I love the guys at Metal Inquisition and their generous comments on HooM! but I gotta tell ya it's distressing to see MInq join/form the chorus of those bashing of former Anthrax singer Joey Belladonna. That guy was a juggernaut; his style gave Anthrax dimension, flex, and tons of range. Which made it bewildering to hear drummer/Backstreet Boy Charlie Benante later state that Belladonna's replacement John Bush boasted a wider range, and one better-suited to Benante's writing. Retro-translation: Belladonna refused to sing like a macho pseudo-hardcore wallet chain bonehead.

Anyway, Belladonna's no punching bag; he's a singer. They're uh special and when in possession of high-quality pipes, entirely excusable for weird and silly tendencies. This month, I got a text hailing his performance on State Of Euphoria finale uh "Finale" and I fucking agree: The tune itself cooks, it closes a brilliant album, and illustrates how the Bella-Bush change was ultimately a tragic one: This classic and dozens like it could never again be included in Anthrax's live show cuz Bush is not wired for that shit. Let's see if Benante chose Dan Nelson for his ability to do both cuz if not he's a fuckhead. Didn't choose him for his style!


First, thanks to all emailers and both commenters with Anniversary wishes for HooM! Conventional wisdom has it that the first year is pivotal in business. Good thing this isn't a business. Anyway, I thought I'd celebrate HooM!'s first year of calling people names with some impulse internet shopping. But it was perplexing to find that Iron Maiden's Seventh Son of a Seventh Son shirt is available solely through IronMaiden.com, with all the accompanying currency conversion and shipping issues, while the other 1200 Maiden shirt designs are widely available. 

I was whammyed a second time with Metallica's ...And Justice For All tee, which features not a tasteful reproduction of the album art, but rather a portion of it enlarged on a black background. Which both reminded me why I don't already have one (it's hideous) and had me questioning my sanity (I had seen the cover art version somewhere yet it doesn't exist on the interslice). Then it dawned: McLovin from Superbad (above) rocked one in his first scene. So my next question is where the fuck does McLovin shop? 



This girl I know isn't hot but we're buds cuz, first, we share a mutual appreciation of her jugs, which lo those many months peeked enthusiastically out of various tops. My greasy charm doesn't really come through in print, but if this were a party I'd find an inoffensive way to express my respect for owners of generously displayed knockers, espesh when they distract from misaligned facial features or an unflattering haircut. That's just smart business.

But that's not basis enough for a friendship, so it's lucky that Glassjaw paved the way to post-hooters friendship as our shared embarrassment band. Seriously, one day I perched on her desk as she showed me her favorite songs from emo freakout debut Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence, and I kept saying "God he really loses his shit in this song" and "It's just a chick, dude. Why don't you fucking cry about it" and "This drunken whore he describes sounds positively fetching" -- and that was the songs I love, not the really ridiculously whiny bitchery. Just goes to show you, a lyricist is allowed a lotta leeway if the band has the ability to staple a decent melody to muscular, smart drums and just occasionally pull out a great riff. By Glassjaw's masterful sophomore album Worship And Tribute, it was a lot more than occasionally. BTW I couldn't find a Glassjaw live clip or video or even photo that didn't annoy the shit out of me. Plus Ben Weinman's ass is already reeking up the place so hey that Zhang Ziyi is sure comely. 


It is becoming clear that as the music industry standard continues to change on a daily basis, artistic and operational freedom has become a band's most valuable asset. 100% free of all previous contractual ties, Dillinger is in an amazing position to collaborate with some interesting partners which will continue to nurture the ethic that we have been doing our best to stay true to for over 10 years now. Season of Mist has always been a leader in releasing some of the most extreme and interesting metal and experimental music. We look forward to releasing our next full length effort in association with Season of Mist as the very first chapter of this new journey. 
Now at long last DEP has the freedom to make the same album twice and pump out endless Greg Muscleman karaoke. I swear I've never seen a band more in love with itself. 



Our sick Sylvester Stallone thing once drove Mike and I to watch trucking/arm-wrestling epic Over The Top and I could write a novel about that day. We watched it at like 2 pm on a weekday in a basement cuz we figured no one we know could happen by and discover our crime. As insurance, a shit ton of pot was smoked so we could deny intent and avoid a first degree Stallonicide charge. And to be honest, the movie retroactively justified our paranoid and over-reaching precaution. Shit was horrible, coast to coast; the opening credits of that movie are unintentionally hilarious, and they should get a group Oscar for Best Tone-Setting In A Credit Sequence (Opening). Ok I'm looking at IMDB and the producers are named giggle Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus giggle giggle. Golan directed, while writing credits go to Stallone and some Tom Robbins character come to life named Stirling Silliphant. Are you saying this shit out loud? These are hilarious names holy christmas. 

Naturally we figured these were aliases to shield those responsible for an awful rendering of a horrible story acted by dunces. But then Mike's dad knew of Golan and Globus and vowed they weren't villains in Lord of the Rings; Silliphant cropped up in some biography I read that apparently wasn't interesting enough to remember. It turns out I count a lot of phantoms among us, cuz my world is again rocked to find that Pantera co-producer Sterling Winfield isn't an inside joke concocted by Dime and Vinnie. Or a paycheck scam they ran on Atlantic. That's him (above). Wait a second. How do we know he's not some impersonator, like this fuckface or this sad dingus. Or what if he's an android from the future to decimate metal with clamped-down, arid production. You're welcome people. Know what my first clue was? He's looking for work!


Hey if your balls/boobs feel heavier today it's because HooM! is a big, veiny year old now. Yes it's Happy Birthday to HooM!; that was 365 days ago that a rage-based jerk found a employer-subsidized way to hurl insults at traitors of Metal and other dicklickers. It's been an eventful year since then and I've taken a few elbows to the groin. But that's my sacrifice for the honor of defending Metal with slander and thinly-veiled threats. One request: Hurry up and help my popularity explode so I get a host gig on a VH1 pop culture show AND a chance to pork Megan Hauserman. Dio says Dream Evil. I say Dream Naked, y'all. I remain your servant. 



You always hear people saying how inspirational they find Oprah or some rich person with cancer, but my nearest equivalent is last week when I was inspired to plug a jet of vomit shooting from my throat when I saw John Travolta's look in the Taking of Pelham 123 trailer. Until today, when that incorrigible rake at What Would Tyler Durden Do? let slip that he harbored a mild crush on indie rocker Tanya Donnelly (Belly, Throwing Muses). I totally have one of those, only it's a non-frumpy sexy nerd with no penchant for mu-mus or bad bleach jobs and whose records don't reek: the golden throated (sorry) and possessor of limitless charm Sarah Shannon of Velocity Girl. Best meat-and-potatoes singer in the genre, back when it was not yet pocked with hipster contrarianisms and rich bald pricks. Anyway, Sarah wherever you are, quality work. .

But VG's first record bewildered me cuz Shannon's voice was buried way down in the mix. I think they were going for shoegazer. You spend the entire album subconsciously leaning toward the speakers so as to hear the fucking words. To make matters worse, she splits time with a well-meaning but lunkhead guy who treads sloppily on her nuanced singing. Kinda reminds me of Mike Muir and Rocky George of Suicidal Tendencies. The solos of the latter stretch beyond any bounds of good taste and the former rarely ceases jabbering. And yet ST made at least three classic records. Makes you think.


If not for stupid awesome Lebron's big shot to win game 2, the Magic would  have an insurmountable 3-0 series lead on those rotten Cavs. 'Twas a clutch play made possible by some uh iffy officiating and no pressure on the inbounds passer and Lebron's awesome so I feel guilty for cursing him when, as a basketball snob purist type, I should worship him. Another guy I'm pissed at for being a winner is Behemoth frontman Nergal, who's boffing some free-thinking naked model/pop singer in Poland (above, sushi?). To put that into perspective, it's equivalent to Erik Rutan porking Britney Spears. Or Barney Greenway and Posh Spice. 



I got a real treat the other night in form of the N.W.A basic cable doc The World's Most Dangerous Band. I gotta say it was pretty edgy for VH1; enjoyment was compromised only when Ren broke my heart around the 60-minute mark by slandering Metal in a confused attempt to debunk censorship. Talking about we're all Satan-worshipping child murderers. Yeah so? 

Things turned sad with the death of Eazy-E, preceded by that horrible scene where his lawyer read a statement in which, at death's door, Eazy called out to his estranged and mourned "brothers in N.W.A". It struck me immediately that barring medically-induced amnesia, this is how Axl Rose is going to die someday. All alone and alienated, waging some imaginary war, betrayed and bitter, twisted, paranoid, and diseased. Like Sting, right? This should be stopped, but is still preferable to the Michael Jackson option where Rose transforms over decades into a mangled and bleached ghoul who feeds on the souls of children and the agony of those under his control. Like Madonna. 

That was Thursday but then in the shower this morning I was thinking about Dimebag as usual, but then it occurred to me that N.W.A and Public Enemy are the Slayer and Metallica of hip hop. One pair is ultra-violent and cartoonishly harsh while the second is baldly political and literate. Kerry = Eazy; Flav = Kirk. Slayer (above) bravely pulled back the curtain on Orange County, where demons and genocidal surgeons ran wild while crack and corrupt police ravaged N.W.A's L.A. On the other side, Metallica took a broadly fatalistic and bitter view of a war-crazed and avaricious white-dominated society; Chuck D of P.E. ostensibly hoped for a better future but was so (rightly) devoted to confrontation and exploding myths to paint any but the bleakest picture of the present. What's that? Yeah this is what I think about on my day off. Why wait hey where you going? 



I don't like being the one to break this to everybody partially because it exposes me as a follower of Marty Friedman minutiae. But it pains me even more because Friedman and Alex Skolnick, his counterpart in Testament, are my favorite Metal lead guitarists ever, but here goes: Holy shit they are both looking like a couple of broads these days. First, I am a degenerate watcher of Testament live footage so I basically shit myself to see Skolnick rocking about three hours of flat-iron work; mere days later, we find that Friedman's new all-Japanese covers album shows a half-Gackt/half-Paul Stanley aerobics instructor from the southside of Chicago in 1986 (above). It makes you nostalgic for the crimping.  


Norwegian Black Metal tends to bring out the prick in everyone -- literally sometimes, am I right Gaahl buddy? But seriously folks, I felt bastardly as I cackled at the news that some creampuff from that pseudo-fuck movie for teens will portray Varg Vikernes (aka Lord Thundercheeks or whatever) in the filmed version of Lords Of Chaos, a book I read like a pre-orgasmic housewife, on a chaise longe with a handkerchief clutched to my breast. 
Jackson Rathbone, the teen heartthrob from Twilight, has reportedly agreed to play the former Burzum mastermind who is currently serving a Norwegian prison term for the August 1993 murder of Mayhem guitarist Oystein Aarseth (a.k.a. Euronymous) and setting fire to three churches — in the upcoming movie Lords Of Chaos.

Based on Michael Moynihan and Didrik Soderlind's book, the film depicts true events and revolves around the black metal sub-culture that spawned a wave of murders and church arsons across Norway in the early 1990s.
Hey it's not everyday that the words my breast and heartthrob appear on HooM! thanks a bunch, Rathbone. (Nice name by the way Wrath Bone!) I'd be all pissed if they made a biopic about my jesus (Steve Marriott) and picked some toothy mouseketeer to play him so my condolences to Black Metal sympathizers. I bet Dani Filth (above) is pissed he didn't get a callback. 



I'll be frank. I think Jim Root of Slipknot is a great guy, good guitarist, probably has a nice low post game. So it was after much MetalSucks begging that I agreed to interview Root's lady, Cristina Scabbia of Lacuna Coil. I knew she'd find me irresistible. Damn this power. 
Italian rock/metal band Lacuna Coil will embark on a U.S. headlining tour in July. Support on the trek will come from Kill Hannah, Seventh Void (Type O Negative's Kenny Hickey and Johnny Kelly), and Dommin.
I picked up a clue that her booty was steaming for me when Scabbia at first pledged a summer of Euro festival dates during our talk only to renege a moment later, saying that plans tend to change. What she meant to say was that she could no longer ignore the tingling my voice caused in her private bits; she was under my power. Her summer was decided then and there. She would go forth and tame America, play 90-minute sets, become a woman of destiny. Only then would the two of us stand as equals. Then out come the boobies.


Lebron James is a world-class gaylord and yet I'm not blinded to his incredibleness by the celebrations, the whining, the hot-doggery, the exhausting sincerity blah bling blorg. And if he gets to the finals and faces Kobe, the court of public opinion (and shrieking sports media) will not resist the urge to view it as either the deposing of a king or a repelled overthrow attempt by Thai druglords. That analogy got away from me a bit but seriously it could soon be time to begin considering James the best player in the NBA. Writing that last part hurt way more than I thought. I mean, that commercial pretty much nails it. Anyway, by coincidence I was listening to "Kill The King" in the middle of Magic-'Lords game 1's first quarter. If that's Lebron's theme in the coming weeks, then Kobe's probably rocking I dunno "Back Off Bitch"?



One of my neighborhood's benefits is that I can be on the set of Jeopardy in a heartbeat if necessary. And I should've moseyed over there after lunch cuz I absolutely shredded today's game. Not least of all because the '80s music category's $2k answer was Iron Maiden. Of course, today I played another game involving Iron Maiden (Flight 666: The Game). I didn't read the instructions but you're Bruce the pilot and your task is to drop speakers onto smiling Mexicans (above). Weird. Beats the shit outta Ed Hunter. Flight 666 premieres on VH1 Classic on 6/6/9, the sexy number of the beast.


Covers are corny and everything but if I didn't have thick, lustrous hair I'd wear hats and tip one to Dream Theater, whose pointless cover of epic-est song of all time "Stargazer" hits iTunes this week. The notesturbators break a sacred law by recording a version of the Rainbow classic (above, now with 20% more intro noodling/Dio outro caterwauling), but compensate by sparing Dixie Dregs' "Night Meets Light," instead opting for "Odyssey" from the same album. "Night Meets Light" is also off-limits as rock music's most refined, transportative (not a word) composition ever. Never thought I'd say this, but the song peaks with a keyboard solo followed by a keyboard/violin duet that makes my balls cry. I'm not sure what that means but the shit is beautiful. Actually the keys on "Stargazer" are pretty fresh too, but Ritchie Blackmore stomps their nuts with his uh generously-paced guitar solo, replete with tasteful slide (hitherto an oxymoron) and a nifty volume/delay trick for the money shot; you can tell that Dixie Dregs guitarist/songwriter Steve Morse isn't a Blackmore-style insecure egomaniac by his muscular but post-climactic solo to wrap "Night." And by the fact that he shot the shit with 15-year old me one Bastille Day. That asshole Blackmore hasn't spent a single Bastille Day with me.



If My Book Helps Just One Person, It Will Have Been Well Worth The Effort 
By Joey Kramer, Aerosmith

I had an emotional breakdown in 1995 when we were doing the album Nine Lives. Part of what contributed was that in my personal life, I felt so unsupported and alone. While I was in treatment, my manager at the time told my bandmates to leave me alone and let me do my work. And then he came to me and said 'See? Your partners don't care about you.'

And there's so much more in Hit Hard: A Story Of Hitting Rock Bottom At The Top: rock and roll casualties, human frailties, and confusion over the difference between love and abuse. This book also has in its pages a veritable scrapbook of photos that give you, the reader, an inside look deep behind the scenes of my private life and my incredible journey as the drummer of Aerosmith.

Don't Encourage Him
By Steven Tyler, Aerosmith

Hey rockers. Steven Tyler here. I'm sure you're aware of my forthcoming autobiography and have already earmarked some cash for a copy. Or you could read about the drummer's feelings. 

Remember that time I stated No food could taste as good as being thin feels, indirectly insulting my daughter, a plus-size model with big fat hooters? That's Steven Tyler, folks. In that same interview I even said that Joe Perry looks sexy while shirtless on stage. Talk about honest. And best of all, my life is packed with nutty shit to be honest about. 

I got kicked out of high school in Yonkers. Why, you ask? Drugs! It was wild. When Aerosmith was playing bars, I did a ton of drugs. Then once our band exploded, I got huge into drugs. A few years after that, Joe then Brad left because of drugs, and then my drug thing got serious but horsefeathers! Life goes on. Nobody likes a Debbie Downerpanties. 

Ha this one time, I banged this groupie a bunch of times and had my pal Todd Rundgren raise the resulting baby for like nine years! Then I got hold of her, and put her right to work grinding up against this other hot piece for the world to see in my video! Isn't that more fun than sabotaging the recording process? 

Did you know I once convinced my underage girlfriend's parents to make me her legal guardian? Ah the '70s. And what about my legendary heroin years, when the Aerosmith live show consisted of me sliding down the mic stand and singing from the floor? Of course, drumsticks and tears may be your thing.

You suspect there may be a chapter about my open antagonism of Joe Perry's first wife, about whom I wrote "Sweet Emotion." Perhaps definitive sexual conquest statistics. An outside chance of in-depth description of my current gf's junk. Yes, yes, and yes. My book is about being yourself, to the Nth degree, large as life, shababeedoobay dodayee. At least I no longer need to disclose which member of Aerosmith is secretly gay. 

Yeh-yeh-yeh-yeh YOW! The Steven Tyler Memoirs out October 27.


Um I am aware Kobe Bryant is not a grammarian by trade but throughout the 90 minutes of Spike Lee's awesome doc Kobe Doin' Work (premiered Saturday on ESPN), he used the phrase the reason why like 30 times. It was distracting. See, the term why is embedded in the word reason, so the reason why is redundant. Retarded ESPN analyst Mark Jackson is particularly Cathcartian in his triple redundancy when he says The reason why (Jeff Van Gundy rocks) is because (of his wit and unsteady confidence). I don't know (why/the reason that) Jackson is paid to talk to people.  

Anyhow, Kobe's done a lot for me so consider the usage advice free of charge. Don't mix why with because or the reason that. Keep that shit separate. Think of them as heavy guitars and rap. Or your cake and me. Or the once-great Bjork and the always great Carcass. Actually wait no that song was titties! Crank it (above)!!



Obviously it's hard to publicly disclose your love for certain bands. Usually for the same reason that you don't tell your date you spent the day watching Laguna Beach and chasing Pringles with oceans of grape soda: You'd sound like a ignorant slob. No one bearing a vagina (or baring a vagina) must ever know about my Blue Murder worship (nor their magnum opus cough cough "Sex Child") and I can just imagine the female furrowed brow that would greet any mention of Wrathchild America, thrash metal near-misses. "What's a 'wrathchild'?" she'd ask. "And what does America have to do with anything? Are we getting appetizers?" 

The sad part is I'm unable to disagree, as Wrathchild America is the worst band name this side of Roxx Gang or U2. But there's a not-at-all-happy ending cuz after two classic records, the underappreciated Maryland quartet left Atlantic and re-emerged as Souls At Zero. I relieved some used CD store of SAZ's debut and its post-grunge blahcore really helped with my sleeping problem after Helmet broke up. Anyway, WA/SAZ drummer Shannon Larkin would go on to UGH-ly Kid Joe (I'm hilarious) and later Godsmack, an atrocity so foul as to have a retardifying effect on even its members cuz Larkin is doing fashion.
I met Patrick Murillo (a.k.a Rillo) about nine years ago when I first joined Godsmack. I would end my texts with 'Werd,' or 'Werd up,' or sometimes 'my werd is my bond,' et cetera. Then Rillo came to me with the idea of starting a clothing line called Werd Wear, and I immediately thought it was a million-dollar idea. So my involvement will be as the leading consultant to Werd Wear clothing, and to help promote the company as an endorsee who will proudly wear the gear in pics and on the stage on my upcoming tours and lend my name, Shannon Larkin, to all Werd designs that we create and I will over see them all in order to give my fans the best product I can, so that we all can spread the werd as far and wide. 
Well it wouldn't be HooM! without a gory run-on sentence so thank to Larkin for taking the honors. Actually the wedding on Saturday wa a rager so it's nice of Larkin to do me the service of making fun of himself throughout that quote. 'Rillo? Werd? Multi-million dollar idea?



I'm probably not alone in the practice of keeping a teeny list hidden under socks of what I consider perfect songs. Not my favorite songs -- some of those are fantastically imperfect. But these perfect tunes have symmetry, balance. I was all spacing out today at work thinking about how each has at least one killer melody, and are with an exception blaring or cacophonous. Most include vibrant, hummable instrumentation. Add any to alcohol and you'll be treated to an ugly display of unsanctioned and renegade karaoke. Several come from under-respected bands; or maybe the term is misrespected, y'know, for the wrong reasons or in insufficient measure. And so goes Gwar and the rollicking opener to 1993's This Toilet Earth, the devilishly topical "Saddam A Go-Go." I worship this song. It shoots from a cannon and after two choruses starts to stagger and lurch to false stops. It's Fishbone heavy, with super horns and a A+ turn from the rhythm section. There's gotta be a Team America mash-up. 


Japan kinda comes off as Metal's Special Olympics but good shit happens there. Let's see. Everybody's depressed sister likes Dir en grey; Taiho, Hellchild, and S.O.B all made at least one classic; shit even the hyper-emo Envy rocks pretty hard. The not unintentionally hilarious J-metal band exists somewhere in time and space. Not this space, though. Nor this time. From a press release with flashes of unfortunate word choice (via Blabbermouth):
Grief Of War's kamikaze brand of thrash first made an international splash with their 2005 debut, A Mounting Crisis ... As Their Fury Got Released (reissued by Prosthetic in 2008). July 7's Worship features Korn lead guitarist Shane Gibson, who performs a blistering solo on the song "Into The Void." 
Vocalist/bassist/lyricist Manabu Hirose explains: "Since Ken (Sato, lead guitarist) likes shredding guitarists, and he knew Shane would come to Japan while we were recording, he made contact with Shane and asked him to play on the album. We sent him the demo of 'Into The Void', he liked the song and we welcomed him to the studio when he visited Japan."
OK wow. First of all, that's a whole paragraph detailing what amounts to GOW's buying a solo off the sometime replacement guy in Korn. The negotiations must have been hilarious. 'Yo man, some Japanese guy is on the phone, saying he manages Gob Of Flour or Queef O'Wad or something and they offer ten thousand yen for a quick guest spot! 10 Gs duuude!' 

And points go to GOW's succinct singer-bassist Hirose, who, in a scintillating quote after claiming like seven credits on the album (edited the fuck out), explains how they got hooked up with the guy who plays behind a curtain or in the basement while Korn is onstage. It's a timeless story with a universal moral: guy likes shredding, label wants guest, band sends demo to guy with Jonathan Davis stamped on his paychecks, guy who travels in a bus smaller than Fieldy's goes to Japan, plays guitar, spends his earnings on a watermelon. Did the band know they weren't getting Munky or even the Jesus freak one? Clint Lowery?

That's the big stuff anyway. A few songs stream here, where you'll discover both that they don't need any fucking guest solos and that their name is written grief of WAR. I'm gonna say it that way. Like all whispery then holler WAR!!  



If I were a stand-up comic I'd do a bit about those Bread Bowl Pastas. Ever seen this commercial? This is what Domino's is rolling their hot sandwich money onto? Look, friends, I'm here for the pasta; the bowl can be made of bowl. I might have a piece of bread on the side. But it needn't be load-bearing bread. Has anyone considered how much fucking bread that is? If I wanted my butt packed, I'd twitter the Daisy Of Love funboys. Does this wet loaf come with a side of rice? For dessert, graham crackers. 

Ok then again, comedy is best left to professionals. Like Spinal Tap, whose forthcoming record (oh god yes) for some reason finds the hilarious and awesome rockers re-recording smashes first heard in their movie This Is Spinal Tap (above). Well fuck this Billboard will do the work for me hooray:
"Basically," says bassist Derek Smalls, "it was possible to put out a record that was louder than any we've ever had before, and that was a selling point right there. We could have the loudest Spinal Tap record there's ever been, and we thought, 'Well, yeah, why not?'"

Back From the Dead's 19 songs include new versions of "Hell Hole" and "Big Bottom," a three-part version of "Jazz Odyssey," a "reggae stylee" rendition of "(Listen to the) Flower People" and more recent songs such as "Warmer Than Hell," "Celtic Blues" and "Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare." Guests include Def Leppard's Phil Collen, John Mayer, Steve Vai playing on the guitar opus "Short and Sweet," and keyboardist Keith Emerson.
Uh I like everything in that excerpt right up until the John Mayer/Phyllis Collen thing. Those guys are chodes. Especially Mayer; unlike Collen, he's never had a good tune. But enough about jealousy, Spinal Tap is doing a new record, led by the smashing "Back From The Dead" (listen here). Back From The Dead the album comes out a week after Steel Panther's Feel The Steel. June '09 is gonna go down as a month of hair rock and giggling. I will have been there, man!


Read into this what you will but when I first heard of Dayton Ohio's The Devil Wears Prada, the image that formed in my mind was of a band of gay fags singing about handbags and shit. My beloved ex-hair cutter, a sultry and flaming gay, even mentioned them, asking if they were any good. Wait first he asked me if I could get him tickets to the show, but by that time I had found out they were gay in the bad sense (metalcore) and not aimed at fabulous hair salon owners as their fruity name implies. I don't remember where this was going but TDWP's new whatever is landing in the top 20 in its debut week. The guy from Brainiac must be turning over in his grave. I'd like to apologize for that last crack. Not the band Last Crack. Those guys ripped (above).



Art-rock quartet Dredg doesn't exactly do themselves any favors. Their name is tragically similar to powerfully inferior bands like Staind and Trapt. Get past that, and you'll find their sound is flittery and intellectual; I bet Neil Peart heard them and was like Goddamn these lyrics are pretentious. And worst of all, they signed to a major label that didn't have the stones to promote them. Which isn't to say Atlantic (correction: Interscope; thanks Vince) did nothing with 2004's brilliant Terry Date-produced set Catch Without Arms, nor that Dredg is not a difficult act. But while the Discovery Price concept is a strong inducement to purchase, it doesn't work if the album is invisible to purchasers. Every fucking body who is aware of Dredg LOVES them. That there will be more of us in the coming weeks is indicated by their yawning, quaking new single "Information" (above). And we're not closeted Coldplay fans like all those Thrice-humpers.  



One point of pride for me always was my emotional and developmental stasis, which allowed me to stay childlike/-ish and rarely deal with the heartbreak of 'growing out' of certain bands. Dudes always grouse to me like Oh I used to be into Megadeth but now I'm not. Like your car got broken into at the gig in Rockford and the villains made off with your good taste in Metal. I don't get it. To me, So Far, So Good ... So What? sounds better everyday. Not boastful; thankful. I truly would be unable to cope if this song ever ceased to blast my ballbag.

But my secret shame is this vexing, growing, and extremely honky love for blues-based hard fucking rock. Super-hard rock, like BulletBoys and Dangerous Toys and Badlands, all tapes I financed as a pre-teen by borrowing liberally from casually stowed purses. So I have changed after all. Damn. My already embarrassing fondness for these acts has expanded beyond reasonable limits, and even worse goddammit somehow major no-no's like Lynch Mob and Kix are cemented firmly in my rotation. That iPod play count doesn't lie. The other day I busted myself humming along to fucking Jackyl! Are you hearing this? The chainsaw guy??? 

And Dangerous Toys excepted, each of these bands to some extent undermines my firm anti-cracker blues stance with their wailing, contorted singers, all doing ahem 'the blues' about rough dames and bad drink. More than anything, they're ripping off Robert Plant. But that doesn't really make me feel any less uncomfortable. And the fact that I even relate at all to monster stomps like Lynch Mob's "She's Evil But She's Mine" (above) indicates that a) my life force has been sucked out by some reckless, indecisive tramp; and b) I'm only one step away from growing a ponytail in time for the next picnic table bluesfest out in the suburbs. 


OK you know what I don't get about Rock of Love and Charm Sluts Bus and now Daisy Of Love is holy shit those ahem rockers and groupies or whatever are pretty sentimental. All anyone talks about is feelings and honesty. Two nights ago Riki Rachtman (groan) chastised a roomful of grown men drenched in cosmetics and accessories about hurting Daisy's feelings. I believe his exact words were I do not like seeing Daisy's feelings hurt! Yeah? Or what?? Oh and this act of hurting Daisy's feelings is defined with an oddly fascist catch-all: not being here for her. Offenses to date on DoL include drunk-dialing your ex and drunkenly hugging a ton of shiny dudes. 

Maybe my opinion is lame but I thought the rules were that if you had lotsa tattoos and you're in a band that you were supposed to be cool. Not all worshipfully earnest and tragically fawning, respectively, you know who I'm talking about. Even 12 Pack is kinda freaking me out, all vaguely threatening that Brooklyn guy. Kind of a chickenshit move, dude. Incidentally I'm never in Hollywood really but if I ever have to talk my way out of a neck punch by a few of these guys I've branded pussgay here, I'll explain that y'know, there's no such thing as bad press. And that the fondest form of tribute is the roast. Yeah that's it.