Ha yeah Thrice has made some great songs but they are way pretentious and therefore ripe for antagonism. Decibel has done so publicly to Thrice and 15 other awful bands in the somewhat inadequately titled The Deciblog Screamo Cover Elimination Bracket. Wacky covers are lame, and if four grown men record an aggro cover of chick anthem or crunk/hopster hit, then they deserve the shameful label of Screamo no matter what. But don't tell that to the sandy vagina Thrice fans out there. People, even your favorite bands do stupid shit occasionally. It's ok to call bullshit on them. In fact, it's healthy! You can directly thank me for Iron Maiden's Brave New World; I complained that shit into existence. No joke.

Anyway, the happy news for us is that the angry, unreasonable HooM! viewpoint is represented in the Bracket. Actually, of the two songs I drew, I'd planned to write about one of them anyway. Huh. Wait a second. You see what's going on here, right? OK people listen carefully, somehow Decibel's Nick Green has gained control of my thoughts. Don't just sit there staring. Stop him!

The Deciblog Screamo Cover Elimination Bracket (so far)

Drop Dead, Gorgeous vs. I Set My Friends On Fire
-- Mike Riggs, Washington City Paper

Brokencyde vs. A Static Lullaby
-- Axl Rosenberg, Metal Sucks

Confide vs. Escape The Fate
-- Kevin Stewart-Panko, Decibel et al.

Surrender The Dance Floor vs. The Devil Wears Prada
-- Cosmo Lee, Pitchfork, Invisible Oranges

The Number 12 Looks Like You vs. Framing Hanley
-- Mark Evans, Decibel

A Day To Remember vs. Ice Nine Kills
-- J. Bennett, Decibel

Thrice vs. Attack! Attack!
-- Sergeant D, Metal Inquisition/Stuff You Will Hate

Set Your Goals vs. Atreyu
-- Anso, Hipsters Out Of Metal!


Faith No More is back together and duh that's awesome. The Jim Martin issue never has bothered me; the instant that King For A Day...Fool For A Lifetime was released, I decided that Martin wasn't worth missing. It's only recently that I've begun to pine for the dorkwad guitarist, who once dropped like 60 F-bombs in a 300-word feature in Guitar Player. And so it seems like the end of an extended episode of denial as I acknowledge to myself that Martin's thudding, over-chorused riffs are quite muscular and speckled with awesome bits of melody. Like the solo in "Land of Sunshine"; the "Be-hee-hey-lieve wany-hey-aye-they-hang anyone ever tells youwoowoe" part in "Caffeine"; the entire middle section of "Malpractice" (above, playing only the first part of a song is fucking annoying); each juicy second of "A Small Victory" and "Underwater Love"; in fact, only on "Kindergarden" and "Jizzlobber" does he fall flat at all and only briefly.

And further, Jon Hudson may have crafted one of history's most memorable solos in "Stripsearch," but he is so blank and boring in each frame of reunion tour footage I've seen. A guitarist is supposed to be a point of interest in a band; Hudson has no zazz, zork, or even kapowza. Meanwhile, a scenery-chewing Mike Patton seems out-of-tune and short of effort. He's been energetic and wacky, but indifferent to pitch and disinterested in the songs. Maybe I'm too hard on Patton. Ha I said hard-on.



To a pre-teen, Dio pretty much seemed like Carla from Cheers slinging indecipherable metaphors based on rainbows and mountains and shit. Further, my young mind struggled to surround the idea of a gruff, admonishing elf in the place of the cuddly everyman John Osbourne, and the drastic changes to Black Sabbath that resulted. But adulthood brings new perspective, Dio-era Rainbow is fucking awesome, and each year brings a new Metal documentary in which he comes off as pleasant and principled. And that's precisely why he will never ever ever sing Ozzy-era songs. And no sane person would ask him to. Oh wait. Heaven And Hell guitarist Tony Iommi to Boston Herald:
We love 'War Pigs' and 'Iron Man' and 'Paranoid', but we've played those for 40 years so it's been a nice change. Maybe next year we'll do some of the old stuff.
Yeah this is fucked. Dio and H&H have an awesome new record in addition to the pair of juggernauts which they rip to shreds live (above), while Ozzy is nothing but baggage, a self-defeating slosh who will stop at nothing to destroy his music and garner the world's animosity and scorn. Now it's true, Dio would slay those songs. But come on this is insulting and beneath Dio's contempt. I mean, should your gf be forced to learn the portions of your previous chick's demented, deviant sexual repertoire? No really, she should right? That's what I've been telling her. She won't even watch the video examples I so courteously furnished for her use. Women.



You'd think by this point that being called an asshole and a failure wouldn't ruffle me, especially when I deserve it (always) but this time goddammit I'm really trying to come through for everybody. Seriously I am. In all facets of my professional and personal life. Is it too little too late? Does my effort have a negative effect cuz I'm a retard? Ugh.

Anyway for an encore to Wednesday's failfest, stand back as I get all angry that those rotten bastards in Metallica pull ahead in the damn fucking Bob Rock poll (on the right). It was a concession to some of Rock's most commercially successful work and a polite nod to the least shitty song on a hideously bland hard rock album for pussies. "Of Wolf And Man" is in no way comparable to the other songs (vote DLR you fuckers) in quality, from the unfinished chorus and hyper-corny hunt-themed verses to the sublimely farty Hammett solo. But then again, it's wrong to ask a question and then be enraged by the answer. So my boss and gf are right about me. Shit.


A small point of pride is my early discovery of extremely profane hip hop. A major point of shame is that responsibility for my pre-teen N.W.A worship was an issue of proto-hipster magazine Option. If memory serves, R.E.M. frontman Michael Stipe graced its cover, but inside was a surprisingly lengthy feature on the most dangerous non-Slayer band in America. Soon after eye-raping the article and deciding to dedicate my life to discomfiting squares to a similar extent as N.W.A, I marched to the record store where I passed over dozens of Metal tapes to purchase Ice Cube's debut solo album Amerikka's Most Wanted. In 1990 it was kosher for a recent 13-year old to plunk down $12 for an hour of R-rated sociopathic/-political rap. Good times.

It is weird, though, that throughout the record Cube namedrops George Lynch's post-Dokken band like a billion times. I was expecting him to turn up on Lynch Mob's debut record that same year, but no dice. Just tons of kick-ass hard rock. But on that same note, back when Rocklahoma was announced there was a shit ton of Lynch Mob talk coming from Lynch -- singer Oni Logan's return, a proper sequel to the aforementioned record, blah blah blah. Boner City, right? But what followed was months of Lynch's other project (with a guy from Brides of Destruction), a cancelled tour with Cinderfella, and a trek with Paul Gilbert (yay!) and Richie Kotzen (nay). Well, fucking finally Lynch Mob is ready to party and the record's done and good gravy Lynch is threatening to tour with Dokken here somebody else wrote this already. Lynch to someone:
I'm talking a little preemptively here, but one of the things on the table is a potential Dokken-Lynch Mob tour — kind of like that WWF spectacle where you come out with all that history and get people talking, and that's always good. And we'll play some Dokken songs as well in our set. And they're welcome to play some Lynch Mob songs, but that's not gonna happen... I'm kidding.
Uh Lynch has every right to be a douche, but really he thinks Don Dokken is going to allow this? Joining Dokken on stage? Playing Dokken songs immediately prior to Dokken's set? Oni Logan whaling on his cheeseball antics? That will neverrrr happen! Or maybe Lynch is joking. He's joking. Yeah. That's it.



Ugh on days like yesterday, one resists with great strength the urge to legitimize brazen fucktardery like this (above) with precious time and energy. But shit I'm petty, so yep those are new shirts bearing the visage of earth's most pathetic attention hound and internet non-celebrity. Poison is deserving of no defending cuz they suck balls, but all the same this is worthy of a nuclear-strength taint-kicking (in addition to the metaphorical load that Reign In Blonde shot into his eye).

Kinda like the booting destined to haunt Wolf Marshall, author of the ...And Justice For All guitar tab book. Which Hal Leonard hasn't bothered to update or revise since its thoroughly inaccurate pages began misleading tone-deaf teenage heshers 20 fucking years ago. Which, at $25, is grossly overpriced not even counting the suffering that accompanies even the briefest visit to Guitard Center. Which totally failed to impress my gf as I amorously leafed through it using my boner. Oh anyway but seriously Fuck Perez.


Like the awesomes at Metal Inquisition, I've been taught a lot by international travel, not least of all that shit is fucking weird all over the world. To learn the same lessons I could've just watched Flight 666 and saved some hassle, but wait had I done so, lost would be the chance to juggle some tasty first- and third-world boobies. Don't be impressed; just make the acquaintance of two or three dashing international pals and brace yourself for a cascade of hotass runoff. Anyway I knew a chick from Turkey once who did a lot of neat things, but never as neat as a Ramadan promotional poster (above) featuring earth's happiest hesher rocking a spiritually inspiring Maiden shirt. The system works, people.



It's been a while since Ozzy wasn't the least talented member of his own band, but gimmickry knows no bounds in the Osbourne dimension, and hence this pointless shake-up of the Wince of Darkness's pointless band. That's all changed, as Firewind axeman Gus. G (ne Kostas Kostonmsoihdihoihsfgdusukis) officially completed his first gig in place of heartburn sufferer Zakk Wylde, he of once-mighty riffs. The Gus debut also featured Tommy Cheetos in lieu of re-employed Faith No More drummer Mike Bordin and was thrown together for Ozzy's appearance at BlizzCon which I shit you not is a World of Warcraft event. Have fun at the nerd party, guys?
Osbourne played a 10-song set at the Anaheim Convention Center with backing band guitarist Gus G. (Firewind), drummer Clufetos (Ted Nugent), bassist Rob "Blasko" Nicholson (don't care) and keyboardist Adam Wakeman (son of a guy who didn't back-up nobody ever fuck off Jon Anderson).
That's a pretty off-brand band but whatever. The important thing is that once-rumored Zakk replacement John 'John 5' Lowery (above, on DLR Band's ninth-best song) has been thrown clear in this explosion of yawn, this non-event brought about by withered business minds charged with resuscitating the career of a decade-old corpse. Hey wow it says here that some toddler guitar prodigy joined the band to perform "Crazy Train" and thereby became the youngest ever person to owe money to Sharon. Zing.



I've always been really proud of Slipknot despite their penchant for flavorless radio rock and if you ask Roadrunner's then head of publicity, she'll tell you that in 1999, the two of us presaged their explosion to four decimal points. It wasn't tough. The most impressive thing is those nine guys from Iowa no less created awesome jobs for themselves, instead of lamely trying to weasel into and throughout the corporate machine like the rest of us sell-outs. Well actually Slipknot is pretty corporate but at least there are no rules need to prohibit your raging drug problem. Oh wait.
Slipknot canceled a headlining appearance Saturday night at Seattle's Pain in the Grass as drummer Joey Jordison had to be taken to the hospital for health reasons. According to the band, Jordison is expected to make a full recovery.
At the time of the above press release, Jordison (above, ayyyyy) planned to play Sunday's show. However, the whammy brought down on the Lil' Joey was enough to postpone a second date. Look, Slipknot's live productions are complicated, heavy-duty affairs so I guess an occasional gaffe is to be expected. And perhaps it was the Seattle gloom that distracted the Drug Roadie, who erroneously fed to wee Jordison the mountainous dosage of pharmaceuticals meant for big Shawn Crahan, blasting the diminutive skinsman into a lost dimension. Do they need a guitar player?



We all appreciate it when the words spoiler alert appear preceding text or images that reveal undisclosed movie/TV details. Unfortunately, non-entertainment media don't adhere to this guideline, as news sources have squealed this week that early favorite Ryan Alexander Jenkins on Megan Wants A Millionaire was in fact eliminated from the show late in the running. I guess reporters can't be blamed for blowing the surprise (homeboy seemed like a shoo-in) since it was his new wife's corpse that was found packed into a suitcase and left in a recovery house's dumpster in Buena Park last weekend. Hauserman to TMZ:
[Jenkins] met her after the show. They got married in Vegas. I think they got married after two days. I'm just completely horrified that this could happen. I think it's terrible, and I feel really sorry for the girl and her family. [Jenkins is] a really nice guy and very charming, very educated and mature [and has a] really positive attitude. He was always very nice and kind to me. He would be the least likely person I would ever expect to do something like this. He was so nice. He was always really calm and collected.
Well, if HooM! were known to contain reckless condemnations based on media allegations, I'd conclude that since Jenkins married Fiore after only 48 hours of acquaintance and that she turned up strangled in a garbage can just months later, we can conclude that his first intentions were to woo and eliminate Hauserman and her hall of fame bod. And to think I bribed show runners to cut Jenkins for my own stalker reasons, but in the end it was a public service. It's a funny little world.



As an unfeeling cynic, I'm occasionally surprised by pangs of empathy and pity when watching those weird shows about dudes who want to be chicks, chicks who want to bang dudes who want to be chicks, and dude-chicks who want to bang themselves. Ok sorry that's a pretty unenlightened way of expressing my support and concern for the sexually confused (what a drag, really) and as it happens, I'm not immune to crises of identity either. I mean, what barely functional stoner finds no appeal in stoner rock?

Dudes have forced me to listen to all the titans of the genre, from Kyuss to Sleep, and frankly, it's a lot of blues noodling and unsatisfying, gelatinous non-structure. But now that commercial Metal sound design has taken on a laser-like precision, where drums sound like synths and are needlessly corrected by computers to an exactness undetectable to the human ear, it seems like the looseness of doom and stoner Metal -- not to mention the genres' total lack of whining about girlfriends and bro-brah strength nonsense -- is thrown into sharp relief and is downright magnetic to me. Pushing me further in the direction of baked-beyond-comprehension-core is my relatively recent mega-worship of Type O Negative, whose droning melodicism is overshadowed not even by frontman Peter Steele's self-deprecating meathead schtick or oft-exposed meat stick. Anyway, Decibel is extending a helping hand to stonerphobes like me, this time with exclusive new Gates Of Slumber song "The Bringer of War". Thanks for the pinch, Albert.



A lesson I've learned again and again is that it's a fine line between good-natured ribaldry and jockish demands for tit-flashing. Like, say, at the weekly Steel Panther gigs at Hollywood's Key Club, where the moments leading to SPanther's entrance are spent with a live boob-cam manned by frowning stagehands, who bark orders at tank top chicks in a creepy manner totally not conducive to breast-revealing. Then Michael Starr, Satchel, the gay one, and the drummer come out and before you know it, two porn actresses are grinding on somebody's grandmother to "Pour Some Sugar On Me."

Anyway, the band's intro made a good point that still-active bands Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, and Motley Crue suck ass now and that Steel Panther is the superior show. No one should be surprised, as anything left out in the wind for 25 years will assuredly grow stale. I'm resigned to that. What is truly shocking though, is that Steven Tyler looks like the goddamn crypt-keeper (above, at a Boston liquor store?). Life is finite, youth is fleeting, Vince Neil is a fatass. Way to stick it in my face, Tyler. More drugs, please.


I am a living, breathing human and therefore am enraged constantly by Megadeth onlyman Dave Mustaine's diarretic flow of self-worshiping egospeak. His regular entries into the annals of jackassism do not rise to the level of absurdity, thus going ignored by HooM! But apparently I'm a sadist and/or Blabbermouth is great at teasing his latest volumes of mouth-vomit (actual e.g. Dave Mustaine: 'I've trained a horse to rape my face' Video available). From Friday's Blabs:
I love every one of you that ordered the coffees and stuff, but all good things must come to an end, and the end is near for Dave Mustaine's coffee. I have done my share with helping [Pam Mustaine's coffee company] and helping the Door of Faith charity, and now I am going to look for something new and exciting to do again.
Yes, Dave, sub-moronic people who like both Megadeth and coffee will buy your coffee blend at least once; yes, Dave, that'd be an easy way to goose revenues for your wife's boutique business endeavors; yes, Dave, with amazing speed dissolves the threadbare novelty of exchanging money for some cynical non-product bearing your name, at which point you simply discontinue. That is called hucksterism and it makes you a bastard. Among other things. Thank goodness Steelheart is here to pick up the slack.



So New Orleans native/grumbling retard/enemy of Metal Phil Anselmo is awesome at tarnishing good shit, from the crackling crunch metal of Exhorder (Slaughter In The Vatican holler) to onetime tourmates Morbid Angel to well to pretty much everything with which he is even nominally connected. And it goes without saying that his ego problems toppled Pantera, as his grouchy crybaby routine didn't garner adulation with the same intensity as the bright, smily, huggable Abbott brothers. Which threatened his pwecious widdle self-worf. He's too foul to even bitch about, an unreachable jackass on whom your breath would be wasted. A drunk college girl who both wants to go home and to the taco stand and who at last simply vomits down the front of her dress.

We're detouring into unworkable metaphor here, but the point is Anselmo has irrevokably tainted Voivod's "Nothingface" after the asinine fathead joined history's most interesting band on stage somewhere in Canada last week. I'd put the clip up there but y'know come on let's not foul Voivod any further.



I landed the silver medal in the 1990 Tri-State Vulgarity Decathlon, and as an authority I propose a National Lifetime Swear Achievement Award. I'm talking front lawn of the White House and everything. My nominees: Steve Martin ("You can start by wiping that fucking dumbass smile of your rosy fucking cheeks."), the president of the company I work for ("I went straight to Beijing to ask her 'What the fuck are you talking about?'"), Larry David ("Oh what a fuck."), my crazy friend's dad ("Take your turn, bitch."), Rick Moranis ("Fuck! Even in the future nothing works."), the evil kung fu guy in Kentucky Fried Movie ("Shit."), and ok so I guess it's a crowded ballot. No offense but only one non-male comes to mind and perhaps unsurprisingly it's A Fish Called Wanda co-star Jamie Lee Curtis, whose anti-Kevin Kline outbursts are like Monets of vitriolic profanity.

Anyway, Steel Panther singer Michael Starr is a surgeon with potty talk, as befits his position (sorry). The first in his highlight reel at the 2010 Swearies is the shhhit in verse two of "Asian Hooker" from Feel The Steel (buy it October 6 DBA). And while I'm morally opposed to frivolous propagation of the myth of the subservient Oriental pleasure-bot, I find that "Asian Hooker" mostly serves as a cautionary tale that exposes Starr as a bimbonic walking hard-on (not an insult): He fails to procure cocaine in Japan, contracts an STD in South Korea, and plans to bang a lot of, well, hookers throughout southeast Asia which is um unwise. Most importantly, the song has powerful hipster repellant properties, as evidenced by a clip from this March's SXSW (above). Guitarist Satchel orders the crowd to shave their 'little moustaches' just before Starr calls them a bunch of fags.


As a hater of college students, it's hard for me not to wish ill on the three shiny, squeaky private school norms competing each day during Jeopardy's college tournament. Worse, this deep into August is repeat season, so answers and patter ring with creepy familiarity. All the same, today's edition was kinda arousing. The chick from Rice said "What is back door?" while breaking into a smirk; then holy shit the $2K response in Music Genres was "What is Thrash Metal" and to my shock, the non-Rice young lady rang in without hesitation to loll her tongue seductively as she cooed those three sweetest syllables in the English language. Thrash Met Al. That's an all-American girl right there. Now that my mind's made up, I just gotta get to her before Kip Winger does. You know what I'm talking about.



It's long been my contention that Motley Crue's Dr. Feelgood is precisely as over-appreciated as David Lee Roth's majestic A Little Ain't Enough is neglected. The silly arena rock records share producer Bob Rock (fancy that there's a poll over there) and the presence of a thunderous should-be single ("Slice of Your Pie" and "Lady Luck," respectively). But there's more oh my yes. Rock sold to each the same riff, though cleverly hidden on late album toss-offs (shudder "Sticky Sweet" and giggle "Last Call"), and a awesome moody instrumental passage, i.e. the first notes of Dr. Feelgood (title track intro) and the last notes of ALAE (last half of "Drop In The Bucket"). Yeah I can see why Metallica hired him. But Rock was wise enough to stand aside and let the band cannibalize itself, and then the main riff on "...And Justice For All" was fed into the White Bread-izer 8000 and came out "Enter Sandman." Yawwwwwn.


The new Megan Hauserman (here) show is called VH1 Tests Laws of the Cosmos and Your Patience and great god it sucks donkey balls. Somebody needs to lose their job; it's just retarded to remove plotting, devious, sexy, lazy, half-drunk Megan from her role as shit-stirrer/puppetmaster and instead make her the straight man, so to speak, among a douchepile the size of Wisconsin. And you can tell that the post team isn't getting good footage from the not-wearing-a-bikini-for-some-reason Megan, because the show's uh 34 minutes of content is wall-to-wall wienerbags and dong-smugglers in the act of basically begging for sex. First of all, get the fuck in line; secondly, shouldn't these shiny, over-groomed turds be at MOCT all obliviously attempting to show off masculine, fish-mouthed Asian chicks with really severe make-up? Sorry but if you got offended at that, you've never been to the midwest. But anyway, the runners of this show need to Megan it up! And Brandi C! Here's a guideline: In each segment, the two should rub their boobs together a lot. Look at that -- I just got producer credit! Thanks HooMiverse!

Episode two had one laugh, however, when Megan posed that classic question to the stripper guy (named The Penetrator or The Faceraper or something): Where does he see himself in five years? Late comic Mitch Hedberg owns this phrase (on 2003's Mitch All Together) and well the moral of the story is that I miss Mitch Hedberg. I had kinda folded some Hedberg funding into my yearly budget, so certain were regular Mitch shows until I die. Instead I got annual Mitch shows until he died, and next month is the fifth anniversary of the last time I saw him. He zinged us with that Krokus joke.



A swell of pride filled my breast this morning as HooM!'s followers count has reached a robust 13. Oh baby. That places HooM! in the same popularity bracket as Anthrax ZING! But seriously, that's awesome and you're awesome and I hope you read the awesome Behemoth interview that the cosmos bestowed upon me last week. Know what else is awesome? The awesome Metal awesomes who dude-flirted with me at the supermarket on Saturday. That's what. There was some line chaos in the self-checkout, and when I protested, they bro'd me back to calmness with righteous Metal chatting. I tried to all talk up the Behemoth interview (read it) but suddenly I glanced down and the broccoli and CTC in my basket came into sharp contrast with the glistening 32oz brews in each of their hands, their merry hesher hands. My confidence withered but I'm fairly certain that those chucklehouses can identify a person who's stoned down to their very DNA, and therefore might cut me some slack though that night's grocery list was straight from a chick flick. The real tragedy is that I should've been making fun of one who listed his favorite band as Children of Bodom. He was kidding right?


The Cult's "Soul Asylum," the monster rock explosion of mega-thunder, jumped out to a healthy lead in the HooM! Bob Rock poll (under Jane under the table). But gaining fast is the Blue Murder igloo-incinerator "Sex Child" (above), John Sykes' paean to extremely underage sexual congress. The epic tune features the most memorable single musical phrase since Beethoven's fifth symphony: Yeah-yeah-ee-eh! Rock, like a fucking savante, correctly identified the Sykes bleat as a winner, and thus repeated it ad infinitum throughout "Sex Child"'s six minutes. Some times Yeah-yeah-ee-ehs call and respond to each other, overlap and echo, platoons ofpouty-lipped, frizzy blond manes proliferating like moss. Get 'em off me! Vote on the fucking poll then save yourself!



At my first Nile show, I was spirited away to a magical, sleepy land where the passage of time was marked by snare drum hits and all active cognition existed beneath a syrup of washed-out guitars. I experienced a dream in which I serenely but doggedly was attempting to correct the contrast on an old TV mistakenly left among a display of ancient Egyptian artifacts. By the fourth song, a tug at my sleeve and nod toward the parking lot disrupted my slumber. In retrospect, it's a certainty that Nile was hamstrung by the awful Vic Theatre's awful sound design. But it was enough to put me off the band. Hey I'm a busy man and ours is a one-shot world. But fates conspire to bring Nile back into my life; first, guitarist Karl Sanders is quoted in Decibel:
[Behemoth frontman] Nergal is a really nice guy. When we toured England together, I got horribly sick. I had this awful flu -- I probably should've flown home and gone to a fuckin' doctor, but I didn't. I tried to tough it out. Every day, I would wake up in my bunk so fuckin' sick, and Nergal would be right there, giving me medicine and trying to help me. The dude went way out of his way and I didn't know him from nothin'. So we started calling him Dr. Nergal.
Ok, if restoring the health of Nile's mainman is important enough to distract Nergal from his march toward world domination, then it's probable that Nile deserves a proper day in HooM! court. But I'm lazy so it'd take a second ringing endorsement from a reliable Metalist, someone in the position to improve Nile's iffy production, like oh say awesome death Metal guy Erik Rutan. Rutan also spoke to Decibel mostly about his engineering work on Nile's forthcoming sixth album, and uh-bup-bup-bup what's this about Hate Eternal?
I’ve wanted to do another Alas record for a long time. But between Morbid Angel and Hate Eternal and having a studio, I haven’t had time. The last five years I’ve done a lot of production work. Alas just didn’t fit. I’ve been writing music. Slowly. I’ve finally had a couple of weeks to focus on it. That’s the luxury of having a studio. I can pretty much mic everything up and start pre-production. After two weeks we had 10 songs. It’s like, ‘Holy shit!’ I also have a good chunk of the next Hate Eternal record ready.


This girl I knew bangs Papa Roach's merch guy or something so I heard immediately about their now ex-drummer's antics last summer. She'd gushed all about it, adding 'You like that kind of music right?' I remember taking it as an insult and today I was reminded why. Papa Roach is the shittiest shit ever. And Disturbed. These are the bands whose videos I endured today on the cutting edge totally extreme Fuse network. If you're asking under what circumstances I watched Fuse of my own free will, I could explain its proximity to VH1 Classic on the dial, but honestly it's because I couldn't find a fishing lure to embed in my anus. Actually, I sought Mayhem Fest coverage (the good parts, like above), as promised by Fuse's Let It Rock and its host, Juliya (more like Juli-ugh). And that amounted to some Killswitch Engage whinery (what are you kidding me with this shit?) plus Manson and Slayer bytes. And so begins my letter writing campaign for Time Warner to replace Fuse with that Russian channel featuring scorpions attacking newborns.



I'm not saying it was a difficult call to make, but yes you read it on HooM! a month ago that the Aerosmith tour would arrive in Los Angeles just as soon as pigs fly over hell. I don't think I got that expression right but anyway what have we here? Joe Perry talks tour post-Tyler limbic malfunction/altitude loss:
I don't know what's happening with the tour. We're being told anything from four weeks to two months [before Steven will be able to get back on stage].
Ok tell ya what. Just this once, I'll front Aerosmith in Tyler's place. No no it's ok. It's the least I can do. And it's what the people want. That's what my gf tells me anyway. Did I mention she's a post-conceptual artist from Japan?



Fucking damnit I don't know who is running Earth this week, but it's probably a drunk retard cuz director John Hughes died at 59, yet Brett Ratner and Riki Rachtman walk the earth hale and healthy. And this year's Rock Gone Wild is in grave peril (Dangerous Toys and Junkyard on the same fucking day!). And meanwhile, so-called god turns a blind eye to reprehensible crab-ass urbilly beard-orgies and garbagecore fests headlined by Limp B****t and L***** ****. And now Metal Sucks is slagging Jake E. Lee, thunderaxe (above, ripping shit apart at Badlands rehearsal, RIP Ray Gillen). Fuck life.

I know I sound hysterical but goddammit it's really piling up around here: The Ozzy-Zakk thing; the Nelson-Bush-Ian's fat mouth thing; Mustaine's starting to pimp his kid out just like Deaddie Van Halen (see what I did there? State school no really!); and yeah the guy behind Planes, Trains, and Automobiles is dead. Hughes also wrote the first and third Vacation movies. And Ferris Beuller's Day Off was his too. So, yeah, basically the films that showed me how to vulgarly rage at both strangers and my family, and how easy it is to deceive those vain enough to assume positions of authority. So yeah I'll be wasted in the pool until further notice.


This week has been pure suffering at work, but a couple of sexagenarians (not what you think it means) swept to the rescue, with humor and face-banging rock music, respectively. The one minute clip of Aerosmith's Steven Tyler, 61, going ass-over-teakettle off the ego runway at Sturgis is pure comedy gold. And I worship the guy, but sue me cuz watching dudes frantically banana-peeling off of enormous stages IS HILARIOUS. It's just so damn poetic. I'll scream my apology at Tyler's wheelchair at the L.A. gig in a couple weeks.

Thin Lizzy and figurative 60-year old Phil Lynott get the real honors for keeping my skull from exploding, as theirs was intentional entertainment throughout 1977's Live And Dangerous. I caught the broadcast version and sweet fancy moses those guys ripped shit up. Touted as influential when a more accurate description would be plagiarized, Lizzy until recently was a blind spot for me. So it was shocking to hear so many of their songs directly imply Maiden (on "Emerald" above), Priest, and even Metallica (pretty much just arrangement-wise); there's no separation. And wow Lynott is a god on the final verse of L&D's "The Boys Are Back In Town."



I'm holding my breath cuz the Aug. 21 Staples Center date of Aerosmith's injury-plagued tour is beginning to look like a sure thing. I mean the frail, brittle bimbos haven't cancelled or cut short a show in weeks! Oh wait.
Wednesday's concert at Sturgis Motorcycle Rally was cut short when lead singer Steven Tyler fell off the stage. Halfway through the concert during "Love In An Elevator," the sound system went out. But tyler continued to entertain the crowd by dancing around when he fell off the Chip stage, according to reports. Tyler suffered minor head, neck, and shoulder injuries, but the severity of injury is not immediately clear. The singer was airlifted to a hospital in Rapid City.
Yeah if you're wondering why Aerosmith is playing a motorcycle event after a long-career of being too high/chic to even mount one, just remember that Tyler has his own line of heavily ornamented bikes to shill. And because of that, my L.A. date is in grave peril. Stupid North Dakota.


Tuesday was a great day for delusional stupidity and fake-ass tough guy antics. In no order: Prince Fielder's attempt at an angry post-game confrontation with the pitcher who beaned him, only to be thwarted by the stringent security network consisting of one unarmed dude in sweatpants guarding the Dodgers' locker room; earlier, gibbering retard Paula Abdul took to the internet to mouth-fart her farewell to the American Idol peanut gallery, to which HooM! asskissee Nikki Finke aptly replied and I quote 'Oh, barf'; and possibly hilariousest of all, Paramount's not-believable excuse for G.I. Joe's low profile (i.e. lack of press screenings), which I'll paraphrase thusly: We're muzzling those who normally would be begged to spread awareness of the film so we can at least wallet-rape those too stupid to step around this Everest of dogshit. (And what favors has Para cashed in to get this generously unquestioning copy from those who should be offended by the blackout?)

Look, those G.I. Joe cartoons were terrible jingoist bullshit with virtuous good guys fighting a legion of megalomaniacs who for no very good reason wanted to enslave the world's population. And if I wanted shrill theatrics, cheap production, and copious shrieks of suffering, I'd just spin all Queensryche's shitty stuff. Which huh now that I think about it is everything except Empire, Mindcrime, and "Neue Regel" from Gays For Order (above). COOOO-BRA!



The day in 1991 I bought Voivod's awesome Angel Rat, I spent an inordinate time pacing the record store with it pressed snugly against Free Hand by Gentle Giant with the intention of crotching the latter, longbox and all. I'd buy Angel Rat while holding my jacket across my newly angular lap and use the register as an obstruction. This airtight plan, sadly, dominated my brain power causing an inadvertent shutdown of motor skills, and as a result I wandered too close to the door. When the alarm started screaming I crapped my pants, though for an Italian, deceit is a reflex and I recovered instantly; with a genial wave, I pointed to the non-crotched Angel Rat as the culprit. Shrugging at the clerk like whateryagunnado? I shrieked 'Know what? I'll just pay for this and go catch the last 10 minutes of Dynasty' and turned to mouth the words CAR KEYS! to Brian. When I felt the keys drop into my covertly upturned palm, so began my preparation to run like horsefuck when inevitably that narc door alerted record store staff to the timebomb in my drawers. Receipt in hand, I instead sashayed over to Brian and promptly pushed the longbox down to my knees, then bent down to rip it from the bottom of my pantleg. It's not as painful as it sounds but Free Hand was all fucked up (hence the change to unforgiving plastic holders). The moral of the story is man Angel Rat is fucking awesome.