Kalamazoo, Michigan's Thought Industry released their awesome debut record Songs For Insects at essentially the same time as Dream Theater's Images and Words. So it was a wonderfully nerdy time for me as these records both rule and represent diametrically opposed positions in the prog spectrum, as Dream Theater's hyper-accurate virtuosity signifies a melody calculator while Thought Industry's semi-comprehensible mid-budget drama-prog was most likely the product of adventurously drugged minds unable to even operate a calculator.

Commercially suicidal, Thought Industry adorned their first two (and only true) records with Dali paintings, and capitalized only their moniker's O, like this thOught industry. Also, they credited their work as ahem "sonic architecture" and assigned production duties for S4I to Skinny Puppy producer David Oglivie (with great results except for the muddy, grating mix and the occasional performance that could be generously described as raw). So you can see already, we're talking majorly pretentious, and that's before you get to the lyric sheet, which displayed the sung lyrics peppered with quotes from like Shakespeare and divided into acts by roman numeral. Thought Industry sold low even for Metal Blade but I can''t help thinking that the post-Tool/-Mastodon world may have tilted a bit, revealing some hitherto unnoticed fertile ground for the seeds of Cynic- or D.R.I.-esque (not Anvil-esque) retro-active appreciation. For all their egghead trappings, their music certainly deserves lots.


I marvel at how accurately that movie Robocop presaged um like the invasion of public and basic human services by private business interests. But most whoaaa-inducing facets of the Paul Verhoven masterpiece (please come back to Hollywood, Paul) are the little things, like touch lamps and that omnipresent Benny Hill-esque TV personality who from every home and business TV squeals Hhuuuh-I'd buy that for a dollar! Gyaa-aaahah---! I'm pretty sure with this character Verhoven is commenting on those ballbags in Bon Jovi, whose all-pervasive, eighty-pronged assault on the very sanctity of life is basically causing me to behave like a burnt-out hippie. For example, on Ocean and Santa Monica, I gestured dismissively and frowned at a passing bus bearing an image of Jon BJ's clenched 47-year old ass; then I had heated words with my cable provider, who assured me that Showtime would go forward and air the band's forthcoming ahem "documentary", with or without my 200,000-signature petition. (Even Sumner Redstone signed it!) At any rate, not even that would keep from my very home a talentless ripoff artist and his guitar player whose hobbies include drunk-driving his kids to California Pizza Kitchen: somehow the MLB playoffs were bumpered with earnest pseudo-populist Favre rock from those five fucktards and their team of brand managers. Hey Mellencamp and Jimmy Stewart called they want their schtick back.



So I can never listen to "Be Aggressive" and not continue on to the Angel Dust monument to awesome that follows, entitled erm "A Small Victory." Yeah so here it is without further ado (Rosenberg!!):



Faith No More is music's proudest achievement and helps me avoid the fact that it's not 1989 anymore but FNM bassist Billy Gould keeps dragging me into the present with the Twitter updates lately. I get it he shouldn't pay a publicist for pre-news like this:
In response to all of our concerned US brethren...YES...we yare now actively planning US dates.
and maybe I'm overreacting due to inexperience with an awesome musician who also engages in this jackoff pseudo-social Twitter bullcrapola. Plus, man am I weird or do the terms twitter and tweet suggest to you a number of graphic sexual amalgams? Yeah, let's not get any more explicit than that cuz my parents can hardly show their faces at the club already. But anyway whoa the point is U.S. DATES U.S. DATES!! U.S. DATESSSSSS!!

Best of all, HooM! is media sponsor on FNM's West Coast leg, so shhh don't tell but we can exclusively announce the first date: May 1, 2010 @ Anso's Crotch, Los Angeles. General Admission!



My heart felt all gooey today after peeking at Metal Sucks, where co-honcho Vince Neilstein took us through time to last week and an incoherent HooM! virtual high-five to Franshe prog-awesomists Gorod. But enough about them this is just the breakthrough I've been awaiting to ratchet up the intensity of mine and Vince's e-cuddling; I imagine he is a firm but gentle hugger with soft elbows uh ahem what? anyway cough he led the article with a nod to HooM! faves One Man Army and The Undead Quartet and check out the pristine construction on this guy. No ending the sentence with a prep on Metal Sucks, jerkholes!:
Like Stratovarius, 1MA+U4 is one of those bands whose name constantly graces Blabbermouth headlines but to whom I’ve never actually listened.
Now, my tight-ass teachers would tell you it should've read to which I've never actually listened but rules get fuzzy when applied to a thing ('bands') which is comprised of people (ex-The Crown screamer Johan Lindstrom et al). But even that gets stretched when UK guys say janky-sounding shit like 'Black Sabbath are brilliant.' I'm a real crowd-pleaser so I'll cover all bases with little stylistic cheats like the members of (for who/m) or the music of (which/that) and such. But shit this isn't about me, it's about Vince-Nasty, the second Metal journo to be treated this week to a tonguebath on HooM!. But hey let that be a lesson; good grammar means success just ask Mike Muir, Thrash Metal Grammarian! He says fucking therein in this jam.


It's a given that I'm all about success and amazing cigars, golf clubs, snappy ties and yet it's a headline like today's that ensures HooM!'s sub-cult status, and signifies that HooM! will never have like fancy advertisements or um actual readers. I wonder if HooM! Nation is destined to perish as, thanks to totally non-deranged internet ads, everybody else 'gets ripped' in 48 hours and/or scores a naked chick via online fantasy games like a freaking Aerosmith video. And we were sitting ducks. I for one will not be left behind only because my home will be a grungy supermax as soon as I'm through murdering the fuck out of the assknobs responsible for Direct TV's evil ads. If you watched the Dodgers get stomped again Wednesday night, you know the commercial. Do these satellite wang-danglers consider it wise to drive people to their service (TV) by wrecking an awesome movie (Tommy Boy)? The sacred Fat Guy In Little Coat scene, too (so sacred I can't find a fkg pic, not above)! It must be a nice paycheck for the talent, in this case a not-convincing facsimile of 1995 David Spade, all bloated and pancaked, playing opposite the corpse of my dear sweet Chris Farley. Foul.

Actually huh the first time I said that today was upon inspection of the cover image on Joe Perry's latest hideously-titled non-Aerosmith record. Funny I don't remember authorizing Perry to use the novelty mirror I won at Okauchee Days in 1990 to adorn his record. I said the fucker could borrow it not decorate the next in his illustrious solo series that also includes ahem I've Got The Rock 'N Rolls Again and Once A Rocker, Now Having A Mid-Life Crisis. But the good news is that Have Guitar Will Travel is actually kinda great, totally unlike actual Aerosmith songs featuring Perry's um 'vocals'. Now full disclosure it was noisy at work today as I listened (I think a Jamba Juice is going in across the street! VICTORY!) and HGWT is no United States but yeah it's 1/5th as good as an Aerosmith record. Kinda like the Arrested Development knockoff that ABC is peddling which is 1/9th as good as the real thing. Listen to Half-Retard Swill Drivel here. I swear this stuff practically writes itself.



Deftones bassist Chi Cheng remains unable to perform following critical injuries sustained in a car crash in November. Meanwhile, the band has carefully and slowly played a few dates with Sergio formerly of Quicksand. That's all old news but what sent my bowtie spinning is a report that Eros, uncompleted at the time of the accident, will not be the sixth Deftones record. Via Blabbermouth:
The songs recorded for Eros are very special to us as they are the latest with Chi (and we certainly hope not the last); they have history and significant meaning to us. However, as we neared completion on Eros, we realized that this record doesn't best encompass and represent who we are currently as people and as musicians. We collectively made the decision that we needed to take a new approach, and with Chi's condition heavy on our minds while doing so.

[We decided to return] to the studio to do what we felt was right artistically. Our inspiration and unity as a band is stronger than it has ever been before and we needed to channel that energy into our music, and deliver to our fans what you rightly deserve: the best Deftones record that we can make. The decision to hold off on releasing Eros has no connection with Chi's condition or anything associated. This was, and is, purely a creative decision by the band to write, record, and deliver an amazing product. As a result, we feel like this [?? - ed.] is the best record we've ever written. And although Chi is not playing bass with us, his presence is dramatically felt in our hearts and on our minds every day when we step into that studio, and you will feel it in the music.
This is so weird. The emphasis in this statement is placed on three points: 1) Eros'sesses non-release is unconnected to Cheng's injury; 2) the 'unity' and 'inspiration' is now 'stronger' than ever -- despite Cheng's absence; 3) the band plans to record and release their 'best record' -- again without contributions from Cheng. I've been wall-staring for an eternity and the most-positive scenario I can come up with is that they want to write to and for Cheng a brand new album that will stir him to recovery. That or I guess the band feels Eros reeks and simply must not be released. Maybe they're gunshy after the ill-executed self-titled album in 2003 and brilliant Saturday Night Wrist. Weirrrrd.


Weeks ago, I was dozing on my balcony only to once again be rudely awaken by high-pitched revving of a neighbor's crotch rocket. It seems likely that dude has been having technical problems cuz no day would pass without his daily constitutional out to the parking lot to exercise the valves or something. I've yet to see him ride it, but my quality of life levels have dipped thanks to this regular screeching, but vengeance is mine cuz on that particular afternoon, I half-watched as a bird quietly deposited a globule of poo onto the exhaust-belching douchebike. The dude, who tucks cabana shirts into tight jean shorts, immediately raised a forearm and groaned; he'd been struck as well! Sweet, sweet justice!

As of today, that bird has been joined in the HooM! Hall of Horns! by Noisecreep scribe Carlos Ramirez, who inadvertently backed me up by roundly denouncing half-ass Anvil fever in a recent Reign In Blonde interview. It does feel shitty to indirectly precipitate all over Anvil's day in the sun, but once that day stretched to a year (and, it would seem, beyond), the act of kinking the hose of this media deluge became an inevitability if not obligation. And yet it wasn't without trepidation that we at HooM! yesterday examined the fallacy of Anvil, cuz Lips and Robb are likable rockers. But as Carlos points out, so are the dudes from (gulp) Tora Tora and (shudder) Royal Hunt. But those bands, nor House of Lords, Babylon A.D., Dangerous Toys, ad infinitum have no comparably cuddly backstory to highlight, and hence the reason for Anvil's um resurgence. And though Ramirez writes for the iffy AOL loud rock site, he's unafraid to crap on VH1's efforts to foist these sub-mediocre rockers on lonely, nostalgic fans looking for a sad-eyed puppy to love. Forget about that shit. Here comes Fastway!



The semi-existent Anvil renaissance hasn't really registered with me, though I did go see the movie. Call it a cynical viewpoint, but it's possible to feel that the obscurity of certain bands is completely justified. No one wants to say it but Anvil stinks. And VH1 has entered a land of make-believe with intensifying claims that Anvil were once worshiped and poised to conquer the hard rock world, especially in the recent ramp-up to the DVD release. (AC/DC plans to repay VH1 for partnering on their Black Ice album by taking Anvil on for a handful of shows.) Shit, from where I'm standing, the band opened a short tour made up of hair rock's most embarrassing European groan-rock bands. And this is total haterspeak but dildo-guitar antics and charmless nonthems placed Anvil firmly in league with unsexy tourmates Whitesnake and The Scorpions. But VH1 would have us believe that this Led Zeppelin II was derailed by mismanagement and poor luck. Those of us who've been to 30 - 1200 live shows, however, have seen innumerable openers (and headliners!) soon and rightly destined for the scrap pile. That is not derision just fact.

In Anvil's case, that string of shows in what looks like Japan served as an exception and just because that was enough to convince Lips and Robb of a pending entry into Metal Valhalla, with its attendant riches and excess, doesn't mean it would've been deserved. And somewhere in all this pathos, VH1 senses a unique underdog story and flogs it like the rented mule it clearly is. Slash and cokehead Lars Ulrich appear in the documentary, swearing by Anvil's repressible talents, and yet in no photo or appearance have I spotted an Anvil shirt on their persons. (Lemmy, the coolest guy ever, resists dubious overstatement as usual.) I haven't even heard them mentioned by anyone since junior high, when we'd dine and ditch Perkins then openly mock the sub-Spinal Tap album covers/titles of moldering Anvil tapes at Half Price Books. I mean Anvil was a perfect name for this band: unmoving, boring, useless to most. Don't hate me.


It seems that the rumors are true that Dokken has set two California dates with Lynch Mob, a superior band led by former Dokken axeman/musclehead George Lynch. Ok this is pretty much what my world is about: These two primping egomaniacs, equally threatened by the band's inexcusable back catalogue, have been warring for years. At least it seems that way though Dokken-Lynch relations haven't dominated my attention lo these two decades. But anyway, like the Poison-Def Lep beef brought to the stage, the smaller but more venomous Don-George conflict promises to be infinitely more uncomfortable. It seems likely that Don will object when George inevitably gets in his shot, or is perceived to have done so. George clearly plans to join the band onstage, which always makes the surviving members feel stepped on. Plus, peripheral cast like Mick Brown may feel inadequate since Lynch Mob is responsible for at least one awesome record while Dokken is for chicks. Mostly deaf chicks. What's next? A Blue Murder/Whitesnake tour?



Hey it's Friday so let's loosen our knickers and pause to appreciate Jawbox, authors of 1996's best melody record. Every year it seems that from left field comes some unforgettable hookfest. In 1999, it was the Brenden O'Brien-produced Dangerman record (who?) and post-Elastica also-rans Kenickie's 1997 debut is solid gold. But arguably the most surprising is Jawbox's self-titled final record, being as it is a hyper-catchy summer day record when their previous outing, whose anniversary has prompted a reissue and a one-off reunion performance on TV, was an acclaimed but unlistenably contrived hipster record from hell. I hated that shit and now must admit that it precipitated the end of a couple of my few friendships. I spared the too-cool chick from two towns over cuz her knockers were dynamite. Plus she probably had to like it or the hipster council might've revoked her membership.

Anyway, Jawbox (the record) is muscular and confident like that last Refused record, whatsitcalled The Come of Shapely Punks? And, again, the melodies are terrific and impactful enough to cancel out some unconscionable over-drumming. Also, like NoMeansNo, the band's dual vocals come off as super confrontational, although J Robbins is more derisive via metaphor than daffy or menacing like those weirdos. And you gotta respect Robbins for doing almost nothing to veil his distaste for me both during a telephone interview and in face-to-face conversation. But when hipster types dislike me it's one of those good problems. Burton C. Bell made me cry though. I'm just joking. I'd never interview Burton C. Bell. Oh shit wait no I have interviewed him, back when Obsolete came out. Um I'll just see myself out.


The existance of so many ex-girlfriendcore bands with 10-word names kinda proves the belief that our most violent, no-dignity hatred is reserved for those we once loved, but by whom we were ripped off, deceived, and insulted. Let's accept this also as a common sense foundation beneath some of the most vitriolic screeds on HooM! An example? K, we all Dave Mustaine's skillz, but his total bastard behavior is maddening on its face even before you take into account the loss of innocence. It's a shock to discover that some dudes, though extremely Metal, just suck ass at being cool. I know it took years for me to reconcile the fact that coolness and Metalness were not mutually inclusive; I grew up among some of Earth's happiest heshers (Luke you rule).

Anyway, even without shattered illusions, the wise among us must still find it frustrating that the guy who could orchestrate a freakishly perfect jam like "My Last Words" also inspires you to spit on the ground at mention of his name. I mean seriously this fuckin' song: it opens with that ass-tight trio for guitar, bass, and ride cymbal; the main riff is a ingenious little brain-scrambler with swinging two-note five chords; then then then that gives way to the Thrash Metal signature interpretation of punk, flawlessly propelled by bassist David Ellefson. The song is ruined if Other Dave fails, but I can't even spell fail when rocking this shit.

Of course when Mustaine, armed with some flimsy excuse, went back and re-recorded parts of his four masterpieces for their re-master releases (that's a lot of re's), he just couldn't resist (sorry) tinkering with shit and now Ellefson's fleetly pummeling bass line sounds significantly lower in the mix. Asshole! Anyway, in Act III of the Peace Sells closer the skill-level somehow escalates as Mustaine, with like the awesomest banshee scream ever at 3:21, launches the band into a shuffle that's so fast that I imagine it prompted Chris Poland (call me) and drummer Gar Samulsson to ask for a fucking raise. And they earn it. Awesome! Awwwwwesome. So why won't Dave let me love him?



My life is a serene combination of peaches and herb so I know firsthand that yes, dreams come true. Like my dream that a motivated insane person will someday slap shut the shit-spewing mouths of Sharon Osbourne's husband or the guy who was too disagreeable to be in Metallica. Well, first Chris Brown was hip to the cause but totally missed his target, and instead rained blows down on foxy Rihanna. Ok innocent mistake. Though above all I value accuracy so I'm getting worried after a second offensive failed today, thanks to the dumbshit who apparently couldn't wait until Mustaine's book came out to strike him in view of a crowd. According to The Sun, which I edited the shit out of cuz UK tabloids write like sixth-graders:
The man, said to be in his late 20s or early 30s, waited in line for a signed copy of singer Leona Lewis'sess new book, Dreams, and then attacked her in front of 200 stunned onlookers. Lewis, shocked, clutched her face as bouncers apprehended and held the assailant until police arrived. A witness states: “The man waited patiently, but as soon as she signed his book, he smashed her in the face.
Huh at least this guy gets credit for rendering the book's title hilariously ironic. And Leona's cool, but maybe he was warming up, testing security, ya know casing the joint when he slugged a harmless pop singer. A soft target which prepares him for Mustaine's catlike speed and reflexes. I guess time will tell.


This week started off with a lapse in judgement that lead to a lunch of marked-down tamales from Ralphs. Obviously, the rest of my Monday was spent reading Decibel back issues in my surf-themed bathroom but Tuesday was no improvement. On that day came the sad realization that ugh I like a song by fucking Europe. Which is an admission equal in my family to oh say hidden hermaphroditism or plans to join Machine Head. How did it comes to this?

Well, it's stupid AOL Radio's fault. Their hair rock station rotates only one or two songs by each band, and that's great for bands like L.A. Guns who only have a pair of good songs (no not "The Ballad of Jayne"). Oddly, the exceptions are Ratt, Dokken, or Cinderella, three bands who all license like 40 songs. So this creates a situation where the listener, presumably captive at work, is fucking relieved to hear anything else. For example, "Valley of the Kings" by Blue Murder (yes!) or Europe's "Rock The Night" for which there is no excuse but hey here we are. It's one of those rock songs about rock songs and the appreciation thereof -- and it's by Europe, poof rock's most hatable white-teeth enthusiasts. That means it's as bad musically as it is lyrically, but what started as trying to place its faint resemblance to some other song (it still hasn't come to me), then morphed into toe-tapping and a couple "Whoa-oh"s. As of this week it's official I like it. And therefore I'm pretty much kicked out of my family.



In my haste this morning I neglected to mention that some other dickknob on Metal Sucks wrote that I shouldn't be paid for the aforementioned Cave In live review. No wait actually, he intimated to my fucking bosses that they've been ripped off. By me. I should thank him for neglecting to mention my love of masturbating on the bus. And my crooked charity, The Special Touches Fund, which rescues victims of human trafficking and drowns them. And great now somebody owes an apology to Overkill drummer Sid Falck, now that FalckFest has gotten off to this crappy start.

At any rate, Sid left after Horrorscope cuz um he doesn't like Metal but that doesn't bother me. He was terrific all over that album and Years of Decay is insane. I smell four Nobel prizes just for the guitar solo passage in "Elimination"; it's nothing fancy, but stands as one of Metal's most memorable due in no small part to Falck Nasty's beatz. Also, the Falckster did that double kick/crash cymbal choke thing (the opening to "Infectious" in 1991) a few years before Paul Bostaph did (at 0:31 of Divine Intervention's "Killing Fields" in '94). Now sure, I don't really know what's going on in "Birth of Tension" but whatever just crank up the so so hesh "Blood Money" (above) and grip thy nuts. Pure. Falck.


Forgive my curtness this morning but some assfuck who knows jack shit about dick called me a ahem Dumb Fuck in the comments of my Cave In review on Metal Sucks yesterday. People, have we learned nothing from Brian Fair-All That Remains Guy Incident? Which is to say it's true, I am a dumb fuck; but the rule is if you wouldn't say it in person, don't write it on the stupid internet. I don't give a shit if you are a veteran MS commenter (tell your grandkids, dude!), at least spare my ancestors, all of whom share my dumb fuck name/initials. Actually waaaait a second. Could it be? Dad! How could you!



Sundays are new Metal day at HooM! HQ and to spice things up, I engage the shuffle-by-album feature and headbang by surprise. On other days I'm extra short on attention span, most often mid-June to January when there's no Sunday NBA to stare at, and that might demand shuffle-by-song, so six or so hours are spent listening to two dozen new and new-to-me Metal records. Such a day was Sunday and it was really educational.

I learned that the Heaven + Hell record happened because Dio is a professional songwriter while Ozzy is a professional interviewee. Also, this kinda sounds stupid but in a very real sense, The Devil You Know seems like a Dio album for which he hired Black Sabbath to back him. Not to imply that Dio wrote everything (Geezer, Tony no doubt); but the RJD presence rules the album. He's been in the business for 50 fucking years, but no Rock Hall of Fame. Huh.

I learned that in Gorod, technical metal is being wrested away from clever East Coast hipsters and back into the domain of heshers thank you Europe. Like any good pursuit, it is improving itself and less and less frequently being comprised of five guys wanking in unison. Hey back to that Hall of Fame thing; there should actually be a Metal Hall of Fame facility. Real shit too, not energy drink rock or muscle guy stuff. I'm thinking of saaaay a life-sized Sunset Strip with live prop sluts. A Bay Area Thrash exhibit featuring a punchable Dave Mustaine. Lars Ulrich's coke ladle. And so on.

I remembered that One Man Army + The Undead Quartet rules and one of their best weapons is ex-The Crown singer Johan Lindstrom, who is easily one of Metal's most dynamic screamy voices. Especially on their second record Error In Evolution, and their third in as many years Grim Tales. Oh yeah remember my shit was on shuffle? Around the end of the Angels game, it started to feel like I was drawing a lot of Grim Tales songs, but then it turned out half of those songs came from Goatwhore's Carving Out The Eyes of God. Which is a pretty big record and yet 1MA+U4 couldn't sell out my bathroom. Damn.



It was at Tower Records in Ikebukuro a few years ago when I was confronted with yet another auxiliary Iron Maiden record on sale. (I spelled auxiliary right on the first try worrrd!) Skeptical, I stepped to the listening station, slipped on headphones, and shared a look of disbelief with my neighbor (who graciously allowed me to interrupt his preview of um Impellitteri) during the intro to song two, where singer Bruce Dickinson absolutely goes off. Which prompts unchained cacophony from the 500 trillion-strong Rio crowd and pure Metal fury from the band. Incidentally, that very listening station introduced me to (disc #6 all the way on the end) Soilwork's Devy-produced Natural Born Chaos and to my shame, I wasn't paying attention at all. That's Bruce Power. Vote over there fuckerz.


I love the guys in Shadows Fall but am hard on them um yknow because of all the sucky records. All That Remains however are lead by Metal's premiere douchestain who's now in a defensive crouch following an incident over the weekend in which his gf reportedly was propositioned by Shads frontman Brian Fair. Ugh via Twitter:
Phil Labonte: Sweet, Brian from Shadows Fall was trying to fuck my girlfriend tonight. Thanks to Ivan from 5FDP for sticking up for me. So much for home <3.

Brian Fair: @philthatremains Learn to think before you speak. I cant babysit everyone.

Jorie Salyers: Kinda bummed. Phil's pissed about last night. I guess I should be too, as I was the target, but I'm just trying not to lose everything atm. [Get a grip on yourself - Ed.]

Jorie Salyers: @brianshadfall No drama! So we'll let everything lie. I did tell Phil all you said, so you're aware. No need for ME to lie to him.
Hey remember the days when men weren't pussies so when some lead singer tried to compromise your chick's pussy perimeter, you either didn't care or quietly went about the business of punching faces? That was great. Now we have Earth's least likable fancy jeans enthusiast whining via 20-word sentences to bored internet jockeys about the universally beloved Fair. And this hilarious one-sided bitchfight doesn't even rise to the level of absurdity once you consider that the witnesses to Fair's transgression are the formerly anonymous girl herself and a guy from Five Finger Death Punch. One is a lead singer's gf and gosh they never start shit to glorify their own attention-humping selves (that's why they date tamponish lead singers ahem); the latter already is the source of 2009's other asinine half-ass non-story for retards. Hey I just farted and it smells sweet like Yogurtland! Stop the motherfucking presses.



One of my most popular party stories ends with Devin Townsend materializing (ha get it, above) in front of me on a sidewalk in stupid Chicago one evening. We lamewads had failed on the show, missing Strapping Young Lad's piddly 25-minute set except for cymbals and "Thankyougoodnightfuckerz!" followed by Hoglan's ass receding into the darkness. Then came I think Dark Wanquility and definitely In Flames, which pushed us right back out the front doors like in a sketch from The Muppet Show. Pissed, we piled back into the car; at the first stoplight, I looked to my right to see Townsend with hands in pockets, alone at the corner. I heard three effeminate gasps in the car when I shrieked "Devin! What the fuck we missed the shit it's like 5:45 pm traffic was fucked why so early what the fuuuck??!?" He shrugged but also smiled cuz my expression must've been retarded and I look cartoonish with my eyebrows raised and palms upturned. Bubbles hissed "Don't yell at him about it, dude" which got an honest laugh. Good thing Townsend didn't know that the semi-retard before him was entrusted with the task of writing about his records (his website once pulled a quote of mine super bonerz!). The light turned green and I just waved and waved and waved, kinda in the style of Coop in Wet Hot American Summer. Then it hit me: Fuck! We should've kidnapped him! Shit! Four of us! One of him! Already in the getaway vehicle! Shit!

There you have it folks. Take your eye off the ball for a split second and you too will miss the chance to enslave Devin Townsend, to harness his powers for evil, to compel him to stage private concerts on your balcony and and AND to produce your all guitar solo album (no backing tracks, literally solo guitar just soloing). Or to starve him brutally until he agrees to recast Hysteria in his own mould, title it Addicted, and release it on November 17. OK he ended up doing that anyway. Lucky for him!


I'm kinda stuck in the past but it's impossible to overlook the wave, if you will, of brilliant Metal in just America alone. Ironically, this new Metal sounds old and reminds me of the days when I was too young to notice that the world is a well-used toilet. Like Warbringer, whose drums belong to the 21st century but elsewhere is firmly rooted in pre-Titan thrash. Their Waking Into Nightmares rules my mornings -- my good morning to Los Angeles is "Born! With! The soul! Of a LIAAARR!" -- and Mantic Ritual's Executioner my nights. But the scant moments when I'm not rocking neo-Thrash are now threatened by Municipal Waste's superb, delicious Massive Aggressive, in which I'm balls deep. In general, my worship of the quartet of D.R.I. devotees has gone from casual to freaky, though for some reason I take personal offense to Burnt By The Sun, whose drummer is also in MWaste. And this fact was unknown to me when I'd already begun to bemoan his performance on Massgressive. (top heavy beats, drums don't sound big enough, more fills please, would it kill ya to choke a crash cymbal dude?). Somebody get Sid Falck in this band stat.



I piqued my own curiosity the other day by offhandedly mentioning hair rockers Babylon A.D. so duh I finally went back and listened to their first album after whoa nearly 20 years. That shit rips! The big side A ballad is ginormous, and my memory owes me an explanation for losing track of "Caught Up In The Crossfire" (above, kinda sounds like "I Love Rock 'N Roll") and "Shot O' Love" which now reminds me of that butt-faced reality chick on VH1. Anyway, Babylon A.D. got a nice promo push after being the first loud rock act on Arista, then run by Clive Davis right? That must've been a fun meeting. I wonder who suggested the Sam Kinison swear-assault on "The Kid Goes Wild." It probably wasn't the guy who signed Whitney Houston.


So here's some breaking news I'm an idiot and forgot to link to Tuesday's coverage of Steel Panther on Metal Sucks. I love the MS guys cuz they know all the good shit and so what if they like IWABO? Really! I have an aunt who's been a cokehead for like four decades and her Christmas presents are always great, so we're cool. Likewise, Axl + Vince shit out holiday gifts onto my chest all year round by asking me to cheapen their internet-best Metal site with incoherent, monomaniacal Bellow Journalism (I like copyright that term or something). Oh and they love Living Colour too which is the unmistakable mark of people of taste and good genes. Everybody has a certain player who drove them to pick up a guitar and Vernon Reid is mine I heart you VR.

We're off topic but yeah once again it's Steel Panther time, today in honor of the kinda-new and extremely awesome video for "Fat Girl (Thar She Blows)" (above) a tune that's "Here I Go Again" meets "Down Boys" with backing vox ripped from Hysteria. So yes it's a perfect song. And the vid is a Metal Injection exclusive yummy! Finally, this time I swear there's no Steel Panther story left. I'm don't need to write about them. Shit this here writing is mostly about Metal Sucks. So that's it. Well, until Monday night. Godda wuv me!



Well, Tuesday was the big day and after devoting about 700 column inches to Steel Panther since the morning "Death To All But Metal" spurted into my life, I am like out of words. Still I whipped up something to commemorate Feel The Steel's stateside release for Metal Sucks, but just cuz I'm a shitty writer doesn't mean I'm insincere about SPanther's bravery. Not real bravery, but y'know Charlize Theron in Monster bravery. The kind that emboldens you to petulantly demand that pussies always be shaved. That's what this world needs. Listen to Feel The Steel here, dickbag.


Like many, I gargle the nuts of Devin Townsend and like slightly fewer, I didn't comprehend his last record. Though there's little of the accompanying despair and disappointment, as Devy is so reliable and evolutionary that one is compelled to take the blame if and when his tunes fail to stick. Further, Ki is the first that hasn't and it came at a time when my mid-life crisis has oriented me backward, and shit I'm not really prepared to just Dorothy into the surreal dimensions of Dev's brain. Which, not for nothing, seems to be enduring a crisis of its own since well forever. Wow that's arrogant of me to write but anyway a November 17 release for Addicted means not even a half-year will've elapsed between parts one and two of Townsend's New Devin Quadrilogy; so it would seem that the two albums may be similar but that's entirely impossible according to Townsend:
Musically, Addicted is along the lines of the big, wall of sound hard rock/heavy metal; [it] is a very direct and 'to the point' album with an emphasis on groove and the chorus. In the past, lots of my records end up taking a kind of Pink Floyd-ish route (between song meandering, etc.) Addicted is really simple: 11 rocking songs with no bullshit.

I wanted to make a record that was heavy, without being dark or depressing. When I got into metal it was for the energy behind it, but somewhere along the way that energy started getting really negative. In music right now, there's a ton of heavy bands that are really depressing to listen to loudly. [Yes! - ed.] I wanted to make a record without any real deep metaphor on the surface. Something that sounds good, has a good beat and a positive feeling. [Yes!!] It is still heavy as-all-get-out, but I think there's a differentiation to be made between being 'peaceful,’ and being peaceful but wanting to celebrate loud, crushing music. [Oh god yes!]

I absolutely love this record and it affects me in a way that I wasn't prepared for. It's a fully rocking album of optimism. If you just want to 'play it loud' without any crazy metaphor, this album might be for you. The reason that Addicted exists is maybe a little deeper than what the record sounds like up front. But up front, it kind of states: 'Life is tough, the world can be an ugly place...so let’s forget about the dramas and Rock - here's some heavy guitars, big choruses and killer beats.
OK having read the above and listened to this new song from Addicted -- and crapped myself with joy -- I can say that this record may end my life. It just might be the record I've been demanding from Townsend: a big-production pop-metal album. This is like the greatest pastry chef in the universe making a donut. This is Kobe on my team for two-on-two. This means my efforts to manipulate his thoughts have succeeded and boy howdy! He just booked his first live date too! Though he must've misheard my directive cuz it's in fucking Europe, which happened with Faith No More too. Shit. Incidentally, this applies to Mike Patton, too, cuz the heavy pop dalliances of each are goddamn fucking awesome. One could make a (shamefully brief) mixtape of these tracks (opening with "Fluke," above), but a post 9/11 Hysteria, as Townsend indirectly promises this November, would pretty much explode my reality. Somebody tell Patton to take off that tinfoil hat.



I'm successful with the ladies thanks to a system of Copperfield-esque diversions and infusions of alcohol so I'm free to commit questionable acts like eschewing the only implicitly homoerotic football game (Favre you shank) for TCM's feature presentation of Gigi, a fruity musical about the transformation of a Parisian tomboy into a young woman much to the delight of her bored would-be suitor. For the record, it's that rotten Robert Osbourne who sucks you in with intros, providing valuable context and endorsements. Lucky for me, it turns out that Gigi is less gay than NFL after all, what with its opening number, sung by a leering old man, called 'Thank Heaven For Little Girls'. That's right, I just defended my heterosexuality by pointing out that Gigi is uncomfortably pedophilic. I'm not sure that's a word but I'm not going to fucking google it unless I want Pete Townsend showing up here followed by the FBI.

Anyway, hours after my brush with perilous erotic messages, my antidote was to rub a bunch of Slayer on my balls. That shit defeats the pernicious influence of foofoo dandies mincing (Gigi was awesome btw) or tight-panted men penetrating each other's defenses while also protecting their own brown thing. After Decade of Aggression, I feel much straighter again but now I kinda want to skull-bang a dead nazi or something. Ick.


I was thinking about Dokken today (yesssss I was watching Nightmare on Elm Street 3) and hey did anyone else think at first that they were European? If you had any awareness of the scene and George Lynch's rep back then, you'd know otherwise. But if say you grew up in the indifferent suburbs of the nation's box spring, L.A. might as well have been fucking Laos. So anyway, the first hint was their bizarre name, which seemed to belong to a German coffeemaker or golf clubs used by Japanese businessmen. It turned out to be the pouty one's last name. Then you have the brooding, minor key rockers and dignity-free histrionics that would embarrass Coverdale, each song treating infidelity and heartbreak like pending nuclear holocaust. Oh oh and the bad metaphors, with which Don warns against unchaining the night and the perils of a "Heartless Heart" whatever that shit means. Anyway it says here that in the band Dokken's pre-natal stages, Don guested on a Scorpions album (shudder) and through an acquaintance with Accept landed a record deal in Europe. So there you have it. This was supposed to be about Slayer. Sorry bout that but Dokken is hilarious.



It's obvious that we all love Metal Insider for their concise analysis of current events and industry trends. MI displays an unsightly maturity unseen in most Metal media, for example in a recent piece about the CD format at age 27. The article demands that they reference a bunch of suckass records -- each a benchmark in CD history -- which MI kindly resists excercising their journalistic right to mercilessly belittle. Billy Joel? Seriously? That guy can shampoo my crotch.

But MI closes with feel-good nostalgia thanks to which I remember my first CD; it was Rust in Peace in the longbox and I'm very proud of that. The first ever loaded and played is ...And Justice For All, and if this seems too convenient that my virginal experiences with CD involve these high-watermarks of Thrash and not Poison or worse, first of all, I think your attitude sucks. And if my memory were a fucking liar, it sooo would've rewritten history regarding the first CD I ever heard: The Bangles' Different Light. Shit. It was over pancakes at Cory's house with his hip divorcé dad and his generously beknockered sisters. It was my first up-close look at an indecipherable intellectual and untamed/incidental boobage, respectively. But that day I was more impressed with this comparitively sleek, uber-precise CD player thing; to illustrate how cool Cory's dad was, I'll explain that he had books everywhere, wrote books himself, made a living as a college professor, edited a terrifying literary journal, and owned the first CD player I ever laid eyes on. Oh and though he spent what $2800 on the fucker, his daughters (the eldest and beautiful) ruled over the owner and his sons (Beastie Boys fans). And hence, the Bangles breakfast. That story's quite sweaty but honestly, just hum a few bars of the the title track and I smell syrup and feel a tingle in my junk.