, L.C. and Heidi are spotted shopping together on Rodeo Drive at the same time the Messiah returns to raise the dead, judge the world, abolish evil, and rule in righteousness for eternity with an iron scepter. In which case, it will be quite a laborious task for society to determine which event is more consequential.

This is how I foresee the news of the Second Coming being delivered exclusively by TMZ.com:

Main Headline: Amy Winehouse Hospitalized After Smoking Poison Sumac.
Subheader: Christ Returns, Mistaken for Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes.

This is assuming that Angelina Jolie did not recently give birth to the Prodigal Son, which is an exceptionally distinct possibility considering the media fare her latest additions to her multicultural menagerie have received.

Blessed art thou whom are able to transcend greed and the cravings of immediate satisfaction. May Mother Angie watch over we victims of first-world consumerism and protect us against a culture that deifies quasi-celebrities with no discernable talent. The meek are still waiting to inherit the earth from such physically and financially beautiful luminaries and, until that day comes, they shall transmogrify their psychologically oppressive environment into the Church of Jolie-Pitt.

Society is an association of institutions held together by a set of artificial values. Your prestige in society is measured by the degree to which you choose to conform to its values. Deviation is met with indignation. Consider the values of your society. Deviation is essential.

Life Soundtrack Vol. 1

Sweet skeletal remains of D.B. Cooper decomposing under my neighbor’s backyard swing set, do my eyes deceive me? An update regarding music that isn’t an in-depth analysis of a time-honored hair metal video? I’ve been devoting more time to experiencing a gallimaufry of live music—ranging from D.C. area doom metal to the most bestial death metal to ever come out of Austria— and, at the risk of transposing this misanthropic mecca of madness into generic blog # 479532, I cannot fight the urge to inform you of the audio pastiche currently tickling my eardrum with wet pinky fingers made of music.

Witchfinder General: Death Penalty




When I hear the term doom metal, the first band I think of is Black Sabbath. Obviously. They’re also the second, third, fourth, and fifth band that comes to mind. The sixth is Trouble. But the seventh is Witchfinder General. Besides staking claim to one of the greatest album covers in the history of recorded sound, Death Penalty makes me want to smash a hobo on the noggin with his flask of Canadian Mist. Its primitive style sounds like it was recorded on a boom box in a Stourbridge garage over a twelve hour time period. In a utopian society, every jock douche bag that claimed to be a Metallica fan in 1993 who didn’t own a copy of this album would have been molested extra hard by his wrestling coach as “Enter Sandman” played over the weight room’s loudspeaker.

The Mountain Goats: All Hail West Texas



Lo-fi urban folk at its finest, this album actually was recorded on a boom box (a Panasonic RX-FT500 to be precise). I know it was released way back in 2002 and, although I regretfully admit that I was not as familiar with the Mountain Goats’ catalogue six and a half years ago, I haven’t been able to remove this CD from my rotation in a biblical week. The hiss of the Panasonic creates a backing track to John Darnielle’s adept lyrics creating a colorful tapestry that could bring a smile to my face even if La Chupacabra killed my dog and left its carcass on my porch drained of blood. Put All Hail in your stereo and listen to it for a couple days. If you don’t love it, start to question the existence of your soul. Tallahassee, also released in 2002, is a marvelous record as well, despite the fact that it was recorded in an actual studio with an actual band.

Valient Thorr: Immortalizer






Finally, a band whose members look like the bikers from the “now yous can’t leave” scene in A Bronx Tale. The riffs are melodic and Thorr doesn’t give you any ballads or bullshit. On top of that, the bassist’s name is Dr. Professor Nitewolf Strangees. If that doesn‘t do it for you, the following is a history of the band per their publicist:
The band landed their spaceship in North Carolina in 1957. They then left this time stream and came back to it (20 years later), having never returned to the same time stream more than once before. They hid a time machine near Virginia, and set off again to explore the past, and the effects of the Earth's weather on the seeded Venusian babies, who would become the first "Earthlings". They returned for a third time to this time stream in the year 2000. This time they became stranded on Earth because Walt Disney had stolen their time machine 21 years earlier.
Thorr, however, manages to deliver beyond the bloated backstory. At least for now. The Venusians prove metal can have a conscience and still be gritty enough to leave particles of sand in your ears. “Infinite Lives” compares war to a video game without a Contra Code. If the boogie metal sounds of Valient Thorr ever make their way to commercial radio, I will chug a 20 ounce glass of paint thinner.

Wetnurse: Wetnurse




I’m not quite sure how to describe Wetnurse. NYC sludge with elements and tones that range from the AmRep school of ugly noise rock to Voivod to Die Kreuzen to Candiria. Their eponymous debut, self-released in 2004, is thrash meets hardcore meets Nikola Tesla on LSD with a loaded handgun. Rumor has it that scientists in Cambridge, Massachusetts have harnessed the unadulterated energy of Wetnurse to power a Prius from New England to Oregon. Do your part for the environment; scratch and scrape your way through the bowels of the Internet and purchase this gem, then cop their Seventh Rule follow-up, Invisible City. Go ahead.

Jail: At the Crossroads




Imagine JPT Scare Band or Bloodrock with a menacing vocalist that sounds like he has gargled with hydrochloric acid. This is Philly scum rock. I saw these beasts for the first time recently and I didn’t know what to expect when they took the stage and I realized they were the strange looking fellas adjacent to me at the bar swilling Rock & Rye and PBR moments prior. The lead singer/guitarist looks like he’s going to bust out into “Free Bird” at any minute, the bassist has a rather unassuming presence, and the new drummer is a humble, pony-tailed gent with whom I might have smoked a joint at a Pink Floyd laser light show a few years back. The only disappointment was that the three bands that followed Jail seemed insentient and pedestrian in comparison. If you’re ready for a blues injected sludge-oil riff rock hellride crushed by the hand of doom, then get on the train.

ASRA: The Way of All Flesh


If you have the chance to experience this band live, please do so. If ASRA were playing on the eve of Armageddon, I would forego spending my final earthly minutes with my loved ones to attend the show. Or at least strongly consider it. The decision would be difficult. I am also taking into consideration that the band’s acronym stands for Alleged Satanic Ritual Abuse, which I’m sure won’t earn brownie points with the Man Upstairs. H. Christos delivers devastating vocals and shifts from death growl to ferocious grind shriek smoother and faster than a Porsche shifting gears on the Autobahn. The Way of All Flesh is such a truculent cacophony of rage, I feel like I should be arrested for a violent crime upon listening, which is a feeling I wholeheartedly embrace.

GridLink: Amber Gray




Eleven brutal songs in under twelve minutes. You can listen to this album twice in the time it takes you to listen to Reign in Blood. If it were any longer, you would need a doctor's prescription to purchase the album as it would be likely to induce miscarriages among pregnant women and potentially lethal heart attacks. Former Discordance Axis front man, Jon Chang, transcends superlatives. His savage shrieking is adamantine and Takafumi Matsubara’s riffing is merciless. Amber Gray will make you feel like you’re jumping rope with a downed power line in a torrential rainstorm. I was lucky enough to experience GridLink in the flesh along with Chang's Hayaino Daisuki project, which is an equally refreshing, frenzied kick in the face. The only way I can describe Hayaino Daisuki, which translates to "I Love Speed," is a mountainous line of white china cut with The Berzerker and Dragonforce. Seeing GridLink and Daisuki live is comparable to a vision quest; a feeling of insanity may set in, but it is a rite of passage in which the end result makes one spiritually whole.

Vote or Die...Okay, You Won't Die, But You Will Feel Like Shit

If you would be so kind as to direct your attention to the right of this entry, beneath my handsome profile pic and the blog archive, you will notice a waggish little poll where your feedback is both requested and valued. I humbly ask your assistance in helping designate the self-loathing subgenre of writing which best applies to that which you have come to appreciate at United States of Apathy. Your choices are as follows:

- Pre-Apocalyptic Midnight Core
- Arctic Neo-Glam Death Prose
- Cerebral Slaughterhouse Basement Braintrust
- Aesthetic Homicide Belles-Lettres

Rock the vote. Choose or lose. Smackdown your vote. Let your voices be heard. Just click the goddamn button. Thank you.