This is where I chain-smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, listen and discuss about the latest underground metal jamz, and write about stuff that is currently clogging up my FB newsfeed or whatever is swirling around in my brain at the moment. Grab a chair and have a seat….this is going to take some explaining to do.
Don’t tell me, I already know what you are thinking with that title. Yes I am guilty of doing such in the past and I completely understand I am living in a glasshouse with a rucksack full of good-sized dried, hardened lumps of shit. But let’s take a step back and let’s re-prioritize a couple things in 2017 seeing how it’s not exactly 1997, or 1987, shall we?
‘Member that cankerous old fart in 1984 family classic “The Neverending Story.” I’m sure you do. If you don’t then you weren’t creeped out at the right age before you found your Dad’s hidden porn-stash when you were older. If you had re-written the monologue between the kid with the annoying 80’s bowlcut and creepy old fart, apply by today’s standards….it would go something like this:
Go ahead and admit it….we’ve all been this dude at one point or another.
Mr. Koreander: The Apple Store is down the street. Here we just sell small rectangular objects. They’re called vinyl records. They require a little effort on your part, and make no bee-bee-bee-bee-beeps and digital buffering. On your way please.
Bastian: I know records, I have 186 of them at home.
Mr. Koreander: Ah, all MP3s.
Bastian: No, I’ve listened to “Master Of Puppets“, “The Number Of The Beast“, “Reign In Blood“, “Tomb of The Mutilated“, “British Steel“, “Iowa.”
Mr. Koreander: Whoa whoa whoa, who were you running from?
Bastian: Just some kids from school.
Mr. Koreander: Why?
Bastian: They think I listen to out-dated music and call it “Dad Metal.”
Mr. Koreander: Why don’t you give them a good iron fist to the face, hm?
Mr. Koreander: Your bands are safe. While you’re listening to them, you get to become Rob Halford or James Hetfield.
Bastian: But that’s what I like about ’em.
Mr. Koreander: Ahh, but afterwards you get to be teenager again.
Bastian: Wh-what do you mean?
Mr. Koreander: Listen. Have you ever been James Hetfield, trapped inside the struggle within while the frayed ends of sanity are attacking you?
Mr. Koreander: Weren’t you afraid you couldn’t escape?
Bastian: But it’s only a song.
Mr. Koreander: That’s what I’m talking about. The bands you listen to are safe.
Bastian: And that band isn’t?
Humor aside, this is how a large portion of both mainstream and underground fans still act to this very day. This isn’t me getting my panties in a bunch over so-called “elitists.” For one that’s the biggest safe-answer and laziest excuse that a person can use in 2017. It’s like someone calling you a Nazi for no apparent reason. Second, if “elitists” still exist then they don’t go about proclaiming themselves to be such. Instead they are keeping to themselves and off the grid. Far away from trying to obtain online points. Truth be told I don’t consider ANYONE under the age of 34-ish a legit elitist. Unless they were actually there in the 90’s, but that’s neither here nor there and I don’t want to get too far off topic.
I get it. We live in a day and age where anyone can really find anything on the internet and the rules and laws of the old seem to practically no longer exist. Said laws of old guard still exist, but it’s just a small following that still practices those laws but we’ve grown older and are giving less of a fuck these days seeing how our lives have changed since we were kids. It’s kinda like how Punk Rock was based on nihilism and giving the system the finger. Those OG Punk Rock fans have grown up and changed with families, kids, and all go to bed at a decent hour. Of course they still have the occasional cold one with the boys, but at least now in moderation.
It might seem like I’m back-tracking on my words when I say these sort of things, but I can assure you that I’m not. If there is anything I dislike more is some mediocre jack-off who thinks he’s some all-knowing and all-seeing wizard gate-keeper from Lord Of The Rings to some unknown bastion of music….even if it’s music/bands I listened to about a good 5-10 years prior to meeting this spergy individual. And the pretentious cum stain is just mildly lurking around in the comment section of Loud Wire or Metal Injection FB page waiting for his key-master to arrive and vice-versa. Worst part is the fucking attitude. That I cannot stress enough. And not only to someone who doesn’t even remotely fucking care about his scared cow(s), but then also has the audacity to act as if he’s the only idiot that knows the bands he listens to.
If I might propose a simple solution to this minor problem that seems to overblown and out-of-proportion; if the person doesn’t give a fuck, just shut up and end it. There’s no way you will convince a Stone Sour or Machine Head fan to check out the new Spectral Voice or Death Worship and enjoy the reaction of them staining their jockey shorts. Or if you are trying to impress some 5/10 looking female who is a lonely Army housewife who listens to Five Finger Death Punch singles at some local watering hole to start listening to Sepultura. Even if you do recommend “Roots.” That like how I don’t expect a fan of Lamb of God to automatically start praising Immolation or Mythos. You’re best with joining FB groups or whatever other open-based platform of expressing opinions and finding like-minded people to chat with. At least keep the comments sections clear of this type of cancer that unfortunately a bunch of angry, pent-up, overgrown metal dorks have given the art of spreading the name an actual bad name.
I know this is a pipe-dream and I’m more than likely yelling at a brick wall, but this isn’t fucking Ghostbusters either so may be there is a chance that some day metal fans can drop this pretentious shit. I guess I’m more or less showing my age and own personal mentality and love of helping spread the name of Band X and going about the whole (and I quote Chuck Schuldiner on this one) “keeping the metal faith alive” but in a more down-to-earth manner. I can understand you making recommendations to someone who is legit interested in wanting to know more. That’s not my issue. FORCING people to check out a band and knowing they could care less and rather listen to what they want while you’re left in the dust stamping your feet as if you were personally insulted. I say to hell with those people. let them listen to what they want. But to someone who legit wants to know….just be courteous for fuck’s sake and don’t expect the world out of them. Stop giving the media a reason to write articles that are going to make you wonder what Corey Taylor thinks. Actually be a more civilized and less of a neurotic human being, and just MAYBE that 14 year old kid or mid 30’s dude will check out and listen to your favorite music. Small things like that add up, but only metalheads with gatekeeper mentality are subtracting any sort of credibility and making it loose so much in the eyes of assholes such as myself.
Can we get one thing out of the way first? The album artwork.
That. Fucking. Eye.
It just downright creeps the ever-living blue fuck out of me. Now that we have that out of the way, let’s get right into the music of this bad-boy. A one man band created by Ukranian Markov Soroka, Tchornobog isn’t exactly a band that is going to be re-inventing the rules of Black Metal. But what he does with this debut album is a hellish combination of Deathspell Omega and Napalm Death. That’s about as close as I can come to describing this outer worldly monstrosity.
The self-titled album only delivers 4 tracks. The first is fucking 20 minutes long. I have heard some people say “Spare me the long intro”, but for me I’m a patient kinda dude when it comes to music like this. Especially if I’m listening to this at 12:30 AM in the middle of the night whenever my fiancee is asleep and all the animals are curled up. It gives me the chance to fully take something like this in. Even the song titles alone; “I: The Vomiting Tchornobog (Slithering Gods of Cognitive Dissonance)” and “IIII: Here, At The Disposition of Time (Inverting A Solar Giant)” take a good amount of concentration to let your imagination get its gears turning properly. At least for me that seems to be the case.
The music contained in the album itself has many peaks and valleys much like what is shown visually on the album artwork. For such a huge album it’s a lot to take in. Tchornobog has the ability to appeal progressive/outside-of-the-box thinking metal nerds. I don’t say that as an insult seeing how I’m a sucker for albums such as “Operation: Mindcrime,” “Nothingface,” “Human,” etc, but this one is a bit more challenging. Tchornobog‘s self-titled album is a constant-changing riff terrain that demands your full attention. Mind you this is one of those albums that does automatically hits you right off the bat, but it’s still an album that I know will take many repeated listens just to get the mapped-out feel of the almost alien-like landscape. It’s a fucking maze of riffs ( and torment too!). One second you get the blastbeats, the next you get a really doomy breakdown, etc. But the way Mr. Tchornobog goes about arranging all of the riffs and compositions is actually a good contrast to say Germany’s own The Ruins Of Beverast. Where TROB are more doomier, Tchornobog adds in the extra little bit of Death Metal elements here and there. Not a lot, but enough to make the music more beefier and dissonant in some parts.
For all intents and purposes, this is mood music. I don’t see this album inspiring an ever-growing legion of fans who are going to be praising Mr. Soroka to ad nauseum any time soon. More like this is an album for the individual to sit back, and unlock doors in the mind that leads them to wherever. As space-y and nerdy as that sounds, that’s all I can really used to describe it. All and all, it’s a creepy fucking album, complete with crawling eyes and maze-like riffs.
Tchornobog‘s self-titled album is now available on Fallen Empire Records for digital release. I-Voivdhanger Records will be doing a limited edition CD pressing. Other than that, you can follow the one man band at his official Facebook page or his official Bandcamp page.
A lot of people in 2017 scream “Too much Incantation-worship!“, and to that I say “Phooey!“. Truth be told, I don’t know what they are listening to, nor do I care. Like any self-respecting Death Metal fan, I can’t get enough of not just Incantation but their influence. Ever since I first heard “Mortal Throne of Nazarene” and “The Forsaken Morning Of Angelic Anguish” as a teen in the 90’s, I’ve wanted more. The feeling and desire of something like Incantation to completely blow me away and shatter my concept of Death Metal is always there. That’s not to say other Death Metal bands haven’t blown me away since, that would a lie. But I’m always yearning for that nice sweet spot that Incantation’s influence can always bring and brighten up my day if ever I am having a bad one.
Enter Father Befouled‘s “Desolate Gods” on Dark Descent Records. Right off the bat, can we discuss the artwork? I love the whole ‘ancient cave drawing out of a horror movie’ feel to it- like some primitive form of mankind worshiping creepy crawling things of the unknown world they live in. Artwork aside, the album itself just might be Father Befouled‘s best, as they mature while staying true and honest to their Incantation-inspired Death Metal roots. I have just described them with both “worship” and “influence”, but it’s apparent that on “Desolate Gods” Father Befouled have gone from “worship” TO “influence”, coming into their own while becoming more comfortable in their skin. That’s not saying anything negative about the band. Detractors be damned, because “Desolate Gods” is, for the lack of better terms, fucking sweet!
My personal favorite track on “Desolate Ones” is “Ungodly Rest.” The doomy-as-fuck deathly stomper is a form of sound that I personally love. It’s also a change of pace from the rest of the album and really shows the band’s writing chops -not relying on the same ol’/same ol’ that I’ve heard from a shitload of other more uninspired bands. Yes, I am going to throw the Lovecraft reference in here as well, but the slow, plodding, funeral dirge of the song just fits the concept of dark ancient entities and possible readings from books bound in human flesh and inked in blood. “Mortal Awakening” has a subtle tinge of blackened riffs before the headbanging breakdown kicks in. Other songs such as “Exalted Offal” and “Desolate Gods” have twists and turns as well, but at the end of the day it remains true to the Incantation style of Death Metal which is never a bad thing.
I’ll say one last thing concerning the new Father Befouled (and I know I am not the only one who more or less felt this way) . In comparison to their last album, “Desolate Gods” is far superior. Superior artwork, superior productions, superior song-writing, and hands down the best the band has created. This is Death Metal for worshiping old ones while working around the house trying to beat the summer heat. Enjoy!
Lord Asmodeous The Infernal One (a.k.a Colin Page) was in his bathroom at his parent’s house staring into the mirror and applying his mock Abbath corpse paint to his face. He had been saving up all of his minimum wage money for this month’s Slayer/Lamb of God/Behemoth show taking place in Orlando. He was super-excited, but not because he really wanted to see the bands. He was intent on finally finding his Dark Queen once and for all. Since graduating from Altamonte Springs High School three years ago, he had vowed to fully integrate himself into the Florida Metal scene and to do that he not only had to lock down his dream-scream-queen, but he had to prove himself unto his lady that he was the blackest of the black- by boring her to fucking death and completely defeating his chances of even getting a handjob (even a half-hearted sloppy one).
“I hope my Mom doesn’t walk in on me while I am trying to perfect my salute to the gods of rock n roll!!! All hail Norsk Arisk Black Metal!!!!”
Finishing his Gorgoroth-inspired corpse paint (they all look the same anyway, don’t they?), Colin picked-up his phone to double check the time. He still had a few hours before he had to leave for the concert venue, so he would chill momentarily in his bedroom by going onto Youtube and seeking out posers who were not True Norsk Black Metal who might be commenting on his favorite clips of Xasthur‘s “Portal Of Sorrow” album. Almost every comment he read made his blood boil. One particular comment made him fly into a such a massive nerd-fury that it triggered him severely.
“I just got into this music and I am loving it!” – BlondeWhitney03
It was a poser! Why did this insignificant worm crawl it’s way onto his internet turf? He would show this wimp a thing or two with all of the knowledge he had accumulated ever since he stopped listening to Deafheaven 5 years ago. He replied to the comment under his Youtube handle, the handle inspired by his first listen of Emperor‘s “In the Nightshade Eclipse” 4 years ago. The dark day spewed forth his brutality.
“OMG, I’ve been into this band for 3 years now and I can tell you that this music isn’t even for you. Do you know anything else about black metal? Do you even Burzum bro? Are you even suicidal? Go back and listen to your Five Finger Death Punch!!!” – ThyCosmicMurderOfTheUnborn
He clicked the reply button and Colin felt a hulking sense of superiority. He scrolled down the page further to find a comment that made him feel completely dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe this THING was happening.
“Soooo did you hear that they are making a Lords Of Chaos movie?” – FallenAngelofDarkness666
Eyes twitching, pulse racing, hands sweaty. The pangs of nausea hit him all at once. The Jewish mainstream had infiltrated just like Varg Virkenes had said in last month’s vlog video. Colin was trying to come to terms with this heed of warning and having a hard time believing. His white anglo saxon family of upper middle class had no history of raising him to even think or consider such views, but that didn’t matter. The mainstream was exploiting his favorite form of music in the worst way possible. He had to take action.
“I promise to go directly to Hollywood and burn down the studios that are making this film. It’s going to do nothing but invite posers and hipsters into black metal. The last thing the true cult needs is to have it exploited and put into Hot Topic stores! Black Metal was NEVER meant to be mainstream and these trendy turds are trying to do just THAT! The jewish media wishes nothing but to contaminate the black metal underground with it’s filth! Who else shall ride forth with me on my steed that is named Despair to desecrate their studios as a way to let them know that black metal means serious fucking business?!?!? Let us all be rid of these fucking posers who do nothing for black metal! When I was 15 I was already into black metal, fuck this poser generation!!!”
Breathing heavily with massive anxiety and extra-dramatic emotions running through him, Colin checked the clock. He had to leave so that he could mingle with all the hot single ladies in the crowd. He adorned his spiked gauntlets he got off Ebay from MetalDevastation’s Ebay store, inverted cross necklace, and spiked collar that he got from Wal-Mart that was meant to be put on a Rottweiler. The last bit of attire for the evening was his spiked denim vest with a Marduk logo pack patch on it. He hopped into his Toyota Prius (grad gift from good ol’ Mom and Dad), and blasted Dark Funeral‘s “Diabolis Interium” from the speakers. It chilled his blood, still quite heated from the poser scum he was dealing with today. By the time he would arrive at the concert, he would be the unofficial spokesman for TRUE Norweigian Black Metal and be the gatekeeper to it’s secrets of the dark arts.
Upon arriving at The Beacham Theater, he saw the line was already moving into the venue. From a distance he could see a few females that looked liked prime prospects to woo over with his vast knowledge of black metal. He slowly made his way up to security and was forced to basically strip down every bit of his black metal garb. Forcing the line to be held up by an additional 30 minutes, he ended up pissing off all the Mountain Dew-smelling redneck Lamb Of God fans and aging edgy Slayer fans with mullets. There was one female who burst out laughing. She still held a petite figure in her age and was wearing a Grand Belial’s Key shirt and denim jeans. She was watching while sitting at the bar with a friend. Her chubby/curvy younger friend was only a couple years younger, wearing a skimpy Perverted Ceremony shirt that she had crafted into a skirt while wearing a black denim vest covered in band patches by Der Sturmer, Profanatica and Bestial Mockery. Colin knew he had found the ONLY two human beings in an entire fucking crowd fit to socialize with. He adopted his gentleman-like and “nice guy” traits and offered to purchase the two ladies drinks. After introducing himself as Lord Asmodeous The Infernal One to the one he had his particular eyes on, it went all fucking downhill.
“I like black metal too. You like Behemoth? I read ‘Lords of Chaos’ three whole years ago. Burzum is cool but have you heard Nokturnal Mortum? Probably not, they’re Ukrainian and hella underground. Check out this cool band I just found, Deathspell Omega.”
She just stared at him. Internally screaming out to God -only she knew damn well he wouldn’t hear the cries for help.
“Here’s a clip of me playing my Flying V shirtless in my parent’s garage, it’s a Death cover. RIP Chuck.” He flipped thru his photos on his Iphone that had a Watain phone case on it.
“That’s cool. I guess.” She was beyond unimpressed. This motherfucker was boring her to tears and was making her drier than the Sahara desert. After about 30 minutes of completely sperging out and making himself out to be an obnoxious twat, the two ladies kept spacing themselves away from the dude and made it known that they were tired of listening to his entire self-absorbed personality. They would simply go have fun elsewhere at the show while completely avoiding eye contact and interaction with this try-hard for the rest of the night.
For the rest of the show, Colin stood at the very back of the crowd and crossed his arms in true contemptuous stance. This had been the 27th show he had gone to in the past 3 years and the same thing happened every single time. He was pissed and whenever he got back home, he would channel all of his satanic fury into writing music that sounded like a terrible version of Ancient‘s “Mad Grandiose Bloodfiends” (minus the vampires and keyboards). He had decided long ago that keyboards are for pussies and not metal at all.
“NO SUBSTITUES ACCEPTED! I MUST FIND MY DARK QUEEN TO PERFORM GOAT-WORSHIPPING RITUALS OF DECADENCE WITH!!!”
So there he was. Mr. Dave Warner woke up with his lower back aching on his sagging Serta mattress and prepared to face another day of the miserable life he had created for himself. He’d always installed himself as the life of the party, but the party was catching up with him. Next month would be his 47th birthday but he was sputtering on fumes just to get there. He woke up in the usual Debbie downer style that he was accustomed to- reaching for likes on social media with self loathing posts. Afterward, he would start by self-medicating with a 24 pack of Natty Ice, then pick up some weed, take a trip to the local dive bar where he might get a few bumps of coke off the local crystal meth dealer in a bathroom, possibly make an ass of himself, and, if he made it home, pass out on the couch.
He rolled his morbidly obese body out of bed and moved sluggishly through the house, gasping for air. He hobbled over to the kitchen table to take all the medications that he was prescribed. The Prozac and Xanax kept him from falling back into depression. Rounding out his dailies were Metformin for the diabetes, the Lyrica for diabetic nerve pain in his swollen feet, Prednisone for psoriasis and the Albuterol inhaler to manage the out of control asthma and COPD. He also indulged in Oxycontin, what with the bulging slipped disc in his lumbar region of the spine spawned from years of not exercising and carrying a mass of weight on his pint-sized frame. Last but not least, he relied on his hormone therapy regimen and thyroid meds to help with his unusually low T levels. With a 5’1″ frame carrying 375 lbs, he had carefully crafted a BMI that would make most physicians eyes go blind upon first sight. He used to be the out-of-control ‘party’ dude and the ‘wild and crazy’ guy who was a ‘rock n roll rebel’. He always said he was going to “shake shit up” with his band Death Wizard. Death Wizard had only played three shows in their entire 15 years of existence, but he still considered the band and his boys his life’s work. These days he was so terribly out of shape that every other week he was convinced he was dying and became a regular fixture at the Emergency Room. Through Medicaid he was able to get the medicine that he needed to prolong his miserable and partying lifestyle.
Dave always knew it was just a matter of time before he found the “right people” to jam with. He was going to get his dream of being famous off the ground and running . He fantasized about sharing the stage with Slayer and Morbid Angel. He wanted Evangelical Christians protesting outside of his shows the way he had seen them protest outside of the Genitorturers show in Tampa in 1995. He imagined going onto the Jerry Springer Show during daytime television and saying outrageous stuff like “GG Allin is God!” and that he “worshiped the altar of rock n roll!!!” while quoting lyrics by The Mentors and Gardy-Loo in a complete manic-like state. He just wanted to get back at all the rednecks and jocks who had made his life hell in high school. He needed to make every girl that turned him down and told him to fuck off regret that they decided to go with healthy, fully functioning guys who had stable careers and made them feel secure. He had to turn the clocks back to keep the party and zany antics going on forever. More than anything, he dreamed of being the dude that NOBODY could tell what to do – he should do whatever he wanted whenever his young heart pleased, even if his heart was beyond clogged and at risk for a heart attack.
It seemed like those dreams were still far away. All he really needed was the right people. Those right people did not include his now retired parents who had owned the same house for the past 40 years. Dave still remembered the day he moved into that house. He was 13 with a head full of hair and a “Mom’s Special” bowl cut that touched the tips of his ears. He remembers wearing a Motley Crue “Shout At The Devil” tour shirt that he copped from a friend who, let’s face it, was a fucking poser. Those right people didn’t include his one girlfriend from 15 years ago that he was still brooding over. That break-up was the one which he contributed his years of hard partying and constant self-medication to. Those right people didn’t include his son who was supporting himself and his wife as a plumber and who was planning for a family of his own. He rarely talked to his wife who ringed his ass financially through the past 15 years of child support. Those right people didn’t include his brother who was about to retire from the Air Force with full VA benefits. In fact all the right people didn’t include ANYONE that actually knew him, which was 4 people total. They had all more or less given up on him after numerous attempts to get him the help he needed to get him into a better state of living. Oh sure, he attended the local Everest University located off Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd for computer programming . He proclaimed at age 42 that programming was his passion in life. He thought it was the sure-fire way to get everyone to respect him again and to also get them off his back. He was just trying to bide time. Outside of his failed attempt at trying to have a career in computer programming, his time was well-spent smoking pot, drinking Jaeger and blasting Slayer all hours of the night so that he could piss-off who he referred to as his “faggot” Christian neighbors. Time was well spent making lists of all he wanted to do with Death Wizard. To solidify his commitment, he even went to a local tattoo shop and got a huge anarchy symbol tattooed on his right shoulder. The tattoo artist welched him a good $300 for it and claimed it was a great price. He had never gotten any tattoos before. He did consider getting a barbed wire tattoo around his leg as a way of showing people he was not to be messed with for a whopping $500 price tag. He was still deciding on whether to get that one or not.
He just looked back on this and wondered -where did all the good times go? Fuck it. Today he was going to ‘live it up’ and continue those good times. To hell with the ‘man’!
He started off his productive day by updating the same profile photo on FB that he originally used 5 years ago and posted it three times in a row. Then he posted a status update of himself- “Tired of being single and feeling that no woman ever wants me”. About an hour later he posted another status update and talked about doing nothing but wanting to “have sex and fuck all the hot young college sluts.” The third status update came an hour later -“Man, I wanna rock n roll all night and party everyday, but I don’t want to listen to faggot disco music and sell-out!” Only two likes for each, but those were from people he called “friends” he met on the Plenty Of Fish dating website. Two of those friends were females who he had briefly chatted with on the dating website and had long since found mentally and financially stable boyfriends and husbands. 30 minutes after the third post, he updated his status again a fourth time stating how much he hated Republicans and cursed Donald Trump’s name and screamed about how he was going to be stripped of his entitled American benefits. He looked at his Casio wrist watch and then started to get ready for work. He just started working at Burger King two weeks ago but his health made him feel so out of shape. He called into work and when his manager told him he was getting fired, Dave was triggered in thinking it was another person telling him what to do with his life. “YOU’RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE! I HOPE SATAN BUTTFUCKS YOU AND RAPES YOUR WIFE AND FORCE FEEDS YOUR CHILDREN TO EAT SHIT!!!” He slammed the phone down on the plastic Ikea table. He got up and proceeded to slip on a Slayer shirt he purchased at Hot Topic back in 2005 and put on his baggy, dirty Jnco denim shorts that he found for $5 at a local Salvation Army store- they smelled like senior citizens and moth balls. He put on white socks that came up to his calves and slipped on a pair of shabby all-white New Balance shoes his brother got for him from Sears for his last birthday. He wobbled out of his roach-infested trailer and hobbled over to his beat-up 1992 Dodge Neon. He bought the car for $400 from some alcoholic from the neighboring trailer park last year. He was told it was in “excellent shape” but he was now the proud owner of a car with no air conditioning and an oil leak. Already out of breath, he sat down in the broken driver’s seat, pulled out the Metro PCS LG phone that his parents bought for him and did a Facebook live stream. He told everyone about Death Wizard getting back together for the umpteenth time. He would tell everyone like twice a month but everyone knew he was just saying it for attention.
The music was “going to be a bit on the heavy metal side. Not like that faggot disco music or anything posers listen to.” Death Wizard was all that he dreamed about. Outside of Death Wizard, he sang in a band called Dickbutt who sang about “fucking sluts in their butts”. It was nothing more than a crappy Punk band that sounded like a lazy Sex Pistols cover band. Sex Pistols, NOFX, and Rancid were the extent of what he knew about Punk music. He always thought that punk rock music was for posers. As far as Death Wizard went, the music was described as a “heavy as hell metal band”. It was nothing more than an atrocious Metallica/Slayer mish-mash of completely uninspired riffs and nights of partying and drinking Natty Ice from the local Marathon gas station. Song titles include “You Fucked Us Up,” “I Get High,” “Dick In My Hand,” “You Don’t Know Fucking Shit,” “Fuck Your Goddamn,” “Bullshit I’ve Dealt With In My Life” and the little ditty about ‘fucking sluts up their butts’ which he was still trying to give an appropriate title to. He was a local legend and important to the Tampa Bay metal scene in his own mind. He had tried to attract a local musician who was in some semi-famous death metal band from the 90’s, but after the gentleman dealt with Dave’s shit for about two weeks he gave up. He saw Dave as just another white trash loser douchebag from one of the various trailer parks in the area and made fun of him whenever he updated his status on Facebook.
“Man, I really can’t stand some people. Those that tell you what to do with your life. Those that try and think they know what is best with you and all they do is hold you back“, he slurred through his live post for fifteen minutes. He put his cell phone in the corn-syrup stained middle console drink holder and drove over to another trailer park a few minutes away from his. He pulled up to a mildew stained double-wide that was similar looking to his own. He met some guy that he drove from the county jail two weeks ago. The guy had hitched a ride from him outside of a Circle-K at 4:00 am. In return for the ride post-central processing, the shady-looking guy promised to sell him the best weed he could find in all of central Florida. Dave KNEW that smoking weed was the best way to control his fluctuating mood swings and daily bouts of depression. He handed Shady Guy the money and the guy said “We’ll smoke this shit at the bar dude!” He was broke and his rent was due 3 days from now. It didn’t matter because they would be off to the local bar where he would try and mingle with all the females and tell them how he was a musician. Tell them about Death Wizard. He was going to continue to have good times that night. It was also karaoke night at the bar so he decided to sing Slayer‘s “Raining Blood” and dedicate it to “all the faggot ass posers and stupid Christians” in the crowd but not before telling everyone to kiss his ass. He thought this was a way he could build an audience for Death Wizard when he would hit it big on Earache Records and brace them for the oncoming storm of the return of, in his own words, REAL hard rockin’ metal! Shock and Awe! After he drunkenly and barely slurred his way through the song he went back to try and mingle with the females in the bar but they wanted nothing to do with him. He got so furious that they didn’t want to know the local legend that was Dave Warner. THE legendary Dave Warner who years ago walked through the same bar proclaiming that nobody knew what REAL black metal was while wearing a Cradle of Filth shirt- the one with “Jesus Is A Cunt” on the back. THE legendary Dave Warner who would have profound conversations about how Jesus didn’t exist and that Satanism was a better religion. THE super-legendary Dave Warner who claimed that he did coke with Pete Sandoval of Morbid Angel in Ybor City while giving him his 3-song CDR demo that he burnt off his Dell Computer he got in 2003 by using Limewire. THE super special snowflake Dave Warner who one night while getting drunk vowed that he would never sacrifice his artistic credibility and ‘sell-out like Metallica by cutting their long hair.’ How dare the local denizens of HIS stomping ground not know the hulking mass of flesh that struck terror in the eyes of mere mortals of whosoever even made eye contact with this pint-sized wobbling weeble of screwed-up metabolism, thinning-out long hair, and a fucked-up grill that he received from smashing a microphone in his mouth while doing a Dickbutt concert at the same bar he was currently located at? How dare they deny him of getting laid even though he had extremely low testosterone from years of drinking shitty Natty Ice and smoking crappy fucking ragweed?? He was FURIOUS and would let everyone know the next day on Facebook. The night ended with him getting kicked out of the bar for being an asshole to all the females. His buddy that tagged along with him stayed behind and went home with some methed-out female in her late 30’s.
The next morning he woke-up on the couch. he didn’t remember how he got there. He looked outside and saw his beat-up ’92 Dodge Neon parked on the lawn. He slowly walked over to his PC and made another Facebook status.
“Everyone in Tampa can kiss my fucking ass! Nobody is real and wants to stir shit up. I’m going to do what I’ve always wanted and write a book about a homicidal maniac who fucks sluts and then stabs them with his long-ass dick like a fucking spear-chucker! This dude is going to murder all of those rappers and their bitches and hoes and plastic money! All they talk about is their bitches and how much money they got! They don’t talk about REAL shit, man!”
It got 2 likes from the same people the previous day. A fellow dude he didn’t know from Nevada who was 45 years old commented on how Dave “finally someone had the courage to say what needed to be said ages ago! Rap stands for Retards Attempting Poetry!” Dave Warner then updated his same profile pic from 5 years ago again and then turned away from his aging PC and proceeded to take all of his medications prescribed to prolong his life. After taking everything, he thought…
“Man…where did all the good times go?“
(slow heavy metal music playing)
There are times where you need ‘it‘. And by ‘it‘ I am referring to those sounds of sub-vexation that open up doorways to other worlds. Times where you need to exit this mere mortal plane and take the step into the vast chasm that stands before you and fall into the void itself. Completely swallowing all light and embracing the speedy descent into the depths of darkness. There you will find Australia’s Impetuous Ritual greeting you with otherworldly blasphemies and the crawling horrors of the unknown.
Impetuous Ritual are ghastly members comprised of other devotees and worshipers of said void. Primarily Portal and Grave Upheaval. Where as the other two have their own left hand paths they have carved out for themselves, Impetuous Ritual dwell somewhere in the nether regions spewing forth obscene and disgusting death metal. Taking queues from bands such as Incantation, Immolation, and the ancient spells of Morbid Angel, IR have soiled upon past successful rituals to the adversary and warped it beyond anyone’s imagination. If you were to fall asleep tonight and dream of something worst than Hell itself, you would awake to IR’s newest album “Blight Upon Martyred Sentience.”
The opening track “Void Cohesion” is like standing right in front the immense and yawning gates to a world without hope. It is the sound of imminent and pre-ordained mental torture. Where as other bands aim to warp your mind to hymns of ancient ones and cosmic terror, IR are pure and undiluted desolation. To be able to perfectly follow the macabre concerto of “Blight…” would be nothing short of somewhere between total genius and absolute madness. Upon listening to this album the first quarter of the album is like experiencing all the horrors and fear of the world at one blinding second. By the time songs such as “Synchronous Convergence” and “Sullen” blast through my stereo speakers, the message begins to become more clear. At best, I personally feel like I have been in a trance for the previous half an hour. That’s not putting anything in a negative fashion either. For me it’s a positive. I WANT to be lost in the absolute hellish noise. I WANT to be engulfed by the absolute darkness that bands like Impetuous Ritual are about to craft cohesively and methodically.
The last half of “Blight Upon Martyred Sentience” is where you might find yourself becoming desensitized to the mental torture Impetuous Ritual have done to you. By reaching your pain threshold, you plead to these deathlike apparitions to experience more blasphemous delights. The last track “Intransience” is a machinated memorandum of dementia presented as a last will of a non-living testament. The longest and most precisely concocted hymn of despair. An anthem of total extinction of life itself.
There is an old saying when dealing with the occult. And I am sure the members of Impetuous Ritual have taken this to heart; one is not born into the darkness, instead they are drawn to it like a monolithic magnet. Enter the void and seek out “Blight Upon Martyred Sentience.”
Impetuous Ritual‘s newest album “Blight Upon Martyred Sentience” is available June 16th from Profound Lore Records. You can pre-order the album here as well as follow the band on their official Facebook page.
I just woke-up to read that a long-time friend whom I have known since my reckless and carefree youthful days in high school committed suicide by hanging himself. Two weeks prior to reading this heartache-inducing news, another suicide on a mainstream world-wide news level hit me hard- Soundgarden lead singer Chris Cornell. Just fifteen minutes prior to reading the news about my friend, I almost posted a usual jamz status on my Facebook profile announcing that later on tonight I was going to see this band live at Will’s Pub in Orlando. The song was titled, ironically and in the cruelest of fashion, “Suicide Brigade” by Wolvhammer. After reading the news I decided to delete that status update in progress and not post it simply because it was too much of an eerie coincidence and out of respect for the gentleman who had contributed the humor to my life that I was too cynical, unoriginal, and lazy to find at times.
For the last fifteen years I’ve had to come to terms with hearing about the topic of mental illness and dealing with it has been constant and very personal. If any of you have actually read my blog , I am no stranger to it. I personally deal with Major Depressive Disorder. I’m a prime candidate for never being fully capable of finding the light at the end of the tunnel. It also means I’m not the most hopeful or cheerful sonofabitch at times. I can be downright grumpy. I also have a penchant for self-medication, gallows humor, impulsive and risky behavior. I listen to music that seems to thrive and make bank on exploiting mental illness in the most cringe-inducing of ways. It doesn’t help when you come from an environment that treated mental illness and depression as the norm. I grew up experiencing and seeing the damaging effects it can have on not just you but everyone around you. Experiencing it yourself, it makes known that it is a chemical imbalance brought on by different factors and YES it is hereditary. It’s a constant raging war that at times never seems to be able to come to an end even though you might win a battle here and there.
“As if you didn’t know how it feels to lose
As if you didn’t know how it feels to lose at dice with fate
At least have some dignity
As if it wasn’t a lifetime spent on connecting the dots
There was no pattern
As if the irony was more than a defense mechanism
And we could actually laugh for a change
As if steel hooks in our backs were more than a nuisance
And we could actually feel something”
I have been approached more times in my life by people who to this day can’t understand why I continue to be the same person I always have been, especially musically. For a guy who has been on a cornucopia of heavy-end psychiatric medications that have included Seroquel, Depakote, and Cymbalta, you would think I wouldn’t want to listen to anything BUT music that promises good times and ‘good vibes’- music with the message of ‘Live, Laugh, Love” or whatever the fuck it’s called. One particular comment I received made me laugh out loud from someone whom I am not on good terms with. This clueless person said “all this black metal shit is going to fucking take you to a place that you don’t want to go.” My reply wasn’t a defensive response of any sort. Me having to explain myself to him would be completely futile. All I knew was that he was the type of person that would try to start caring after 15 + years of damage. Completely late to the party. As far as going to a place I don’t want to go? I didn’t exactly want to go there as a child. But it happened. It happened for a specific reason. That reason was to make me a survivor and a stronger, more well-educated person- more educated about how it affects myself, how to prevent it, and to help others around me. That’s helping others while not being a condescending cocksucker. I could be the stronger one. I could be their rock and help them. I could be there for someone when nobody was there for me.
I have always been open about my issues with mental health. I have always been brutally honest to as why I’m the kind of dude that goes around with sp00ky tattoos -with words inked on my own skin that say “a light that never warms,” and “no hope in sight.” You can say that I do wear my heart on my sleeve. A lot of people would view that as a possible negative seeing how individuals like me can be the ones that are walking open targets for negativity, and it’s true. I’m not going to turn this into a phallic-measuring contest. I’ve had a nice big heaping pile of shit thrown over into my hole. If someone feels that I have an image, it’s anything but. It’s me being an overgrown 16 year old in a 34 year old body. Only difference now is that I’m currently medicated and able to keep depression, anger, frustration, anxiety, and panic attacks at bay. The sp00ky ‘image” that someone may feel I have is more or less an outward expression of the music that I feel most connected to in terms of emotional cathartic release(s). As much as why I created this blog. As much as why I write and touch base upon this topic quite often. It’s a release. Complete and total catharsis. And for the people that can’t or won’t understand this; I don’t expect you to help me fight my battles. I don’t expect you to hold my hand. I don’t ask anything other than having an open-mind and open ears. Actually listen to what I am fucking talking about. If one would like to understand these notions a bit better then go over to Decibel magazine and read a beautifully written article by Krieg‘s Neill Jameson about the topic of mental illness and this culture and just about everything that correlates with it, both positively and negatively.
Both my friend and Chris Cornell meeting the same depressing fate- it’s a smack in my face by reality. It’s a pimp slap to the left cheek that reminds even though I may have some stuff going for me and I’m currently experiencing wonderful and overwhelming new things in my life, I have to keep myself strong. I have to stay strong, not just for me- for the ones around me. It reminded me that I have to call the V.A. Outpatient center and re-schedule an appointment with my psychiatrist. I reminds me to keep tabs on myself so that I can be there for others who possibly need the same help even if they don’t have the same access to professional mental health doctors and resources. It reminds me to provide them with the strength to continue going on and soldiering through the muck and swamps of sadness just a little bit longer. Even if that only means one day at a time, as cliche as that may sound.