Wow, didn't think I was gonna miss that many days. Work got all kinds of crazy and I wasn't paying as much attention to this blog as I told myself I would, you see. I had a choice between sleep and updating this blog, and being the lazy bastard I am I chose sleep.
Anyway...
So, it's St. Patrick's Day. Woo-hoo, I guess? It's kinda silly this is a high-profile holiday at all. Not many saint's days are, apart from St. Valentine's Day (in honor of the saint who discovered a heretofore-unknown scriptural passage specifically allowing the exchange of chocolate for sex--that the passage was in handwriting closely resembling his own is universally considered irrelevant), Halloween (named of course after the Hallowed St. Ween, who forbade the practice of putting razorblades in children's apples unless you really, REALLY want the little fucker dead), and of course today. And at least you get candy out of the former examples, unlike on St. Patrick's Day. So why, then, did it take off?
As with so many other things in life, we can blame this on the damn Irish. This country is home to many a long-distant descendant of those potato-snarfing bastards, many of whom think being one-eighth Irish is their most interesting personality trait. Most of them are right. So, come St. Pat's they celebrate by congregating in urine-soaked bars, getting piss-drunk on watery Guinness (sorry for the redundancy), loudly complaining about the blacks, watching The Boondock Saints (the alcohol having dulled their sense of artistic taste to an appropriately low level) and staggering home to beat their fat crucifix-fondling wives, bellowing like the damned every step of the way. You know, the same thing they do every Saturday. You'd think they'd switch things up a bit for the occasion--getting piss-drunk on watery Killian's Irish Red, watching Leprechaun: In The Hood (too many black people?), walking home quietly and beating their numerous children, for example.
Oh, and somewhere in all that there's something about wearing green, on pain of getting pinched. Not being one to kowtow to the Paddy O'Furniture I of course refuse such nonsense, indeed going out of my way to not wear green that day. This year I'm going one better--I have successfully developed the "anti-green", a hue which is the exact opposite and antithesis of green. It turns out to be a sort of brownish-pink color, like the stuff that comes out of a cyst. I plan to slather myself head-to-toe with anti-green paint before I head out to work today. Sure, it might be frowned upon, but it's not specifically prohibited in the employee dress code...on account of it being insane, but the point still stands I think.
Unlike every other holiday observed by the American public at large, St. Patrick's Day has resisted the encroachment of the greeting-card industry with surprising irascibility. I mean, you see green paper plates and crepe streamers, along with the odd leprechaun-festooned party favor, but they're usually pushed into one lonely cardboard display rack shoved in wherever there's space between the Easter candy. No, the real money in the holiday has always gone, and no doubt always shall go, directly into the pockets of producers and purveyors of alcoholic beverages. Because the Irish and all their half-blood ilk are all filthy, irresponsible drunks and inordinately proud of the fact. Did I mention that yet? I keep getting the feeling I forgot something.
And the leprechaun--Stickly, there's something else. Has any mythological creature undergone quite so much badass decay as the Fair Folk? Back in the day they were some nightmarish combination of Cthulhu and Johnny the Homicidal Maniac--now they hang around pools waiting to refill your life hearts. (A similar point can be made concerning the modern-day depiction of angels versus how they were portrayed in the actual Bible, but that's neither here nor there.) What, you think I'm making shit up? You ever see Darby O'Gill And The Little People? That movie scared the piss out of me as a kid, and not just because Sean Connery sings in it. I never cease to be amazed by the human race's tendency to reduce mythological pants-shitting horror to children's entertainment (i.e. fairy tales. Yes, all of them).
You ever think that's gonna happen to us? Like, centuries from now they'll be making animated movies featuring Freddy Krueger breakdancing and singing about friendship? Actually, that sounds kind of awesome. Never mind.
Couldn't suck as much as the Irish, anyway.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
This one takes a very weird turn near the end
I used to love Marshmallow Peeps.
Couldn't get enough of them. Every year when Easter season rolled around, there I'd be at the store, snapping them up. I must have been eating something like three boxes a week back then, that time of year. The Bunnies were my favorite--'cuz of the texture, you see.
This wasn't always the case. When I was younger the very idea of Peeps revolted me. I'd never actually tried any--it was the very concept of the thing I found so off-putting. At some point my parents got me a single, giant Peep one Easter as a joke. I figured "what the hell", ate it--and discovered I actually enjoyed it. From then on, I was hooked.
Strange thing, though--even once they started selling holiday-appropriate Peeps more or less year-round, I still only ate them around Easter. Any other time just felt like cheating--spoiled the magic, if you will. Same reason people only eat candy corn around Halloween (apart from candy corn tasting like pre-chewed Tootsie rolls, that is)--it just isn't done.
Somewhere along the way, though, it all changed. I remember I was halfway through a box of Peeps when a sudden realization struck me like a DU round:
This is the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted.
This is not the only time something like this has happened. My once all-encompassing addiction to Mountain Dew Code Red was broken in a similar fashion, by the abrupt (and, again, mid-consumption) epiphany that its taste resembled nothing so much as cough syrup.
The difference in these two cases lies in the completeness of the break. While I haven't so much as touched Code Red since that fateful day, the benighted Peep still, somehow, maintains a vestigial hold on me. Every year, sometime during Easter season, I find myself compelled to purchase and eat a single box of the blasted bunnies. Some kind of bizarre tribute to the Gods of Confection, perhaps, or a twisted feeling of holiday spirit, Easter never having held any meaning to me beyond dyed eggs and piles of candy nestled in Astroturf-lined baskets. Now that I think of it, the latter explanation seems more likely--I plan to feed my next batch of hard-boiled eggs through the Paas machine, same as last year. I even plan to make yet another annual attempt to drink the contents of one of the cups of dye. I may even succeed this time, obviating the need for any further attempts.
But that's besides the point. The point is, I got my Peeps quota out of the way this morning.
They were the bunnies, of course--always the bunnies. Pink ones. I'd hoped to find season-appropriate green ones, but no such luck. I noticed they're not holding the sugar so well anymore--the pink shit got everywhere, including my eyes (I'd rather not talk about that). Somebody's getting sloppy. Probably me.
About the eyes on those things--man, even when I actually liked these things the eyes always bugged me. What are they made of? They don't taste like anything. Actually, come to think of it that's not true. They taste like old scabs (or, uh, so I'd imagine). Appropriate I guess, since that's what they look like.
How were they? About as awful as I remembered. I didn't think it was possible to fuck up a marshmallow, but somehow Peeps manage it. Leaving the sugar-shit coating aside, they just taste...flattened. If there's such a thing as unleavened marshmallows, Peeps would be they. And the sugar coating just makes it worse--they use way too much of it, always have. It's like eating a marshmallow cocooned in fine-grain sandpaper.
So, yeah, pretty awful. Plus I think they've upped the dye content or something--when I went to brush my teeth I noticed the toothpaste suds were all pink. I never noticed that before. It makes sense--why go for quality when you can get vibrancy at a fraction of the price? All you need do is get beleaguered mothers to toss the product in the shopping cart to quell their screaming brats--then the money's in the register, regardless of whether anyone eats them or not.
What is it about these things, anyway? Did I ever really like them per se, or was I just so surprised by their failure to be sublimely horrid I convinced myself such? Despite what I said above, Peeps aren't the worst thing I've ever eaten, not by far. It just happened to be the worst thing in my mouth right at that moment. And I had a great many things in my mouth just then--I'm still compiling a list. Certainly I don't maintain a ritualistic relationship with any of the other appallingly unhealthy foodstuffs I've sworn off over the years. I don't, say, walk into McDonald's on the anniversary of my first viewing of Super Size Me and order the #3 combo. Nor do I mainline Mountain Dew Code Red when I get a cold. You get the idea.
Perhaps I should find a healthier, thematically similar substitute. Like say, every year around Easter I find a warren full of baby rabbits and swallow them all whole. Good source of protein, baby rabbits. Plus the fur is great for scouring out your colon--each one's like a little scrub brush! Oh, don't look at me that way--they're rabbits, notorious for their fecundity. It's not like I'm going to swallow a baby rabbit only to belatedly realize it was the last rabbit on earth. Actually, in that situation I might go ahead and do it anyway. It's not like the little squirt's going to singlehandedly refresh the lagomorph population or anything. Plus I imagine being the last rabbit on earth would suck. What's worse--suffocating in gastric juices or dying of a loneliness-induced broken heart?
Which, I ask? Which?
Couldn't get enough of them. Every year when Easter season rolled around, there I'd be at the store, snapping them up. I must have been eating something like three boxes a week back then, that time of year. The Bunnies were my favorite--'cuz of the texture, you see.
This wasn't always the case. When I was younger the very idea of Peeps revolted me. I'd never actually tried any--it was the very concept of the thing I found so off-putting. At some point my parents got me a single, giant Peep one Easter as a joke. I figured "what the hell", ate it--and discovered I actually enjoyed it. From then on, I was hooked.
Strange thing, though--even once they started selling holiday-appropriate Peeps more or less year-round, I still only ate them around Easter. Any other time just felt like cheating--spoiled the magic, if you will. Same reason people only eat candy corn around Halloween (apart from candy corn tasting like pre-chewed Tootsie rolls, that is)--it just isn't done.
Somewhere along the way, though, it all changed. I remember I was halfway through a box of Peeps when a sudden realization struck me like a DU round:
This is the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted.
This is not the only time something like this has happened. My once all-encompassing addiction to Mountain Dew Code Red was broken in a similar fashion, by the abrupt (and, again, mid-consumption) epiphany that its taste resembled nothing so much as cough syrup.
The difference in these two cases lies in the completeness of the break. While I haven't so much as touched Code Red since that fateful day, the benighted Peep still, somehow, maintains a vestigial hold on me. Every year, sometime during Easter season, I find myself compelled to purchase and eat a single box of the blasted bunnies. Some kind of bizarre tribute to the Gods of Confection, perhaps, or a twisted feeling of holiday spirit, Easter never having held any meaning to me beyond dyed eggs and piles of candy nestled in Astroturf-lined baskets. Now that I think of it, the latter explanation seems more likely--I plan to feed my next batch of hard-boiled eggs through the Paas machine, same as last year. I even plan to make yet another annual attempt to drink the contents of one of the cups of dye. I may even succeed this time, obviating the need for any further attempts.
But that's besides the point. The point is, I got my Peeps quota out of the way this morning.
They were the bunnies, of course--always the bunnies. Pink ones. I'd hoped to find season-appropriate green ones, but no such luck. I noticed they're not holding the sugar so well anymore--the pink shit got everywhere, including my eyes (I'd rather not talk about that). Somebody's getting sloppy. Probably me.
About the eyes on those things--man, even when I actually liked these things the eyes always bugged me. What are they made of? They don't taste like anything. Actually, come to think of it that's not true. They taste like old scabs (or, uh, so I'd imagine). Appropriate I guess, since that's what they look like.
How were they? About as awful as I remembered. I didn't think it was possible to fuck up a marshmallow, but somehow Peeps manage it. Leaving the sugar-shit coating aside, they just taste...flattened. If there's such a thing as unleavened marshmallows, Peeps would be they. And the sugar coating just makes it worse--they use way too much of it, always have. It's like eating a marshmallow cocooned in fine-grain sandpaper.
So, yeah, pretty awful. Plus I think they've upped the dye content or something--when I went to brush my teeth I noticed the toothpaste suds were all pink. I never noticed that before. It makes sense--why go for quality when you can get vibrancy at a fraction of the price? All you need do is get beleaguered mothers to toss the product in the shopping cart to quell their screaming brats--then the money's in the register, regardless of whether anyone eats them or not.
What is it about these things, anyway? Did I ever really like them per se, or was I just so surprised by their failure to be sublimely horrid I convinced myself such? Despite what I said above, Peeps aren't the worst thing I've ever eaten, not by far. It just happened to be the worst thing in my mouth right at that moment. And I had a great many things in my mouth just then--I'm still compiling a list. Certainly I don't maintain a ritualistic relationship with any of the other appallingly unhealthy foodstuffs I've sworn off over the years. I don't, say, walk into McDonald's on the anniversary of my first viewing of Super Size Me and order the #3 combo. Nor do I mainline Mountain Dew Code Red when I get a cold. You get the idea.
Perhaps I should find a healthier, thematically similar substitute. Like say, every year around Easter I find a warren full of baby rabbits and swallow them all whole. Good source of protein, baby rabbits. Plus the fur is great for scouring out your colon--each one's like a little scrub brush! Oh, don't look at me that way--they're rabbits, notorious for their fecundity. It's not like I'm going to swallow a baby rabbit only to belatedly realize it was the last rabbit on earth. Actually, in that situation I might go ahead and do it anyway. It's not like the little squirt's going to singlehandedly refresh the lagomorph population or anything. Plus I imagine being the last rabbit on earth would suck. What's worse--suffocating in gastric juices or dying of a loneliness-induced broken heart?
Which, I ask? Which?
Gyaahhhh...
Well.
I know I said yesterday how my mind was clear for the second half-hour, and I might well write about pretty much anything. I was even formulating a humorous short piece--a re-telling of St. Patrick expelling the snakes from Ireland, utilizing several Irish ethnic stereotypes for comedic effect, if you must know.
But that shall have to wait. It's now abundantly clear that there's only one thing on my mind, and therefore only one thing I could possibly write about:
This. Fucking. Headache.
It feels like I'm being shot between the eyes in slow motion. It feels like someone was running a jackhammer in my skull, dropped it and now it's pounding away at the back of my brow. It feels like the pile of wasp eggs nested in my cranium are hatching and the larvae are chewing their way out.
It feels, as I mentioned on Facebook, like God shit in my brain.
What did I ever do to him? Questions I know the answers to I don't need to ask, I guess.
I just wish I knew where it came from. The last time something like this happened I was hung over, but I don't have that excuse this time, sadly enough--then at least I'd have enjoyed the lead-up. Right now I'm guessing a combination of stress, fatigue, the change in weather, several hours of listening to fire alarms, paint fumes, and a recent reduction in caffeine intake. At least, that's what I hope it is. High on my very long list of things I really, really don't need is a brain tumor.
There must be an upside. I have to see an upside. Luckily, there is an upside. Damn, I'm going all optimistic.
I now have something to write about.
I started this, the first day of my new writing regimen, somewhat at a loss for material. Hell, you saw the last post--I was reduced to wittering on about squirrels and how I revel in tormenting my stupid cat. But now? Now I'm good and worked up. Now I can sit here merrily tapping away about how it feels like I'm trying to sprout a third eye (having seemingly chosen to interpret Eastern mysticism a tad too literally) whilst cursing myself for never getting around to buying ibuprofen.
And it could be worse, as it always can be. It no longer hurts to breathe through my nose. Much. Getting some dinner down my throat seems to be helping (now, ironically, I begin to worry I'm not eating enough). And standing upright merely brings about a dull pounding, as opposed to a full-on horse's hoof to the face.
What's really odd about all this is how my Pandora station doesn't seem to bother me one bit. You'd think if fire alarms make it worse, Hate Eternal certainly would. Seems not to be the case, though. If this is cancer it might actually be helping--I'm pretty sure the music I listen to is capable of beating tumors to death with its metaphorical bare fists.
You know, I wasn't even gonna do this tonight. I thought the headache was the perfect excuse for getting out of this. But nope, here I am. Maybe I'm more of a writer than I thought. Well, I have always enjoyed complaining.
I know I said yesterday how my mind was clear for the second half-hour, and I might well write about pretty much anything. I was even formulating a humorous short piece--a re-telling of St. Patrick expelling the snakes from Ireland, utilizing several Irish ethnic stereotypes for comedic effect, if you must know.
But that shall have to wait. It's now abundantly clear that there's only one thing on my mind, and therefore only one thing I could possibly write about:
This. Fucking. Headache.
It feels like I'm being shot between the eyes in slow motion. It feels like someone was running a jackhammer in my skull, dropped it and now it's pounding away at the back of my brow. It feels like the pile of wasp eggs nested in my cranium are hatching and the larvae are chewing their way out.
It feels, as I mentioned on Facebook, like God shit in my brain.
What did I ever do to him? Questions I know the answers to I don't need to ask, I guess.
I just wish I knew where it came from. The last time something like this happened I was hung over, but I don't have that excuse this time, sadly enough--then at least I'd have enjoyed the lead-up. Right now I'm guessing a combination of stress, fatigue, the change in weather, several hours of listening to fire alarms, paint fumes, and a recent reduction in caffeine intake. At least, that's what I hope it is. High on my very long list of things I really, really don't need is a brain tumor.
There must be an upside. I have to see an upside. Luckily, there is an upside. Damn, I'm going all optimistic.
I now have something to write about.
I started this, the first day of my new writing regimen, somewhat at a loss for material. Hell, you saw the last post--I was reduced to wittering on about squirrels and how I revel in tormenting my stupid cat. But now? Now I'm good and worked up. Now I can sit here merrily tapping away about how it feels like I'm trying to sprout a third eye (having seemingly chosen to interpret Eastern mysticism a tad too literally) whilst cursing myself for never getting around to buying ibuprofen.
And it could be worse, as it always can be. It no longer hurts to breathe through my nose. Much. Getting some dinner down my throat seems to be helping (now, ironically, I begin to worry I'm not eating enough). And standing upright merely brings about a dull pounding, as opposed to a full-on horse's hoof to the face.
What's really odd about all this is how my Pandora station doesn't seem to bother me one bit. You'd think if fire alarms make it worse, Hate Eternal certainly would. Seems not to be the case, though. If this is cancer it might actually be helping--I'm pretty sure the music I listen to is capable of beating tumors to death with its metaphorical bare fists.
You know, I wasn't even gonna do this tonight. I thought the headache was the perfect excuse for getting out of this. But nope, here I am. Maybe I'm more of a writer than I thought. Well, I have always enjoyed complaining.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Nothing worth telling Facebook about
What does it mean when the name of the record label is printed in larger text than the name of the band? Lack of support? That can't be it in this case--they were a pretty big name back then. Mere carelessness? More likely--labels aren't known for their consideration of such matters.
An explanation. I was trying to think of something to write just now, happened to glance over at a CD laying on my desk and noticed that detail. You find inspiration in the strangest places.
I shouldn't leave that CD just lying out like that, actually. It's liable to get scratched up, and even with the album safely ensconced within my iPod it's always nice to have a hard-copy backup. I know where the case is--I'll get up and put it in there. One of these days. Probably. Pretty much my default attitude to any housekeeping.
I did at least get around to throwing away some of these surplus phone books, at least. Seems like every other week some phone company is dumping one or two on my doorstep. Like my bookshelves aren't warped enough from my horribly unfair insistence that they do the job for which they were constructed. I don't know why they even bother--they're probably all the same numbers and anyone I might want to call is in my cellphone already.
Nothing in my chosen profession on Craigslist today. I really need to just find another line of work. I want a change of pace, so why only go halfway? But doing what, exactly? Crap. I should've stayed in college.
The cat's staring out the front window, on the lookout for squirrels. Meanwhile she misses the squirrel scampering around the backyard...
Arrgh, this isn't working. I came here to write and I'm turning this blog into a glorified Twitter account. I think I'll cut this session short to half an hour. I'll do the other half when I get home tonight.
Still, this is something, right? On an ordinary day I'd write, let's see, nothing, and here I've gone and written something. I mean far as I'm concerned it's nothing, but it's a more substantial nothing than usual. A warm-up, if you will. Plus now I've cleared my head to think about what I'll write tonight. Maybe I'll work on one of those projects I've had piling up.
Ooh, the sun's coming out now! It's still early enough in the year I'm actually happy to see it. Of course I'll have changed my tune by about mid-July when I'm well and truly turned into living bacon. Even then I doubt I'll miss rain. I really did move to the wrong city.
The cat's washing herself on top of my monitor again. I keep telling her it's not a bathtub. She refuses to listen, no matter how many times I fill the actual tub with ice-cold water and chuck her in.
An explanation. I was trying to think of something to write just now, happened to glance over at a CD laying on my desk and noticed that detail. You find inspiration in the strangest places.
I shouldn't leave that CD just lying out like that, actually. It's liable to get scratched up, and even with the album safely ensconced within my iPod it's always nice to have a hard-copy backup. I know where the case is--I'll get up and put it in there. One of these days. Probably. Pretty much my default attitude to any housekeeping.
I did at least get around to throwing away some of these surplus phone books, at least. Seems like every other week some phone company is dumping one or two on my doorstep. Like my bookshelves aren't warped enough from my horribly unfair insistence that they do the job for which they were constructed. I don't know why they even bother--they're probably all the same numbers and anyone I might want to call is in my cellphone already.
Nothing in my chosen profession on Craigslist today. I really need to just find another line of work. I want a change of pace, so why only go halfway? But doing what, exactly? Crap. I should've stayed in college.
The cat's staring out the front window, on the lookout for squirrels. Meanwhile she misses the squirrel scampering around the backyard...
Arrgh, this isn't working. I came here to write and I'm turning this blog into a glorified Twitter account. I think I'll cut this session short to half an hour. I'll do the other half when I get home tonight.
Still, this is something, right? On an ordinary day I'd write, let's see, nothing, and here I've gone and written something. I mean far as I'm concerned it's nothing, but it's a more substantial nothing than usual. A warm-up, if you will. Plus now I've cleared my head to think about what I'll write tonight. Maybe I'll work on one of those projects I've had piling up.
Ooh, the sun's coming out now! It's still early enough in the year I'm actually happy to see it. Of course I'll have changed my tune by about mid-July when I'm well and truly turned into living bacon. Even then I doubt I'll miss rain. I really did move to the wrong city.
The cat's washing herself on top of my monitor again. I keep telling her it's not a bathtub. She refuses to listen, no matter how many times I fill the actual tub with ice-cold water and chuck her in.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Your (some indeterminate time period) music video
So I tried to make fun of another music video, couldn't make it funny and wound up deleting it. Here's another video as a consolation prize.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I've got more features than posts these days
So I was in Everyday Music a few weeks back when I stumbled across something I just knew I had to have. It was a certain used CD--ancient, cheaper than your mom, and funnier than a Tommy Wiseau sex scene. I snapped it up (without the expected strange looks from the clerk, disappointingly) and scurried home to upload it to my iPod.
As I listened to my acquisition (the subject of today's post) that night, the concept for a new recurring feature germinated in my mind. This CD represented a fertile field of music criticism--the Embarrassing Album. You know what I mean--a band releases a record that, for whatever reason, they ought to be ashamed of. This could be due to bad production, abysmal songwriting, inappropriate genre/style shifts, lineup changes, a combination of these or other factors, etc. Whatever it is, these albums have the ability to put even a band's most fervent fans in a torches-and-pitchforks mood. Very often the band itself will express dismay with the finished product; however, they'll just as often stubbornly brush off criticism and soldier on with the new sound. This, to put it mildly, rarely ends well.
This isn't the case with today's album. Mercifully. Submitted for your (dis)approval: Ministry's With Sympathy.
Even if you're not a fan, you've probably heard Ministry on a movie soundtrack at some point. Certainly they're one of the more distinctive bands out there; their brand of pounding industrial music combined with Al Jourgensen's heroin-soaked, strangled-loudspeaker vocals is pretty much unmistakable. Just hearing a few seconds will make you think "Huh. Is that Ministry?"
This...is not the case on With Sympathy.
Nothing, nothing on this debut album correlates with the later band. Seriously. Don't believe me? Look, I'll show you. Here's a more typical Ministry song:
And here's a song from With Sympathy:
Now, I realize you probably have questions. Such as, say, "I don't understand--is Al Jourgensen behind this guy?" or "So was he doing more or less heroin back then?" or, most likely, "Are you absolutely sure this is the same Ministry?"
This last is quite relevant; Stickly knows bands names get repeated often enough (there've been, like, three Nirvanas. Seriously). But yes, I'm sure in this case. Not only is this that Ministry, it's that Ministry's debut album, their first and last for Arista Records. Not what I'd call an auspicious beginning, and Jourgensen agrees--he's referred to With Sympathy as "an abortion of an album", further elaborating:
"I consider it worse than that because it's not my album...I was the original Milli Vanilli, man. I'm serious. They (Arista) wrote the songs, they wrote the lyrics, they appointed producers, they appointed musicians. I even had management tell me what I could or couldn't dress like. It was like going to prison...I was young and stupid. I sold out before I even started. When you're living in a burned out squat where it snows through your roof into your living room, and you have extension cords a block long for space heaters, you're not going to say no to someone offering you 150 grand...It was really fucked up. I don't think I have a pretty face (on this, Jourgensen and I are in perfect agreement--C.), but someone up there apparently did. Either that, or they were happy to find a fucked up idiot that would say yes to everything they said..."(Decibel Magazine interview, Nov. 2007)
And this is coming from a guy who thought a "Lay Lady Lay" cover would be a good idea.
You may be pondering another question. "Now, C., is With Sympathy really THAT bad? Sure, it's...unusual, but Jourgensen's nothing if not experimental. For fuck's sake, he collaborated with Ian MacKaye of all people and I'm pretty sure he's had more heroin than blood in his veins for most of his career. And that song you posted isn't completely horrible; how bad can the rest of the album be?"
Is that an awful lot of words to put in your collective mouth? Sorry. But to answer your hypothetical query: pretty damn bad, actually.
I'll start with one thing which stands out in the above song--Jourgensen's singing voice. "Hey," you might be thinking (and this is the last hypothetical question/comment, swearsies) "I didn't know that guy was British!" Well...no. He's not. That's right, Al Jourgensen (or "Alain" Jourgensen, according to the liner credits) fakes a British accent for the entire album. That's not even the funny part. The funny part is, he does a great job of faking a British accent--he pulls it off all flawless-like. It's literally the only thing With Sympathy pulls off consistently well. If you didn't know the band's later reputation (and remember, this is a debut album), you'd never suspect Jourgensen wasn't British. That's old Al for you--even when he's so baked he literally can't remember recording entire albums (and presumably greenlighting retch-worthy covers for said albums) you can't fault his work ethic.
The same way With Sympathy does the phony-baloney accent consistently well, one thing is done consistently badly--the production. This becomes apparent from the first moments of the opening song, "Effigy (I'm Not An)". The whole album sounds that weak and, I don't know, farty. It sounds like one of those TV shows or commercials set in the 80s whose producers didn't feel like springing for song rights, so they just strung together a few vagely new-wavey sounding beeps and boops and called it a club scene. Or, if you prefer, like the soundtrack to pretty much any porno movie.
The composition's about as inspired as the production--even if you hate new wave (and I don't, believe it or not--at least, not always) the instrumentation's so generic you have a hard time working up much loathing for it. With Sympathy sounds every inch the cash-in it is--a bland, factory-stamped also-ran meant to wring a few more pennies out of this new-fangled music all the kids are talking about these days (you know, assuming "these days" is 1983).
No, it's in the lyrics where the veils of mediocrity fall from With Sympathy to let the true crap shine through. Most of them reminded me of nursery rhymes more than anything else--see above video ("the corridor, yes, the corridor"? Lolwut?). Though you at least have to give "What He Say" credit for including the word "Swaziland". That, and being the album's worst/funniest song (which I know is saying a hell of a lot), thanks to its faux-mariachi/world music pretensions.
The sad part of all this--the truly, desperately sad part--is, someone out there, some dreary distasteful shell of what I only loosely deem a human being to be sure, having taken the band's future discography into account, still thinks this is the best Ministry album. It might even be you.
But perhaps I'm being too harsh. Sure, With Sympathy is bad, but it falls very much on the "so bad it's good" side of the scale. Certainly it's nothing a band like Ministry wants on its discography (especially as a debut), but in the end it's mostly inoffensive and forgettable.
It's certainly not as bad as some of the other albums I have in mind...
As I listened to my acquisition (the subject of today's post) that night, the concept for a new recurring feature germinated in my mind. This CD represented a fertile field of music criticism--the Embarrassing Album. You know what I mean--a band releases a record that, for whatever reason, they ought to be ashamed of. This could be due to bad production, abysmal songwriting, inappropriate genre/style shifts, lineup changes, a combination of these or other factors, etc. Whatever it is, these albums have the ability to put even a band's most fervent fans in a torches-and-pitchforks mood. Very often the band itself will express dismay with the finished product; however, they'll just as often stubbornly brush off criticism and soldier on with the new sound. This, to put it mildly, rarely ends well.
This isn't the case with today's album. Mercifully. Submitted for your (dis)approval: Ministry's With Sympathy.
Even if you're not a fan, you've probably heard Ministry on a movie soundtrack at some point. Certainly they're one of the more distinctive bands out there; their brand of pounding industrial music combined with Al Jourgensen's heroin-soaked, strangled-loudspeaker vocals is pretty much unmistakable. Just hearing a few seconds will make you think "Huh. Is that Ministry?"
This...is not the case on With Sympathy.
Nothing, nothing on this debut album correlates with the later band. Seriously. Don't believe me? Look, I'll show you. Here's a more typical Ministry song:
And here's a song from With Sympathy:
Now, I realize you probably have questions. Such as, say, "I don't understand--is Al Jourgensen behind this guy?" or "So was he doing more or less heroin back then?" or, most likely, "Are you absolutely sure this is the same Ministry?"
This last is quite relevant; Stickly knows bands names get repeated often enough (there've been, like, three Nirvanas. Seriously). But yes, I'm sure in this case. Not only is this that Ministry, it's that Ministry's debut album, their first and last for Arista Records. Not what I'd call an auspicious beginning, and Jourgensen agrees--he's referred to With Sympathy as "an abortion of an album", further elaborating:
"I consider it worse than that because it's not my album...I was the original Milli Vanilli, man. I'm serious. They (Arista) wrote the songs, they wrote the lyrics, they appointed producers, they appointed musicians. I even had management tell me what I could or couldn't dress like. It was like going to prison...I was young and stupid. I sold out before I even started. When you're living in a burned out squat where it snows through your roof into your living room, and you have extension cords a block long for space heaters, you're not going to say no to someone offering you 150 grand...It was really fucked up. I don't think I have a pretty face (on this, Jourgensen and I are in perfect agreement--C.), but someone up there apparently did. Either that, or they were happy to find a fucked up idiot that would say yes to everything they said..."(Decibel Magazine interview, Nov. 2007)
And this is coming from a guy who thought a "Lay Lady Lay" cover would be a good idea.
You may be pondering another question. "Now, C., is With Sympathy really THAT bad? Sure, it's...unusual, but Jourgensen's nothing if not experimental. For fuck's sake, he collaborated with Ian MacKaye of all people and I'm pretty sure he's had more heroin than blood in his veins for most of his career. And that song you posted isn't completely horrible; how bad can the rest of the album be?"
Is that an awful lot of words to put in your collective mouth? Sorry. But to answer your hypothetical query: pretty damn bad, actually.
I'll start with one thing which stands out in the above song--Jourgensen's singing voice. "Hey," you might be thinking (and this is the last hypothetical question/comment, swearsies) "I didn't know that guy was British!" Well...no. He's not. That's right, Al Jourgensen (or "Alain" Jourgensen, according to the liner credits) fakes a British accent for the entire album. That's not even the funny part. The funny part is, he does a great job of faking a British accent--he pulls it off all flawless-like. It's literally the only thing With Sympathy pulls off consistently well. If you didn't know the band's later reputation (and remember, this is a debut album), you'd never suspect Jourgensen wasn't British. That's old Al for you--even when he's so baked he literally can't remember recording entire albums (and presumably greenlighting retch-worthy covers for said albums) you can't fault his work ethic.
The same way With Sympathy does the phony-baloney accent consistently well, one thing is done consistently badly--the production. This becomes apparent from the first moments of the opening song, "Effigy (I'm Not An)". The whole album sounds that weak and, I don't know, farty. It sounds like one of those TV shows or commercials set in the 80s whose producers didn't feel like springing for song rights, so they just strung together a few vagely new-wavey sounding beeps and boops and called it a club scene. Or, if you prefer, like the soundtrack to pretty much any porno movie.
The composition's about as inspired as the production--even if you hate new wave (and I don't, believe it or not--at least, not always) the instrumentation's so generic you have a hard time working up much loathing for it. With Sympathy sounds every inch the cash-in it is--a bland, factory-stamped also-ran meant to wring a few more pennies out of this new-fangled music all the kids are talking about these days (you know, assuming "these days" is 1983).
No, it's in the lyrics where the veils of mediocrity fall from With Sympathy to let the true crap shine through. Most of them reminded me of nursery rhymes more than anything else--see above video ("the corridor, yes, the corridor"? Lolwut?). Though you at least have to give "What He Say" credit for including the word "Swaziland". That, and being the album's worst/funniest song (which I know is saying a hell of a lot), thanks to its faux-mariachi/world music pretensions.
The sad part of all this--the truly, desperately sad part--is, someone out there, some dreary distasteful shell of what I only loosely deem a human being to be sure, having taken the band's future discography into account, still thinks this is the best Ministry album. It might even be you.
But perhaps I'm being too harsh. Sure, With Sympathy is bad, but it falls very much on the "so bad it's good" side of the scale. Certainly it's nothing a band like Ministry wants on its discography (especially as a debut), but in the end it's mostly inoffensive and forgettable.
It's certainly not as bad as some of the other albums I have in mind...
Sunday, January 24, 2010
'Cuz this seems to be my favorite feature
Well, it took a little longer than I thought (due mostly to reasons of laziness) here I am, posting again. And what better way to get back in the swing than with yet another hilarious dissection of a crappy music video?
I'm doing something slightly different this time: I'm actually going to do a GOOD song. The video isn't even all that bad, it's just snarkworthy and strange as hell if you don't know where it's coming from. And I DO know.
Today we're covering a song by Finnish band Amorphis, who draw most of their lyrical inspiration from the Finnish national epic, the Kalevala. Originally compiled from a series of loosely-connected folktales by physician Elias Lonnrot in the 19th century, the epic provided the Finnish people with a heretofore-missing sense of national identity, leading them to seek independence from foreign oppression with their army of terrifyingly skilled, invulnerable snipers. No, that picture's not Photoshopped. The really scary part? It was an EXPLODING bullet. Remind me never to pick a fight with a Finnish guy, ever.
Something else you need to know about the Kalevala: it's really, REALLY fucking weird. Seriously, you thought the Egyptian gods marrying their siblings or Zeus turning into various animals to fuck random women was strange? That has NOTHING on stories of people getting turned into swamps or being pregnant for 700 years. You know you grew up in a weird place if a folktale of an immortal prehistoric blacksmith trying to replace his dead wife with a robot (the subject of today's song) is one of the less strange local myths.
Anyway, let's get started on the video proper:
I should begin by pointing out that this video doesn't include the entire song--about the first thirty seconds or so have been chopped off (yes, I own this album--no, I'm not Finnish). You're not missing out or anything, it's just a bit of intro and isn't at all integral to the rest of the song. Don't know why I brought it up, really...
0:03--The fu...this video is blacker than Tyler Perry!
0:05--Oh, wait, there we go. Damn, this opening riff is just so kickass...
0:08--Santa's Ilmarinen's off to have a little chat with his plastic surgeon re: his nosejob. And by "chat" I mean "he's going to dickcrush him with that hammer".
0:09--My, Finland sure is sepia today.
0:13--You know, if I was a talented enough blacksmith to make the FUCKING SKY I probably would've invented the razor at some point. Plus I'd probably wear a shirt. 'Cuz I've heard it's cold over there. Just saying.
0:16--But then, I was also under the impression Finland didn't have mountains. Shows what I know, right?
0:20--Eww, it's like he's wearing a hospital gown!
0:21--Sorry, I should have mentioned--Amorphis' singer is apparently Captain Jack Sparrow. Also, his voice is the only thing more kickass than that opening riff. He's much better than that nasally little bitch he replaced.
0:23--Yeah, Finland's Olympic fencing team isn't turning out well.
0:27--"Hmm...yes, there's DEFINITELY a woman in here!"
0:30--Most bands run like bitches when their venue catches fire. Not Amorphis. Funky Claude can suck it.
0:35--"I detect a hint of cilantro!"
0:39--"Welp, my wife got killed by the only actual villain in this epic and I couldn't even be bothered to get revenge. Still no reason to close the shop, I say!"
0:44--Sad to say, he probably thinks that hair's pretty metal. However, he commits the fatal error of being a white guy with dreads and winds up looking like he belongs in a Korn tribute band (do those really exist? Stickly, I hope not). Still, I guess it's the thought that counts.
0:53--You ever wonder why anvils are shaped the way they are? I do. I should research than and then disseminate (huh huh) what I find out. Maybe I'll film a documentary about anvils. I'll call it Anvil: The Story of Anvils and...FUCK.
0:58--Damn, this guy's FACE is a fire hazard.
1:07--Why is he dressed like a doorman?
1:11--Funny, that looks more like a fireplace poker. It makes sense--all women are cold metal implements, once you get right down to it.
1:17--You know, I think this guy should challenge Brian Fair to a dread-off. He'd lose, but he should still do it. Just to prove America's still #1 at something, damn it.
1:20--Dammit, would you just spring for a spirit level already?
1:27--Shouldn't he be wearing gloves or something? Basic conduction indicates that bar should be getting hot as fuck, right?
1:28--"STOP PLAYING COY, YOU FUCKING SLUT FORGE!!!"
1:30--Whoa, when the fuck did he do THAT? Ilmarinen Claus has mystical montage powers!
1:31--YOU GONNA GET RAPED
1:33--He seems nice, doesn't he? Stickly knows I'd let him babysit MY kids...but then, I hate children...
1:36--So is his head just really sooty or is that some kind of tattoo? I can't tell.
1:41--He got all this out of one chunk of rebar? Take THAT, Conservation of Matter and Energy!
1:44--Hey, he found the little man in the fire canoe!
1:47--Captain Jack's posture's even worse than mine...
1:51--I see he's above the vagoo-part now...he could just stop here really, everything from here on up is quite superfluous.
2:02--Weird how he can just hammer on it randomly and it'll still make a woman shape...
2:04--What, the feet again? Did Joss Whedon direct this?
2:06--It's even weirder how it burns like firewood, despite being metal and all.
2:08--AIIIGGGGH! LARS ULRICH!
2:16--Wow. At least the singer's white-boy dreads weren't on his face.
2:27--Yes, warm your hands over the fire 'cuz it's CLEARLY a bit nippy in there!
2:28--Okay, your fingers are actually IN the fire now. Clearly these are the same CGI people who worked on Alone In The Dark, except now they've progressed from ignoring obvious misses to ignoring obvious hits.
2:34--Hey, that's the guy who was staring at me at the bus stop yesterday!
2:47--Nope, not getting any creepy vibes off this guy at all!
2:57--Okay, time to get something off my chest: I really, really, REALLY don't like double-tracked vocals. It just makes it sound like the singer has two vocal chords or some shit.
3:02--I will say, though--Captain Jack can death-growl with the best of 'em...
3:14--Congratulations. You've made Persis Khambatta. She didn't have nipples either, right?
3:18--"I WINZ TEH KLAEHVLAHEH!"
Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. I just noticed. This guy shaves his armpits. HIS FUCKING ARMPITS. Just look at his face and then his armpits. Stickly. Just...STICKLY. I mean...I just...WHAT?!
So, yeah. I get the feeling I'll be covering a LOT of Finnish bands in these features. You can't have folklore this odd without producing a shit-ton of metal bands (many of them absolute shit) with crazy-ass videos to match.
And yes, I'm back. BITCHES.
I'm doing something slightly different this time: I'm actually going to do a GOOD song. The video isn't even all that bad, it's just snarkworthy and strange as hell if you don't know where it's coming from. And I DO know.
Today we're covering a song by Finnish band Amorphis, who draw most of their lyrical inspiration from the Finnish national epic, the Kalevala. Originally compiled from a series of loosely-connected folktales by physician Elias Lonnrot in the 19th century, the epic provided the Finnish people with a heretofore-missing sense of national identity, leading them to seek independence from foreign oppression with their army of terrifyingly skilled, invulnerable snipers. No, that picture's not Photoshopped. The really scary part? It was an EXPLODING bullet. Remind me never to pick a fight with a Finnish guy, ever.
Something else you need to know about the Kalevala: it's really, REALLY fucking weird. Seriously, you thought the Egyptian gods marrying their siblings or Zeus turning into various animals to fuck random women was strange? That has NOTHING on stories of people getting turned into swamps or being pregnant for 700 years. You know you grew up in a weird place if a folktale of an immortal prehistoric blacksmith trying to replace his dead wife with a robot (the subject of today's song) is one of the less strange local myths.
Anyway, let's get started on the video proper:
I should begin by pointing out that this video doesn't include the entire song--about the first thirty seconds or so have been chopped off (yes, I own this album--no, I'm not Finnish). You're not missing out or anything, it's just a bit of intro and isn't at all integral to the rest of the song. Don't know why I brought it up, really...
0:03--The fu...this video is blacker than Tyler Perry!
0:05--Oh, wait, there we go. Damn, this opening riff is just so kickass...
0:08--
0:09--My, Finland sure is sepia today.
0:13--You know, if I was a talented enough blacksmith to make the FUCKING SKY I probably would've invented the razor at some point. Plus I'd probably wear a shirt. 'Cuz I've heard it's cold over there. Just saying.
0:16--But then, I was also under the impression Finland didn't have mountains. Shows what I know, right?
0:20--Eww, it's like he's wearing a hospital gown!
0:21--Sorry, I should have mentioned--Amorphis' singer is apparently Captain Jack Sparrow. Also, his voice is the only thing more kickass than that opening riff. He's much better than that nasally little bitch he replaced.
0:23--Yeah, Finland's Olympic fencing team isn't turning out well.
0:27--"Hmm...yes, there's DEFINITELY a woman in here!"
0:30--Most bands run like bitches when their venue catches fire. Not Amorphis. Funky Claude can suck it.
0:35--"I detect a hint of cilantro!"
0:39--"Welp, my wife got killed by the only actual villain in this epic and I couldn't even be bothered to get revenge. Still no reason to close the shop, I say!"
0:44--Sad to say, he probably thinks that hair's pretty metal. However, he commits the fatal error of being a white guy with dreads and winds up looking like he belongs in a Korn tribute band (do those really exist? Stickly, I hope not). Still, I guess it's the thought that counts.
0:53--You ever wonder why anvils are shaped the way they are? I do. I should research than and then disseminate (huh huh) what I find out. Maybe I'll film a documentary about anvils. I'll call it Anvil: The Story of Anvils and...FUCK.
0:58--Damn, this guy's FACE is a fire hazard.
1:07--Why is he dressed like a doorman?
1:11--Funny, that looks more like a fireplace poker. It makes sense--all women are cold metal implements, once you get right down to it.
1:17--You know, I think this guy should challenge Brian Fair to a dread-off. He'd lose, but he should still do it. Just to prove America's still #1 at something, damn it.
1:20--Dammit, would you just spring for a spirit level already?
1:27--Shouldn't he be wearing gloves or something? Basic conduction indicates that bar should be getting hot as fuck, right?
1:28--"STOP PLAYING COY, YOU FUCKING SLUT FORGE!!!"
1:30--Whoa, when the fuck did he do THAT? Ilmarinen Claus has mystical montage powers!
1:31--YOU GONNA GET RAPED
1:33--He seems nice, doesn't he? Stickly knows I'd let him babysit MY kids...but then, I hate children...
1:36--So is his head just really sooty or is that some kind of tattoo? I can't tell.
1:41--He got all this out of one chunk of rebar? Take THAT, Conservation of Matter and Energy!
1:44--Hey, he found the little man in the fire canoe!
1:47--Captain Jack's posture's even worse than mine...
1:51--I see he's above the vagoo-part now...he could just stop here really, everything from here on up is quite superfluous.
2:02--Weird how he can just hammer on it randomly and it'll still make a woman shape...
2:04--What, the feet again? Did Joss Whedon direct this?
2:06--It's even weirder how it burns like firewood, despite being metal and all.
2:08--AIIIGGGGH! LARS ULRICH!
2:16--Wow. At least the singer's white-boy dreads weren't on his face.
2:27--Yes, warm your hands over the fire 'cuz it's CLEARLY a bit nippy in there!
2:28--Okay, your fingers are actually IN the fire now. Clearly these are the same CGI people who worked on Alone In The Dark, except now they've progressed from ignoring obvious misses to ignoring obvious hits.
2:34--Hey, that's the guy who was staring at me at the bus stop yesterday!
2:47--Nope, not getting any creepy vibes off this guy at all!
2:57--Okay, time to get something off my chest: I really, really, REALLY don't like double-tracked vocals. It just makes it sound like the singer has two vocal chords or some shit.
3:02--I will say, though--Captain Jack can death-growl with the best of 'em...
3:14--Congratulations. You've made Persis Khambatta. She didn't have nipples either, right?
3:18--"I WINZ TEH KLAEHVLAHEH!"
Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. I just noticed. This guy shaves his armpits. HIS FUCKING ARMPITS. Just look at his face and then his armpits. Stickly. Just...STICKLY. I mean...I just...WHAT?!
So, yeah. I get the feeling I'll be covering a LOT of Finnish bands in these features. You can't have folklore this odd without producing a shit-ton of metal bands (many of them absolute shit) with crazy-ass videos to match.
And yes, I'm back. BITCHES.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
