The Living End (cont'd)

It is now time for a psychological analysis of the situational, environmental, social, and cognitive variables associated with spectator violence. I delved into this topic in my longitudinal study of why winning triggers fan aggression. First, we must consider the role of communication in establishing social norms within the crowd. Joking. This is neither the time nor the place for such tomfoolery. Keep your eye on the gentleman in the following video perched atop the traffic light. The next time I saw him, he was clutching his twisted arm and I swear I saw a tibia protruding from his leg. I apologize for the Cloverfield-esque footage.

Spoiler alert: After a group of amateurs' piss-poor attempt to tip over a Grand Am goes awry, one gentleman attempts to smash the back window with a few bionic elbows until the vehicle's large, angry owner interrupts. And it is quite possible that he earns his keep as a custodian. So watch out.

I hope you enjoyed my foray into investigative journalism. Clouds of smoke are still covering City Hall; however, the black cloud which loomed over the city for a quarter-century officially lifted on Wednesday, both literally and figuratively, when the Phillies resumed the rain-suspended Game 5 en route to the ultimate victory. I might return on Saturday with footage from the championship parade, which will undoubtedly make the recent Dracula parade look like a bunch of softheads with papier-mache bat wings strapped to their back, marching around Rittenhouse Square with yellow flags. Excuse me; I'm going to hug a few more strangers and tell them I love them.

The Living End

Finally. After 25 thick, salty years in which the only titles achieved in Philadelphia have been America's Fattest City, U.S. Murder Capital, and the ArenaBowl championship, Broad Street runs red with Phillies fans.

A quarter century seems minute when compared to the 125 years the Phillies have been playing baseball in Philadelphia (which is the longest of any franchise in American sports). During that stretch, the Phils won just one measley championship prior to last night. This is the prime opportunity for kids from the suburbs to cross the bridge, smash storefront windows, and light things on fire. Personally, I feel that tipping over stationary vehicles and setting them ablaze should be reserved for times like when your heavily-favored football team takes a dump on the field during the NFC Championship game and tries to pass it off as the West Coast Offense. Two years in a row. But I digress. These videos do not justly capture the celebration.

(To be continued.....)

Both Trick and Treat Simultaneously

In 1988, German power metal powder keg, Helloween, delivered an intricate yet vitriolic assessment of modern bourgeois culture with the video interpretation of “I Want Out.” Inspired by Rousseau and other 18th Century political theorists, this articulate creation denounces virtue as a synthetic trait born from society whilst addressing the acute awareness of, and regard for, oneself in relation to others as a deeply detrimental psychological deformation. There is also a watermelon. Let us view this theatrical masterpiece together and achieve enlightenment.



Press play…now.

There seems to be an excessive amount of waiters meandering about an empty restaurant. And if they aren’t catering to the feather-haired gentleman in the aquamarine jacket, what the hell are they doing? This place is overstaffed and the manager needs to punch someone’s timecard post haste. The dude at the table is obviously hungry. He opens his mouth and exposes a long, barren hallway; a gateway to his soul perhaps. I hope you’re ready for a wild ride ‘cause there ain’t no turning back!

Nothing like singing while you’re being stuffed into a creepy wooden coffin. He’s probably not that concerned, however, as there is no dirt in sight—nor is there a jackhammer to pierce the abandoned warehouse’s concrete floors—and it does not appear to be an airtight receptacle. I believe a third grader with a learning disability constructed that thing in the shed out yonder. Seriously, once these bullies leave, he could punch through those rickety old planks and run like the dickens.

Okay, in which socket is this guy plugging his electric pink Flying V amongst the desert ruins? And is that a “Frankie Say Relax” shirt under his black trench coat?

0:49 — Yes, I do believe that was a watermelon flying across the screen.

They want out. They want to stick their heads out of the windows of moving cars like Labradors. They want to prance about the flatlands with red capes, jump out of the shallow ends of swimming pools, and stand in front of factories. They just want to live.

Reversing down the hallway. It’s all over. No, wait; we’re going back! Now the band members are circled around Kai Hansen, pushing and shoving him. Wasn’t trapping him in a casket enough? This guy must be a real prick. I told you he’d escape from that paltry piece of shit.

Up the esophagus again. He belches, dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and—really? Again? The first two times blew my mind, don’t get me wrong, but isn’t this just a bit gratuitous?

Fans? Concert scene? What? Why?

3:13 — Yes, I do believe that guy is toting a vacuum cleaner. Look carefully. I thought it was a rubber snake at first, but it is in fact a vacuum.

I swear on all that is holy, if they do the trippy camerawork with the mouth and the hallway again… There’s the watermelon! It breaks! And so?

With those two simple words, Helloween invites the viewer to ponder the notion of a truth inside of the evolving self; a declaration of man's existence in which he defines himself and the world in his own subjectivity, wandering between choice, freedom, and existential angst, yet at the same time recognizing the absurdity of trying to find meaning in the universe. Well played. Kinda makes you want to eat Basmati rice and read The Myth of Sisyphus, doesn't it? Well played indeed.

The World Powered by Fishbulb Energy

If I have ascertained anything from cinema, it is that people in the ‘80s often peered into a mirror, put on a pair of wayfarer sunglasses and snapped their fingers at about eye-level. This mating ritual for teens and young adults— a rite of passage, of sorts— often directly prefaced a premeditated rendezvous with a female. At times, this act may transpire amidst a montage of cool behavior which may or may not reach an abrupt end when the subject’s mother and/or girl over whom he is fawning impede on his privacy while he is playing air guitar in his skivvies. It should also be noted that, during this byzantine decade, it was quite commonplace for a rich father to pull aside his daughter’s middle-class boyfriend, whip out his checkbook and inquire as to how much it would cost to leave his daughter alone, to which the ragamuffin would usually profess his unabashed love and affection for her before peeling away in his Trans Am. High school parties generally consisted of students from every social circle and grade level. Even lycanthropes capable of shapeshifting into wolf-like creatures were tolerated given they car-surf on the roofs of vans and have a wicked jumpshot.

I have learned from— or been influenced by— such outlets significantly throughout the years. I have suckled at the teat of the one-eyed electrical matriarch in the age of mass media overstimulation and it has molded my interpretation of reality. I possess no genuine beliefs, nor am I capable of formulating any unique thoughts or ideas. Instead, I recite hackneyed lines from movies and reference television shows to amuse others. Even commercials are incorporated into my daily discourse. You know me. Yes, you do. I’m that guy at work who quotes Family Guy all day. Still doesn’t ring a bell? Maybe I should talk like Borat, would that help? I am the culmination of all social and cultural stimuli that has preceded me; the product of packaged simulacra sold as a commodity in a Baudrillardian dystopia where all are compared on an insubstantial basis. I am considerably less than the sum of my parts.

So when you arrive home from work ahead of schedule with a bouquet of pastel roses, lilies, carnations and daisy poms for your wife, whom you expect to be worn ragged from dusting the dining room table and cleaning baby vomit from whatever the baby vomits on, and you find the old ball and chain diddling her love button to the image of a greased up Latino gentleman with a horsecock on the computer screen, it is quite difficult for the brain to process. Primetime dramas have partially prepared me for the possibility of catching the wife in bed with the poolboy, but not pleasuring herself to ethnic internet porn most likely marketed toward homosexual men. I stretch my waistband and take a gander at the mushroom in a patch of grass hiding beneath my trousers. How often has she pictured Enrique Iglesias while I played with her nipples? How many times has she finished herself off with a black dildo in the bathroom after we engaged in intercourse? I bet if I opened the cistern there would be some rubber dong modeled after Andre Rison’s penis floating in there. My friend once told me that Andre Rison had to tape his genitals to his leg while playing football because his junk was so big. He was probably full of shit.

What the fuck would Jack Bauer do in this situation?

Unlocking the Seventh Seal

Chinese Democracy will be released on November 23, 2008.

This just in: Chicken Little reports the fucking sky is falling.

There’s an ancient Chinese proverb that goes something like: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 137 times, go fuck yourself, man; You come here talking that bullshit again, I’ll chop your soul off. How very apropos. After years of cryptic delays, we are now expected to be able to purchase Axl’s 14-year, $13 million opus just in time for the 2008 holiday season...exclusively at big-box chain store Best Buy. Huh?

Do you know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby. The Geek Squad is totally going to hook up your PC! In the jungle; welcome to the jungle, I wanna see you shopping for DVDs alphabetically by genre.

This marketing strategy hardly sounds odd. Who but Axl would launch a world tour spanning five continents—fragmented from 2001 to 2007—to promote an album which will now allegedly drop just prior to the commencement of 2009? During this strange traveling circus, Axl no-showed a concert date to watch a regular season Lakers game on TV (leading to the second mini-riot and subsequent cancellation of the 2002 North American tour), scuffled with an effeminate, middle-aged fashion designer, and spent the night in a Stockholm jail after biting the leg of a hotel security guard. Meanwhile, Chinese Democracy had become the punch line for any project that has been procrastinated or failed to meet its most tentative deadline. I overslept yesterday and my wife snickered that “waking up is your Chinese Democracy.” Now, after five different producers, a revolving door of band members, and the recent reports that new GN'R tunes will be debuted through a video game and a Leonardo DiCaprio movie, there is an increased likelihood that Chinese Democracy will in fact precede democracy in China.

Regardless of the innumerable cockteases and false alarms, there is literally nothing that will prevent me from purchasing this CD like a schnook immediately upon its release. Even if that means I have to spend my 15 dollars at an underground Al Qaeda bunker in Afghanistan to get it. Even if I have to wait for the FBI to declassify top secret info on the JFK assassination first. That’s how pathetic and brainwashed I am. Nevertheless, I won’t believe this latest ruse until the liner notes are in my right hand, a Best Buy receipt is in my left, and I’m sipping my free Dr. Pepper through a straw with one of the many songs I have already heard blaring from my stereo.

If this actually happens, anything is possible. I shall engage the devil himself in a snowball fight next to the furnace in Hell. Who knows? This can result in a spiritual awakening on a global scale. An acceleration of consciousness shall transpire. Solids and liquids will become plasmas. But if this twisted testament to self-absorption and rock n’ roll amour-propre doesn’t make Appetite for Destruction sound like Jesse & the 8th Street Kidz, the poles shall reverse and the great King of the Mongols cometh again. Or so Axl might believe. Perhaps 12/21/12 would be a more fitting release date.

Season of the Witch

When I die, bury my mortal remains in one of these bastards so that I may communicate with the gods electronically. May I have access to e-mail in purgatory, a global positioning system to navigate my way to Valhalla, and 3G technology to signify that I am plugged in, which, in turn, will naturally impress St. Peter and thus improve my prospects of ascending to Shangri-La . Nothing says “I have absorbed cultural messages and I am able to reprocess and communicate them back” like a touchscreen coffin. I will wait outside the funeral home in sub-arctic temperatures for three days to reserve mine. In death, this product shall validate my life. I can’t wait to die.

Life Soundtrack Vol. 3

The Axis of Perdition: Deleted Scenes from the Transition Hospital


This isn’t just music, this is an experience. A twisted, brainsick experience capable of warping minds and destroying central nervous systems. The Axis of Perdition, a deliciously sinister dark ambient/industrial black metal outfit with the propensity to produce the sonic equivalent of the Rapture in full reverse, has created the auditory parallel to a horror movie known as the Transition Hospital where tortured screams permeate the air while buzzing, hissing, slamming doors, and sometimes unidentifiable noises arise from the darkness. Confine yourself in a pitch black room, put on your headphones, crank up the volume and let your imagination do the rest. Horrific, haunting, and avant-garde, this is my favorite piece of art I have crossed paths with in many moons.

Opeth: Still Life


I saw these symphonic masters of death prog at the Troc recently and, as expected, I was blown away. Opeth mixes metal with acoustic harmonies, ambient euphonies and kinetic shifts, relying less on the blast beat assault mode typical of the genre. Vocals range from grunting death growls to harrowingly beautiful clean singing. Trying to explain Still Life in a single paragraph is a daunting task similar to reviewing Sun Tzu’s The Art of War or Kafka’s The Metamorphosis in a few simple sentences. In other words, it’s really good. So are My Arms, Your Hearse and Ghost Reveries. I popped in some Opeth to get myself stoked for the show a few weeks ago and the discs are still in the forefront of my rotation. Vocalist Mikael Akerfeldt also fronts Swedish death metal supergroup, Bloodbath, which is one of the most bewitchingly truculent and prodigious bands going today. Speaking of which, “Weak Aside” is actually cumming in my ear pussy as I write this. They are so good, they deserve their own write up, so I’m going to cease my gushing now and delay my praise until next time.

Yakuza: Transmutations


Dynamic, eclectic, and experimental, Yakuza blends doom-laden post-metal with progressive midnight jazz, Eastern influences, and elements of world fusion. Any time a saxophone is incorporated into metal, things can get interesting. Case in point: “Egocide.” If King Crimson and Mastodon begat a child, it would be christened Yakuza. And I would listen.

This Will Destroy You: Young Mountain


Sometimes I just can’t get enough of those post-rock instrumental bands. This Will Destroy You’s debut EP is an emotional juggernaut of beatitude that has perfected that whole soft-to-loud thing many of us have grown to love with a wee bit of electronica added to the mix for good measure.

Restavrant: Returns to the Tomb of Guiliano Medidici


I was recently impressed by this alternative country/electro bluegrass duo from the hometown of Stone Cold Steve Austin who are worth checking out if they come through your town. Don’t be alarmed if the drum kit appears to be erected from old Plymouth hubcaps and other people’s garbage held together by vice grips from your seventh grade shop class. That’s just how they roll. The cymbal made of expired license plates is the straw that stirs the drink. Suck on that, John Bonham.

Coffins: Buried Death


Japan isn’t exactly fertile soil where metal artists sprout and flourish (see: Loudness—nice try, guys; thanks for playing). This sludgy doom-death trio’s latest release, on the other hand, is the most imposing force to rise from Tokyo since Godzilla, and the sight of that big lizard smashing skyscrapers isn’t half as pernicious as the pounding rhythm of “Under the Stench.” More predictable than polished, Coffins isn’t reinventing the genre, but anyone who remotely yearns for plodding, grisly old school style metal that emits the fetor of decomposing flesh and 1987, welcome to the holy land. Perhaps my favorite band right…now. Sometimes simplicity begets excellence.

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.