DEVIN TOWNSEND IS A FUNEREAL WINNER

Super HooM! thanks to the awesome awesomists who voted on the awesome HooM! Funeral Music poll. My choice would've been The Crown's "Dawn Of Emptiness" but jeez it took all month to decide. And it came down to the song's terminus, not ironically, which in the case of our winner, Devy's epic "Dynamics" (above, best voice of all time?), is an unresolved bummer. Meanwhile, "Dawn" leaves on a note of triumphant and omnicidal menace, which is 100% what my life has been about. That and Cinnamon Toast Crunch that shit is delicious.

LOOK WHO'S SHIT-HAMMERED

I'm a letdown for random chicks cuz at first it seems like they've snared this dashing stud with awesome hair and a warm, non-judgmental Midwestern personality. Little do they know that my dud-filtering process includes a lengthy discussion of the themes of Blue Murder lyrics. Then, as she absently stirs her drink, I detail the sad, eternal curse of Anthrax singers as a compassion test. It's rigorous discourse, true, but a D is a passing grade if you read me. And anyway, her drink has usually been thrown in my face by mention of "Sex Child" while to others, slightly sexier non-versation is needed, so I playfully assert that the lives of Brad Pitt and myself are strikingly similar. At mention of BP, the contemporary female body has been socio-biologically calibrated to moisten itself, so I have a second before the imminent disbelief grips her. That second is used to hurriedly point out the exception: I'm toasted all the time. Well, now the bastard's obviously trying to surpass me on this modest count as well (above). It's bad enough he lamely used me as a basis for his character in True Romance. Get off my ballsack, Pitt!

GIMP MY RIDE

I always admired that show Pimp My Ride, but as a fucking asshole, I am offended by its fake-ass Robin Hood shit where Xzibit shows up at a sunny $700K bungalow in North Hollywood where some pimply college kid has parked his 1986 AMC Eagle. 22 minutes later, it's a goddamn hydro lab UFO with 26 DVD players, licorice seatbelts, and a stick shift that telescopes to a 32" bong. For the same reason, I detest the methhead carpenter with the sob story/renovation show on Sundays. Those jerks should like build some mental health facilities for the raving homeless who spend blazing L.A. afternoons berating the storefronts on Pico.

Regardless, PMR is cool anyway and Xzibit is awesome but if MTV Productions wants to do some actual good, why not retool the show to have X surprise a fucking car-less loser at their regular bus stop of misery under the angry, punishing sun and just take them to work once. It'd be titled Give Me A Goddamn Ride and I would star in the pilot, in which X and I would stop off for fish tacos, rollerskate around Venice, and get ice cream cones before I roll out of his car onto the sidewalk in front of my work.

Like the actual Pimp My Ride, the heart of the GMAGR is alleviating deep suffering and shame. That's righteous. Likewise, Decibel found a dude who applied this principle to nerds who love Nuclear Assault: by adding funky, honky-enervating rappers to the equation (above). NAssault is the shameful, boner-blocking '76 Ford Grenada (white brougham) but Dre and Snoop are the regulation-sized ping pong table and Marshall stack that unfold from it.

DECREPIT ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS

If I'm reading it right, Nergal of Behemoth is an rad individualist who feels that society's rot begins with its masses turning over their lives to somebody else's antiquated belief systems. He's also incredibly positive and sincerely hopes that each of us reaches our potential for asskickosity. And he lives his message by banging this hot-ass Polish chick.

The other awesome Metal role model who blew my reality apart this week is Decrepit Birth vocalist Bill Robinson, another mega-rebel. The awesome Angela Gossowski of MetalSucks should rush-produce a extreme Metal inspirational book based on her recent Robinson interview titled oh say A Decrepit Guide To Taking Your Life Back with little footprints on the jacket. Centered on undecorated white pages:

I don’t want to work, and I don’t want to pay money to sleep.

My job is to grow herb for a living.

We’re not in the States. We live in a country called “California” [laughs].

I live where I live, I just don’t live in a house. I live outside year round – snow, rain, whatever.

[I have a bank account] only so I can cash checks. I don’t keep anything in there because they don’t need to know what I have.

Life is pretty good. I don’t think we struggle too much. [Decrepit Birth guitarist] Matt Sotelo's dad died. [The lyrics he writes] really reflect a lot of the personal stuff for him. For me, I do hallucinogens a lot, so there’s some influence for me right there.

Again, I could be wrong but the Robinson way represents an equally defiant but more cynical view than that of Nergal; Robinson has made himself nearly invisible to society. So that implies he doesn't want to save it. Shit that's not logically true. It implies either that to him shit is too fucked to fix orrrrrr wait for it ... that ... the solution to society's ills is each of us retreating to a solitary field to grow/smoke tons of pot and only emerge occasionally to front death metal bands. Or something. And he's cool with your lame haircut, too! Seriously Bill call me or give me your coordinates or whatever cuz I'm tense, dude. Teach me the way; I'll be Steve Martin and you're Michael Caine like in that movie and we'll compete for the purse and poonanny of Glenne Headly. Scratch that last part.

YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME? HUH?

While over on Tyler Tuesday, I surprised myself by telekinetically high-fiving both slut-ass Avril Lavigne and shithammered-ass Lady Gaga (above, what are you looking at). Their immoral behavior is a desperately needed bad example for our world's youth to follow. Meanwhile, Metal is overrun with earnest, goal-oriented squares with fancy jackets and complicated shoes! Regular humans look to musicians to witness lifestyles that just aren't logistically possible for most. Instead these busybodies remind us of the luckless grind of everyday business and are all too happy to represent an unhappy return to the reality of modern isolation and greed. Nobody's uncooperative with the press anymore. When's the last time an interviewee rightly instructed me to find a dark corner in which to fuck my own face? Would it kill Eric Peterson to break a guitar on somebody's spine once in a while? I'd volunteer but I threw my back out last night porking your old lady nuuuuge.

IXNAY ON THE LASSJAW GAY

Despite strict HooM! regulations regarding whiny, tantrum-throwing screamo types, we can cover Glassjaw. It was annoying when press slurped up their PR, and regurgitated that the Long Island band consisted of NY hardcore scene vets; whatever. Their first record, 2000's Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Silence was underproduced by Ross Robinson, and had all the bawling and bad girlfriend histrionics of um a record produced by Ross Robinson in 2000. But 2002's Worship and Tribute marked a huge improvement of the band's great-to-groan ratio. Oh and hey did everybody already know that Shannon Larkin (Wrathchild America, Godsmack) played drums on W&T? What the nuts? Where was my man Larry Gorman, formerly of Orange 9mm (above, awesome band that lead me to psychotic Deftones fandom and got me punched in the face)?

Anyway, since then Palumbo has been a busy NY hipster between his preening Head Automatica project and House Of Blow (too easy to make fun of, esp coming from straight edge types), when not repping the Shia LeBeouf-affiliated Cardboard City. GJaw leader Justin Beck, meanwhile, has played an Axl Rose/Dave Mustaine role, alternately inciting and resenting fan attention and impatience with vague and ill-kept promises for the first new music since 2002. Forrrrrrr example, Palumbo throws bothersome fans a bone to Metal Hammer last week (hint: it's an EP siiiigh):

It’s a five or six song EP. And it will be slightly different from the full-length. The new Glassjaw stuff is far more aggressive than it was previously. This is stuff that Beck and I have been working on for a long time. It’s far more aggressive than I ever thought it would be.

DOES D.R.I. HAVE A PUBLICIST OR NOT

Look man I'm not here to shit on innocent working folks, and the D.R.I. news is certainly bonertastic, put come on, dude! From a press release whose quality causes tears of bitter frustration:

Pioneering hardcore/metal crossover quartet D.R.I. is currently scheduling rehearsals and gearing up to play shows again starting in the fall.

For 27 years, D.R.I. has been the epitome of the aggressive, hardcore-punk thrash sound. Still actively touring and recording, the band's only change is that they're a little older now, but time hasn't gotten the best of Dirty Rotten Imbeciles. They're still thrashing just as hard -- and just as loudly -- as ever, continuing to overload our senses with the sound that is, and will always remain, uniquely D.R.I.

I run a classy column here so I cleaned up the cadence and grammar problems and also cut out a shitload of shit -- including the part about Spike beating cancer YES! -- but believe it this release is shit-all stupid, making no mention of unabashed D.R.I. devotees like Municipal Waste (kinda popular hello) or Dealing With It's recent induction into Decibel's Hall Of Fame (fucking A right). Decibel invites a sample of high-visibility Metal studs to weigh in on Dealing including Dave Lombardo (thinks I'm hilarious), Scott Ian (still waiting on a sorry for Golden G0ds naw just kidding but seriously apologize), Charlie Benante (hire Joey dude cmon); see just cut out the S.O.D. talk and Ian's baffling nonsense and bam work those quotes. Let's sell some tickets here goddamnit? It's D.R.I.

Some call Dealing With It a 'crossover' record; I call it evolution. It's a hardcore classic.

-- Scott "Not" Ian, Anthrax

Listening to Dealing With It today still gives me the same punk rush it did 20+ years ago.

-- Dave "Fuck No" Lombardo, Slayer

Dealing With It was -- and still is -- one of my favorite records. I wanted to be in D.R.I.

-- Charlie Benante, Anthrax

D.R.I. is as important to crossover as Metallica is to thrash. D.R.I. is an incredible, incredible band.

-- Katon W. DePena, Hirax

JOEYTHRAX/BLUE MURDER/THE CROWN WORLD TOUR 2010

My beach therapy is ramping up lately to combat the toll of exhaustion from being a hopeful Metal fan this month. It takes a lot of energy to will into reality certain events and scenarios. First example is the departure from Thin Lizzy of guitarist/thunderpenis John Sykes, who, in accordance with my wishes, will soon embark on a monster Blue Murder reunion tour; and not that non-union Mexican equivalent (Marco Mendoza/Tommy O'Steen) I mean the real shit with farty bassist Tony Franklin and 110-year old drummer Carmine Appice and it would culminate in a 14-night stand at historic L.A. venue Anso's Pants.

So on top of that, I'm half-assedly begging the cosmos to mandate a Joey Belladonna-fronted Anthrax in 2009. The great Thrash bands all are returning to their Thrash line-ups; Thrash is real and Joey is the man for this job. Time is short, Nonthrax. But HooM! priorities are shifting from so very old Blue Murder and lost cause Anthrax to Dobermann, the new band that's the Crown with non-Johan Lindstrom singer Andreas Bergh. Oh wait not anymore. From Blabbermouth:

Dobermann recently parted with Bergh and has already enlisted an as-yet-undisclosed replacement singer and is currently recording a collection of tunes which are being described as pure death/thrash metal.

Ok not to be a stickler but it's impossible to be pure death/thrash metal since the two styles are distinct so combining them results by definition in a mixture. Pure thrash or pure death: sure. Shit that's not important but anyway, if the as-yet-undisclosed replacement singer were Lindstrom, therefore effecting a Crown reunion by proxy, would they refer to him in those terms? But it's possible; after all, this is the first year in a while his band One Man Army & The Band Name Is Too Long didn't do a record (though reportedly an untitled fourth album is slated for 2010 release). I'm exhausted with all this psychic hoping. Since Obama and Faith No More, it seems like anything's possible.

PROPERTY OF STEEL PANTHER

I suppressed a giggle today at work when seing the headline Andy Sneap In Talks To Produce Accept. It'd be hilarious if when agreeing to work on the record, he would say "I Accept your offer. Ha get it? Fellas?" Ok sorry but anyway, I don't see how even Sneap could make the Udo-less Cherman also-rans sound as awesome as the chants of SO HOT on Steel Panther's "Hell's On Fire" (here). That's an accomplishment considering how hard it must've been to keep a straight face and get work done in the studio with Michael Starr and co. "Ok let's take it again from 'Put my hotdog into your bun.'" Check out the day-saving new SPanther video for "Community Property" (above) which, unlike "Balls To The Wall," is funny on purpose. PS Metal Injection rules.

STRATEGIC METAL BANGING

As a pitiless social climber, I'm totally psyched that Metal dudes are marrying into positions of power lately. I mean, what a score for our side that THE Nic Cage's son is flying our flag; just imagine all the converts he's won. (Or just look at them here.) And now some deathbanger is up in Jim Carrey spawn, who is thrice as likely to become a famous (her dad is famous) and a public Metal booster (her dad is Metal). Hey remember when Cannibal Corpse cameoed in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and they were credited as Cannibal Corpses. That was awesome.

Oh but then there's the new 'guitarist' of Queensryche, who tied the knot to singer Geoff Tate's daughter and has thus been drafted into the touring band at scale. It's called Tate's I Literally Constructed A Vagina For You To Fuck tax. You'd think it'd be tough to concentrate on the sub-retard lyrics of "Hand On Heart" when suddenly comes a whiff of vaguely familiar poon. Waaaaait a second! That's Tate family poon! Why I outta!

GET OFF THE STAGE. LITERALLY.

That Metal Show's Download Fest special got off to a shaky start with a flatulent Def Leppard farting through the fartastic "Pour Some Sugar On May" but the next clip was kickass Tesla in Like New condition. In the judiciously edited interview footage, funnymen ruled like Steel Panther and Ripper Owens, and HooM! Horns to Lil' Joey Jordison whose Stump The Trunk question was about the fantastic Voivod Angel Rat record (above, Piggy most fluent guitarist ever?). Then TMS co-host/painfully unfunny dunce Jim Florentine started humping Tommy Lee's leg and Buck Cherry joined them for the incoherent argument segment in which apples battle oranges. Surprise not one of those fucknuggets voted for Faith No More as the best mainstage headliner (Def Lep 3 [seriously?], Slipknot 3).

While not being entertained by Florentine's weird neck and repeated mention of Lee's wang, I drifted off and thought about how fucking awful it must have felt for the members of Faith No More to play right after Limp Bizkit and Korn. I would've demanded that the stage be sectioned into little roped-off islands for each Bizkiteer from which they may not wander. And the Korn guys suspended from wires except Luzier.

NELSONGATE SCANDAL DIVIDES THRASH METAL PEANUT GALLERY

So Blabbermouth published a statement stating that Don Neville is no longer the fourth singer of Anthrax. And to think just weeks ago, alleged dick-knob Scott Ian employed tons of homoerotic imagery to compare him to history's cluelessest bimbo and Phil Meany McMuscleshorts. Late Tuesday night, Eddie Trunk (above, should re-think the Ann Wilson look) sprang into action with condolences for the band and praise for Drake Nesmith, who so deftly botched the frontman gig after one whole show:

It was pretty clear to me at Rocklahoma that there were some serious chemistry issues off stage with the band and their new singer. I had been hearing and sensing rumblings about this the last few months from various sources. The shame of it is that he was a great singer for the band in the one show I saw, but obviously the band decided it was better to end this now before further conflicts come out.

Um, more like before further turds come out the mouths of Trunk's unbearable co-hosts on That Metal Show. Anyway, as always the HooM! spotlight is cast on the long-suffering Metal community, which has been rent asunder by the Bruce Dickinson-approved Necklebury's abrupt dismissal from Antithrax. Some dudes want Bush back -- they get their wish for two hours at Sonisphere -- and some of us hopelessly plead for Joey B and yes that includes re-recording the vocals for Warship Music.

FEAR FACTORY: TESTING YOUR PATIENCE SINCE 2001

HooM!'s readership consists exclusively of awesomely Metal metalists, and the evidence is that here into week two of the Funeral Song poll (over there), there still stands a symbolic boycott of Fuck Fucktory, whose "Resurrection" has gotten zilch by way of votes. Ok fine nobody reads this shit cough but anyway those FF guys are being jackassy and therefore I commend us for expressing our over it-ness. Oh shit Monster Magnet's "Orb etc." is dangling as well but I don't disagree. That band is more like birth music and I imagine my hypothetical children will emerge from the womb singing Magnet's "All Friends And Kingdom Come" (above). Just its head protruded and rotating ominously for that drumless intro verse. And when the band kicks in, the already Testament shirt-clad baby rockets out, swinging on the umbilical around and up to slap the vagina shut. And acid-freakout lighting. That's what newborn Prince did no bullshit.

WACK IS FOR ANTHRAX

Speculation is rampant that all is not well in the Nonthrax camp, thanks to a series of cryptic messages posted by still-wet singer Dan Nelson and a trio of concert cancellations. That last sentence was my audition for CNN's Metal desk. No but seriously, at this stage, how far are we from Fuck Anthrax status? And what is the evidence that Scott Ian is an asshole, as is asserted all over the interslice. The shows were reportedly cancelled due to Nelson's illness (not to be confused with Nelson Disease), but Blabbermouth unearths some um sentence fragments the early morning before their Europe tour was set to open:

July 16, 3:47 am: Funny, I don't feel so lucky...Wonder what everyone is talking about??"

July 16, 4:28 am: "is done."

July 17, 7:54 pm: "loves his family and friends more than ANYTHING."

Usually in this space, HooM! has some outlandish deductions and name-calling but I'm pretending they broke up after Persistence of Time and, let's face facts, this cupcake is not going eat itself. I knew you'd understand.

STEEL PANTHER HAS DEVOURED MY LIFE

Sloth got a brand new definition Sunday when around 1, I still felt too lazy to go down the road in order to lay motionless on the beach while intoxicated and deafened by Metal. It hadn't seemed like a significant amount of work to drag a beach chair onto the balcony and then rotate the TV, but I didn't end up budging for three hours after running that gauntlet. But that's mostly because my dear dear VH1 Classic aired a seven-part BBC 2 series, The Seven Ages Of Rock. I entered on the Metal installment followed by Arena Rock, and stayed for a breathless 50-minute wank session in remembrance of the unlistenable moan-bots of Alternative and the further severed from reality Britpop chapter, which takes on a comedic tone thanks to a note of disbelief in the narration of Dennis Hopper.

To its credit, the series featured awesome concert footage of mega-bands rocking giga-venues. Crowds of that size lend a weird unreality to the otherwise innocuous rock show, and I was entranced by the power of inconceivable popularity and wealth. Documentaries always get me in the mood for shit, and I salivated at the thought of devoting the rest of the lazy evening to The Police, Stone Roses, or Led Zeppelin. Once the show ended, however, I listened to Steel Panther's Feel The Steel instead. Oh and four times the day before at Santa Monica, where hot sand burned my foot all to fuck. So you see it was medicinal Steel Panther. Don't you judge me!!!!

BAAAAD BAAAAD MEDICINE

One problem with reliance on assembly-line songwriters is the occasional overlap, the worst case scenario being when the lead single from your mega-budget, legacy-making follow-up to a diamond-seller shares a bridge with Kiss' "Heaven's On Fire." That's embarrassing, like discovering the superhot girl you just banged was with gay-ass Paul Stanley only moments prior, thus drenching your wang in secondhand Starchild goo. Yuck. I'm no doctor, but in that situation just saw off your dong once it inevitably turns to stone. You don't want that shit to spread. Oh and get the patent before Gene Simmons starts charging admission to view it or selling Kiss Dick-Destroyer lotion.

HEAVY AS A REALLY DEVY THING

As combustible balls of white-hot rage, the team behind MetalSucks' 21 Best Albums of the 21st Century...So Far wisely opted to avenge the list's incompleteness with a post script, and though my Crown pitch was shot to the ground, it was a thrill to instead tongue-bathe Strapping Young Lad's astounding tour de asskick Alien. More thrilling was the outpouring of pro-Devin Townsend comments; truly, I was shocked at the number of rockers who share my deep spiritual connection with DevyMetal, captured to quintessential effect on SYL's fourth.

Another 50000 words could've been devoted to Alien's depth of brilliance, though most gaps in my disrespectfully brief writing were filled by MS comment jockeys. But the freaky thing is that even among fans of Alien, none mentioned its cousin, Townsend's little-loved Physicist record. Called at the time "Strapping lite," Physicist was proto-Alien cacophony folded into some of Devy's most memorable messages and melodies (above, die if you don't love it). On MS, pastoral, expansive records like Ocean Machine, Terria, and Infinity (home to "Dynamics," current vote leader in the HooM! Funeral Song poll to the right) get all the love, but let's not forget the Revolver to Alien's Sgt. Pepper. Crank it.

100000000 PUSSIES CAN'T BE WRONG

I spent a lot of time and energy hating Bon Jovi and that smirk of his before discovering that he was in fact talentless and that his success in music was attributable to big budget song doctors Bruce Fairbairn and Desmond Child. Yes Jon BJ simply gained admission to the hit factory, dropped the falsetto, and lived a '60s-girl-group life of hair-fluffing and drugs as the checks, adulation, and guilt steadily rolled in. He's nobody. Invisible.

I didn't stay pissed at Fairbairn and Child for their part in this, as they would later team to save Aerosmith and the latter (and his crony Arthur Payson) put together a unambitious but energetic pop-rock album for Ratt in Detonator. And a few summers ago when we caught a hilarious scene in which Child totally torments chubbo Vince Neil on national TV (above, can't bear another BJ clip), I realized that Child is one of the several people living my dream -- though in a slightly fruitier outfit.

THEN IT'S SETTLED. SLASH IS A FUCKING RETARD.

At HooM! we glory in beating up on dim-witted alcoholic phonies, and Slash has been their leader since his remarkably ill-conceived statements concerning now-convicted Rose 'N Roses leaker Kevin "Skewrl" Cogill. Let's not waste any more space outlining the HooM! stance on Slash, but shit the supervillain Cogill himself points out yet another dimension of lunatic hypocrisy to the once-great guitarist's suck-ass attitude. To MTV News:

A friend of mine conducted an interview with Slash last year in which he called me a thief and wished that I 'rot in jail.' I found that surprisingly crass, especially considering the guy has made no bones about shoplifting cassette tapes with the same rationale as today's downloaders. So if he wants to see me in jail, I'll see him in the cafeteria.

See, Cogill could've gone even further. Everything about Slash's shitty book and former image and band (above, it was so easy) was about reckless danger and drugs. Now the narc is talking like some cranky dad. I guess that's fine, but then he should hereby be banned from music. Narc-ass dads aren't welcome in rock. Go start a fancy t-shirt line. Shoo.

BETWEEN THE BURIED AND ME AND A HARD PLACE

Though necessary improvements to the masterpiece that is 2007's Colors are few and obvious, the men of Between The Buried And Me (above, nerds grow your hair long please) still are in a unenviable position. The task of following that bastard would be intimidating to ANY musician. Shit they should've run a contest where any musician or collection thereof could attempt a logical second chapter in the BTBAM saga, which would be released secretly under the band's name like BTBAM presents Snake-Skolnick-Nergal-DiGiorgio-Hoglan's Colors II: Taste The Rainbow. The next volume in the series would be BTBAM presents Colors A Capella by the HooM!-MetalSucks-Metal Injection All-Stud Chorus.

Shit let's get back on topic. The last three songs on Colors are essentially perfect, but beyond that, my hopes for this October's new BTBAM record The Great Misdirect are centered around discipline: cut down on weak riffs (the tunes are nice and long already, no mediocre random shit should be making it past rehearsal); cut down on Patton-isms and Dream Theater-isms (dynamics good, ill-fitting whimsy and/or prog robotics bad); make more frequent use of gifted singer (and his keyboard) and that guitarist who is a surgeon with melodic soloing. And no current events shit. Looking at you, Queensryche and Winger.

The above are all so-called good problems; the band should consider themselves done with the hard part of developing into a real band. They've mastered dynamics and timing (though not arrangement), and their work has soul and identity. So yeah, BTBAM is a rare young band. I know everybody's pumping Suicide Silence down our throats, but this is the band that will blow open extreme music. Then again I've been on a losing streak with bands on the precipice; would-be genre leaders Lush and Monica both stepped back like chickenshits. And of course Metallica that was a heartbreaker. OoooWAFF ta nevuh nevuh la-yand!

NO I'M NOT THROUGH DERIDING BON JOVI

Not to get all off topic but I just finished the single fucking corniest detective novel in the history of time and space. This shit won awards in Japan but I guess that's due to its plot being about a handsome loner detective who's liked by none but respected by all, neither young and unwise nor old and infirm, dates a 22-year old singer with big tits whom he saves from a crazed killer who happens to be a fan who took a break from slaughtering cops to take in a concert. Yeah, so basically it's like Entourage in book form with no sex and the token gay is a predatory rapist.

The book itself spent last night on the balcony cuz frankly it's not welcome in my home, being brainless, obvious male fantasy bullshit. A perfect soundtrack for that life-stealing garbage pile would be the music of Bon Jovi, whose songs are so stupifyingly vague and unconvincingly populist that they might as well have titles like "Let's All Buy Bon Jovi Records" or "I'm The Reason Your Chick Is In The Mood To Fuck" and "This Song Is About The Loneliness Of Rock Stardom." We are hating on Bon Jovi at HooM! all week don't go anywhere! Tomorrow: Fairbairn and Child, the men who made Jon BJ look talented.

YOUR FUNERAL MUSIC

Those abusive jerks at MetalSucks wouldn't let me write about it, but here goes goddammit it was I who counted St. Anger among the 21st century's best Metal on the now-infamous MS List. Wait shit not St. Arship but seriously, betcha didn't notice The Crown's Possessed 13 received 21 points, equivalent to a single #1 ranking. Yep, ladies, that was moi! My favorite goddamn record of the last bunch of years wasn't even sneezed on by a single other voter. EAT SHIT EACH OF YOU!!

In related news, I love to party and yet certain songs inevitably prompt me to envision my own funeral. What can I tell ya. I don't want any of that downer shit, just dress me in a Testament shirt, tuck copies of Angel Dust and Seventh Son into the coffin, and be blasted with face-scorching Metal as the proceedings conclude. I will've wanted it that way. Vote for Possessed 13's haunting and celebratory finale "Dawn of Emptiness" in HooM!'s Your Funeral Music poll. Yeah I bet you like that bolding. We're bringing it.

OK SAMBORA I FORGIVE YOU FOR THAT SOLO ALBUM

One gripe of which I never tire is the occasional House of Hair shows which consist of nothing but limp synth rock. Usually the Dee Snider-fronted weekly rocks, and when he's forced to play Bon Jovi it's followed with some snide (heh heh) remarks about office lady rock like BonJ. And yet I'd pretty much kill for Bon Jovi (above, truly meaningless music) on the wack-ass nights in question, when Snider spins naught but middle-aged moustache pop rock like late Deep Purple ("Point of no returrrrrn") and MSG ("Anytime anytie-yiiim you want may") and the heaviest it gets is gasp "The Final Countdown." It's hard to bail on the show cuz it's like my special time, but man Saraya is some wack shit. Did you ever this Lita Ford atrocity? Then it's "Burning Heart" by Vanderburg ugh.

But worst of all is the pseudo-Clapton honky blues of dreaded Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora and his debut solo album Stranger In This Town sweet lord are you serious dude? It sounds like the Lethal Weapon 3 soundtrack with vocals, not the earthly and soulful storytelling of a mysterious drifter. His non-professional affairs aren't exactly endearing either, from the Locklear-Richards switcheroo to the DUI with kids in the car. But we at HooM! are here to say that Sambora is not a complete jackass as widely recorded. See, Bon Jovi (the high-singing dork) helped Skid Row, a real band, land a record deal but rudely cut himself and Sambora into the deal as publishers. I imagine Doc McGhee was involved judging from Sebastian Bach's reaction to his presence on VH1 SuperGroup. Anyway, what I'd never heard was that Sambora gave his share back to the band! Oh I mean from the unimpeachable Wikipedia:

After a big public dispute Richie Sambora gave his share of the money back to Skid Row.

So I guess Jon just threw his on the pile, huh. Maybe he could spend it on a set of testacles.

WYLDE'S HEART CAN'T BE BROKEN

Rumors of guitarist Zakk Wylde's dismissal from Ozzy's band have been kicking around for like ever. Well at least it was all handled with dignity and grace as befitting a longtime employee and supporter. Oh wait scratch that. Ozzy to Classic Rock:

Well, I’m getting a new guitar player as we speak and everyone has been saying to me for a long time, ‘Get Johnny 5!’ And I tried him at one time and I didn’t really give him a chance. We’ll see, I don’t know. I haven’t fallen out with Zakk, but Zakk’s got his own band, and I felt like my stuff was beginning to sound like Black Label Society. I just felt like I wanted a change, y’know?

To which Wylde replied:

I’m doing Blizzcon with him in August and supposed to finish up the cd in September. This is news to me. I haven’t heard anything about this. Until I talk to the Boss I don’t know. I love Ozzy.

So Ozzy publicly blames his guitarist for Down To Earth's miserable shittiness. But keeps him on for festivals just in case John 5 is wise enough to avoid avoid avoid Sharon. Look, this is low for even the Shosbourne Camp; BLS records can't possibly suck as bad as Ozzy records. Nor do I suspect that BLS favors glitzy ballads and tone deaf non-rock. It's hard to care but let's give Wylde some credit here. After joining Ozzy's band (at 19), he introduced himself with mega-riffs, a proto-Dimebag tone, and three of Oz's best singles.

But as the Osbourne was dropped from his boss's name, Wylde's awesomeness stopped (though he nearly triumphed over shitty synths and a ghastly mix on "No More Tears"). He was stunted and it happened to Eddie Van Halen too, though unlike EVH's unceasing praise, for Wylde it's the futility of effort spent on a fucking Ozzy solo record. That'd be like a public library with a really nice bathroom so weirdos have a safe, sanitary place to bang homeless people. Well that's what Ozzy records make me think of anyway.

WHAT SHAW'S GOT S'GOT A HOLD ON KING

The headline was almost Divine Vindication instead of the above lyric (modified slightly for maximum confusion) from the Damn Yankees classic "Coming Of Age" (above, pastel as hell on Letterman). See Coming has two meanings heh heh heh o! those incorrigible rakes Tommy Shaw and Jack Blades. Anyway back to the weak play on the title of Slayer's least interesting record: Though twice now I've participated in spontaneous D'Yankees singalongs, I still get a ton of shit about the awful in concept/pretty stupendous in practice supergroup and I don't endanger my credibility further by arguing. Some people are just too snooty to enjoy stupid awesome shit like a band with the best parts of two awful bands and retard Ted Nugent. But like me, Slayer's Kerry King is not one of those people. Shit King's a bona fide Tommy Shaw enthusiast! Does he have weird dreams of Shaw-Shelly Long three-ways too? I mean cough from the August Decibel:

King is a huge Tommy Shaw fan. "Shit yeah, man -- Styx, Damn Yankees. That motherfucker sings like a bird. I'm a big Eagles fan, too, but you can't not be an Eagles fan."

Uh I hope King is referring to Philadelphia's football squadron because holy lord the band fucking sucks ASS. Therefore I find it effortless to not be a fan of those pretentious wheezebags. Yeah as of this writing I'm upgrading Don Henley to Enemy of Metal status. Yep ya subscribe to Decibel for a few laughs and it all ends in death threats.

SO UH WHO GETS MJ'S PHARMACOPIA?

This week What Would Tyler Durden Do? ran a tabloid headline claiming that in the six months leading up to his death, Michael Jackson consumed a whopping 10,000 multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, and/or laughers. So basically he took down an ocean of pills -- the anti-depressants alone are a Lake Erie -- on top of Demerol blasts into the spine and all the other weird shit inflicted on that cursed post-human. Whoa. Damn no wonder there's so much blubbering about this; Pfizer's bonuses just went right in the shitter. Well rest easy folks cuz I'm rolling up my sleeves here. It won't be easy to pick up MJ's slack, but goddamn it someone's got to try haven't they? Those drugs musn't fall into the hands of actual sick people.