Year End Blah 2011. Pt.8
December 21 2011 at 11:11:24 AM  Lights bright. See things here, there. Faces grimace. Few smile. Folks whisper to each other. Routine continues. Whispers get louder. After 10 minutes on stage, folks talk at natural volume with one another. Some heckle. Others throw things: cocktail parasols, cigarette buts, batteries. Just read the fuckin list. Enough of this shit. Get a fuckin internal editor. Hack. Douche. Redneck. Hipster. Fatass. Pause. Walk over to the stool. Grab the beer mug and drain it. Clear my voice. Tap the mic. Out of the darkness, lights flaring now in my eyes: Hey when’s the last time you saw your own dick you fatfuck? someone heckles. Folks laugh. Glasses clink. This mornin goin in an out of your mom’s fatass. Folks laugh harder. Here comes a battery. Wee! Highball glass. Shatters on the wall. There are no less than six people wearing “corpse paint,” bullet belts, clothing covered in inverted cruciform, sigils, Latin. Sal steps up on sidestage. Walks over. Puts his hand over the mic. Gonna need to wrap this up, hoss. Walk up to the mic. Sal, need another beer up here. Clear my voice. Hey, why aint there any Walmarts in Afghanistan? Pause. Cuz there’s a Target on every fuckin corner. Boos. Lift empty beer mug show it to Sal. So, uh, what would you call The Flintstones if they were black? Niggers. You’d call them niggers. Three highballs shatter behind me. How do you get four queers on a barstool? You turnit upside down. Sparse laughter. Sal puts the beer down on the stool. Pick beer up. Drain half of it. Sigh. Howdya circumcise a redneck? Kickis sister in the jaw. More laughter. Drain beer. Belch into mic. Whistles. Applause. Whoa. Scuse me. So, uh, when’s the only time you can spit in an Arab bitch’s face? Pause. When her fuckin mustache is on fire. Applause. You-Ess-Ay chant breaks out. I salute. Hold empty beer mug up to Sal. With index fingers make Chinese eyes. Stick teeth out. Ah Confushuh sea man wid plick in peanut butteh jal fuh king nuts. Sal puts the beer down on the stool. Pick it up. Drain it in three long pulls. A Mexican and a nigger are in a car. Who’s driving? Pause. A cop. Belch into mic. Boos. Someone screams, Fuck you, you hipster douche! Sal makes the kill it motion, hand-cutting throat. Full highball glass hits me in the shoulder, falls rightside up. Pick it up, drain it. Water? Who the fuck drinks ice water at a club? A Jew does. People boo. Hey you know the difference between a pizza and a Jew? The pizza doesn’t scream when you shove it in the over. Gun goes off. It’s only blanks. Sal queues up eight millimeter footage of me clubbing seals with a petrified whale prick. It plays over my face and body and onto the painted white brick wall behind me. Read the fuckin list you douche! Goddamn fuckin hick. Clear my voice. You hear about the coon that got a job? Me neither. Boos. Sal makes kill it motion, says, Get off stage now, goddammit. OK. OK, folks. Let’s settle down. Drain imaginary beer. Throw it against the wall. Crash. So how do you know an Asian broke in your dormroom? Your homework’s done, computer’s updated, and he’s still trying to back your car out of the fuckin parking lot. Boos. More shots fired. Pause. Drain imaginary beer. C’mon, hoss. Get offstage, Sal says. Wanna hear the list? Boos. I’ll read the fuckin list I gotit right fuckin here. Pull coffee and dipspit stained quadrille graph paper out of inner sportcoat pocket. Wave it in air. It’s blank, someone yells. It’s a blank fuckin sheet ah paper. Hack! Boos.  OK OK OOOOOOOOOOHKAAAAAAAAAAY so here goes nada, folks. Glasses clink. Sal puts his face in his hands. Several “corpsepainted” folks purchase CHRISTRAPNG BLACK METAL songs off iTunes via smartphone. I read aloud from the blank sheet of coffee and dipspit stained quadrille graph paper: Rong Duck Dong nights spent hunkered down over borrowed laptop, sweet tea’d up, snacking Funyuns, banging shit out for print rather than fuckin Interweb’s zombied twat. Yes, Vagina, The Path’s volk, “the cool guys at the Metal party,” (does that quote thing with fingers) finally fuckin abandoned gratis content an spilt mucho goddamned ink with extremo prejudice. Boos. Chips & Beer #1, of course, a massive fucking success sweetened to Jolt Cola extremes by witnessin “critically lauded” Cosmope Lee pull a Palin and vacate his virtual post in the slowest exit since I tried to pass three pounds of Utz and beernuts through my colon. Sparse laughter. A few “fuck yous.” He’s the best thing that happened to the Internet, someone yells. Dude’s a true journalist. A true Metal journalist, someone else screams. Bettern you, asshole, Sal says. Better than me? Look, the guy made his livin on stating the obvious. Shit like, for a song to mean more to you, you have to learn what the song is about, is taken up like scripture, folks. Like the Word of God. Boos. Or how about the time he took a bold, cosmic stand for boring and uninteresting music by saying maybe it’s not the music; maybe it’s YOU that’s boring and uninteresting! Ha ha ha! Right. Of course. Tu fuckin quoque, pantsshitter. Boos. Here’s the guy who spent a few months writing about Metallica and then acted like he’d done us all a favor, like he got himself nailed to a cross or something for writing about fucking Metallica. Metallica, a band that wrote good songs and was a good band because they wrote good songs, and good songs are memorable, and that’s what Metallica wrote: memorable songs, therefore they were good. Holy fucking shit, thank fucking God he’s done. He’s free to go, I dunno, listen to “groovy Metal” and “commit atrocities.” I dunno. Now if only the rest of these clueless twinks would sup up the Jim Jonesade and die die my darlin. Boos. Scooter hits me in the leg. Goddamn, that hurt. Walk it off. Look down at blank paper, read aloud: That the “world” hasn’t declared public fatwa on this Happy Days of Heh Vee Metal Journalism is proof positive I am actually the most intelligent man on earth. Sal, need another beer up here. Boos. The list, douche! The list, folks yell. And here are some other people I don’t like: Adrien Begrand, Richie Cunningham of penbangers, is so fucking frightened of actually having an opinion he has to qualify everything he says and provide gay-ass built-in defenses to his shit like someone would actually call him out on it. I mean, granted the guy thinks KRALLICE will be one of the most “influential bands extreme metal has spawned in the 2000s.” Christ, I fucking hope not, Beg. I mean, here’s the only guy who can make Metal reviews read more pedestrian than YouTube comments sans profanity and emoticons. Boos. Everything is thrilling, and euphoric, and so timeless he may as well be hooked up to a fuckin car battery with a ceaseless drip of dilaudid roaring into his veins. Glass shatters at stagefront. Ostensibly separated from Begrand at birth is Exhibit B, Brandon Stosuy, the easiest target in yon web, whose idea of a “Year End List” is naming every Metal record released this year and then declaring himself over Black Metal after he’s managed to serve lone source for popularizing the genre with affluent, liberal arts grad, North Easterner “types” via The Believer’s 2008 epic article, bro, “A Blaze in the North American Sky.” Just try and sip that lovely mocha without overhearing the table full of J Crew contributing to the ever-growing apologia for LITURGY, KRALLICE et fargin al. Seriously. Try it. Booos. And what about Phil Freeman? He doesn’t like Lou Reed, or Lester Bangs, or folks who don’t write like they spent a few years in an Associated Press thinktank and are consulting Funk & Wagnalls before they strike a single fucking key. But he can work it to where even the dumbest fucking record is worth a download at least cause it’s “joyously dumb.” Nature of online writing, right? Lowest Common Denominator bullpussy pecked out on your iPhone for other LCDers to scroll through on theirs. Does smartphone pecking thing on imaginary smartphone. Nothing to curl up with or take to the shitter. I’m banking on eventual backlash. A come-to-your-last-sense and collective kibosh of Kindle. Gen Y- and Z-ers bored shitless of games and vids and the immeasurable messageboard tundra. Weapons of mass distraction. Vinyl’s having its renaissance; eventually the seven suns will rise again for print. Boos. Go die, Gramps, someone screams. Sal queues up eight millimeter footage of me shooting at Amos & Andy paper targets with an AK-47.  With all that’s transpired, and with how skullfuckingly different it is to not be airing dirty laundry on this site at least once a week, it feels mighty good to be back here handing in another list, anxiously awaiting multiple “fuck yous” from some black baseball cap wearing cunt whose idea of crucial “Metal” is anything remotely smacking of NEUROSIS (a whole fucking LOT these days) or whatever overlong New Age guitar noodling YOB is passing off as “Doom Metal.” Worlds away from this coffeeshop bullshit was real Doom; THE WOUNDED KINGS got witchyur, waxed Bubo, Beelzebub, many bottle blackred wine sloshed on fresh graves. Alan E. Cober’s Dark Is Rising illos come back from print deth. Three folks hold up TL;DR signs. OK. You want it short, sweet? Here it is: NOCTUM lurch selfsame breadcrumb path WITCHCRAFT traveled but manage to still make great music. Why fucking in plush vans is the savior of myriad relationships. PENTAGRAM should sound like an 80-year-old trying to get it up. But instead this live album is pounded out of stones ancient and sacrificial, where maiden blood’s spilt with horn-handled blades, and invisible gods and goddesses are appeased and celebrated wid congress slow’n sloppy. TWISTED TOWER DIRE’s Make It Dark…made brighter, every lighter lit, and held aloft by hairy palmed hands. Hook, riffs, lyrics discernable and so fucking good one’s only recourse is to undulate like some dim child, drool rolling from mouth corners. Another Night from the deep, scaly mind of Chris Black… HIGH SPIRITS makes music with Heavy Metal “ideal” in mind and practice—fucking big no-no—but somehow manages to make it killer and honest instead of lame and bogus, like most of the CHRISTRAPING shit “Grim Kim” scribbles in her Blue Horse Composition Book. MORBUS CHRON inhaled the slop of every exploding head in Scanners and assrocketed it back in Sweden’s smug mug, a mixture not unlike Glogg, but with less raisins. (They also drink eachother’s pee.) MANILLA ROAD rock the comic shop’s back breakroom, where Caress of Steel plays on repeat and Little Debbies are devoured nearly as frequently as back issues of Dragon Magazine. No secret knock. Just be overweight, awkward, and prone to animated, Victorian-like conversations centered on whether “Tomb of Horrors” is indeed navigable. NEGATIVE PLANE wears Hank Sherman’s Hawaiian shirts. RIOT haven’t changed. Why has most critically lauded Metal changed into a Profound Bore? STRIKELIGHT is the 40ish longhair still wearing wrestling shoes and “cornicello” necklace prominently displayed on outside of ATTACKER tee. Good night, motherfuckers. Lights dim. Sal spits in my face. Gun fires. Noose is held aloft. No less than 10 folks are blogging, tweeting, texting, rotting. Stand up and shout. *** The Best: TWISTED TOWER DIRE, Make It Dark, Cruz Del Sur The Rest: HIGH SPIRITS, Another Night, High Roller MANILLA ROAD, Playground of the Damned, Shadow Kingdom MORBUS CHRON, Sleepers in the Rift, Pulverised NEGATIVE PLANE, Stained Glass Revelations, The Ajna Offensive NOCTUM, The Fiddler EP, High Roller PENTAGRAM, Live Rites, SVART RIOT, Immortal Soul, Steamhammer THE WOUNDED KINGS, In the Chapel of the Black Hand, I Hate STRIKELIGHT, Taste My Attack, Iron on Iron OLD WINE/NEW BOTTLES: URCHIN, Get Up & Get Out, High Roller TRUFFLE, If You Really Want, High Roller MANILLA ROAD, The Deluge, High Roller SCARAB, Rolling Like Thunder, High Roller JAGUAR, Opening The Enclosure, High Roller ASTAROTH, “Satanispiritus” B/W “Lady of the Moon,” Unseen Forces A bunch of remastered AC/DC CDs I bought for $5 from Walmart. [Stewart Voegtlin]
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keywords:
black metal,
heavy metal,
latin,
year end blah,
tldr,
problematic,
hater,
grim kim,
christrape,
walmart,
harvey wallbanger,
cosmope,
metallica,
good songs,
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IMO you spilt too much "ink" on Cosmo, esp. how he's stepped out of the game - makes it not a good look - personal with a whiff of envy. the other two deserve better (read: worse) than they got. did you miss that schmuck who twitted 500 reviews or something then burned his Levi Athon albums? to quote Aura Noir "Jesus Fucking Christ...and His children!"
looking gorewards to C&B2. Negative Plane's was best album this year.
And, the carnage at the top of the page -- yours?
Posthenry: "whiff of envy?" Naw, that's jus me cuppin me farts and huffin.
DePlonty: Fuck a Miasmal. And I don't shoot yellow deer.
Tim: Thanks to you for fighting the good fight. Another Night rules supreme.