Moss - Sub Templum
July 16 2008 at 05:08:02 AM
Howdy Dial ah Demon Productions in conjunction with Graveyard Graphics, proudly presents the madmen ah rock dumping in El Satano's toilet. Piss on that “White Metal." After I heard The Melvins’
Ozma, shit couldn’t slow slower enough. Maybe it was
Gluey Porch Treatments. Or the 7” that we always played at the wrong speed. Heavy wasn’t heavier. Loud wasn’t louder.
I’d put my head in the PA. The inner ear danced like Glover in
Friday the 13th: Part IV. Bored. How about Scorps’ “Big City Nights,” or Flipper’s “Life,” with a palm on the platter? I put a canine ravaged Taun-taun on my turntable. Let him ride the LP label. I watched him circle. Around and again. Will Shatter shuddered. But Sabbath sounded better with more weight behind them. “Trashed.” Indeed.
Born Again wid Steve Joule’s
Nosferatu infant. Bull goring the battery for a bit befo Bev Bevan was brought in to finger the singing glasses. Iommi roaring through the record. The sound warbled. It congealed. Blown glass. Liquid fat setting slowly. Webs spun and forgotten: filled with the dry husks of insects. Boring. Torturing a garden snake until the spasms subsided, pricking at its soft white belly with rusted pliers. Suburban sadistic. Tried it with instruments, too. Tuned the tom-toms down. Slack heads. Didn’t work. Bordest.
I swapped out a floor tom for a mounted. I tuned it down. Way down. Even slacker head. Taped aluminum foil onto the inside kick skin. Shook like thunder. Really. THUMP. Shatter. THUMP. Used a ride for a crash. Still wasn’t loud enough. Wasn’t heavy enough. Wasn’t slow enough. Watching paint dry. Flossing for five hours. A bloody sink. A bare wall. A ticking second hand, man. I moved the kit into the bathroom. Sister had to walk around the hi-hat, the “throne,” to brush her teeth. Fucking Vinny Appice & shit. Big bro’s “realistic rock drumb method:” More vanilla than fudge. Snare and cymbal eventually shook off the tile. The sound was hollow. Bottomless. Close your eyes: A yawning cunt uh wood, uh stone. I’d hit the ride and kick the kick and slam the snare all at once. As hard as I could. So loud my ears tickled. They chewed at my brain. Fuck it. I’d do it over and over again. Broham, Mr. Toothy took his pawn-shop special, some Ah-So “Strat,” four stings set loose over the neck. He’d tune it low, lower, lowest. No different than Col. fucking Kurtz, nitrous’d up, reading aloud from the
Bardo Thodl, the flies spinning in the fetid air…
We’d guzzle shit beers. Have at it. Drunker, slower, redo. I’d split my knuckles on a cymbal. Sweat. Spit. Uh, blood. We killed the lights. A cavern of Loud. Of hollow heavy. Of slow. Crawled into those decays. Slept in ‘em like sleeping bags. Let the gain grow about the floor, spilling out in a pond of peak. Sustain held—a crush on Pia Zadora, on Paulina Porizkova. Uh, on that chick from
Beastmaster. The witch in
Conan. Fucked and tossed to the fire. Our ears ached. Still we pounded away. Toothy dropped the pawn-shop special. Let it sit where it’d fallen. Front center of the amp, squealing, smearing, cutting through the cymbal, the snare smack, the cardiac thump of the kick. And we sat in silence passing a warm bottle of MD 20/20. Hand to hand. Lighting Creek. In the dark. Rancid grapes. The guitar, feeding, shrieking loops rolling out, tumbling free, intestinal. Gutted. Boring. But, ah-haA-HA! Moss is More. Louder. Slowly. Down tuned and dropped. Farther. Lower. Bored. Falling. It works. Black. Bordest. Nothing.
[Stewart Voegtlin]
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That was an awful review, and a further example of your pretentious, 'illuminating' style. Give up, hack.
Kisses, Billy. Me and Joe - the guy from the "Ascend" comments section are sitting here sharing shrimp cocktail and mimosas. Won't you join us?
More of this sort of wibbling, Stew!