Where Can We Go From Here – Three New Metal Albums By Three Veterans

High on Fire
De Vermis Mysteriis
E-1 Records

So the other day I got to reading this article about St. Anger by the (once?) almighty Metallica. Reading about this atrocity to rock history got me wanting to watch the amazing documentary about the making of said album Some Kind of Monster. I trust the five regular readers that I have here are well versed in said movie. But basically its like watching a corporation freak out because their profit-making product is having emotional problems and all these grown men sent to baby sit the egos of these megastars bullshit them and placate them into making one of the worst albums in rock history. And once again, watching that movie made me mad, because …And Justice For All was the first metal album I bought and looking back, it’s influence on heavy metal, both in the mainstream and in the underground is undeniable. Sure it’s mess of poor mixing and sounds soft compared to the super compressed, hotly mastered albums of today. But …And Justice For All changed metal forever. It was soon this epic type of music, with composition lengths that grew and grew. It wasn’t just an album, it was a story, an epic journey in music that beat on you relentlessly. I think about modern American Black Metal and the ridiculously long songs those boys put out and I can’t help but think they were dudes my age rocking Metallica at their finest moment.

It was not long after this that metal began to suddenly get soft. Looking for crossover audiences and more access to  the once record buying publics wallets, Megadeth released Youthanasia and  countdown to Extinction, Metallica gave us the “BLACK” album, and everyone else was just trying to catch up and stay relevant as Pearl Jam and Nirvana wiped the slate clean. It was during this time frame, with the help of things like Lollapalooza, the emergence of indie labels and the general back lash to hair bands that true heavy metal was unfortunately lumped with that essentially drove metal back into the underground. Death Metal became a bit of an oddity and anomaly for a while, and it is there we find the greatness of metal’s history during that time frame. But even those really pissed off dudes couldn’t maintain their audience, despite the genre’s diverse sounds in its leaders (which I would consider Napalm Death, Cannibal Corpse, Obituary, Death and Morbid Angel the front-runners) (we’ll be getting to Napalm Death in a minute too). Metal just wasn’t cool, nor a force to be reckoned with. Except for the true believers.

So here is the part where the blogger breaks the fourth wall to once again talk directly to his readers about his experiences. It is important that this be done so that you can uphold the authenticity with which I am about to make future statements. Writers do not strive enough for authenticity and what you to believe they are experts. That’s how they sell ads in magazines and on blogs. It’s how they get you coming back. But I go for the honesty punch. So here goes. In 1991, I discovered Black Flag and Minor Threat and it just made everything else I heard in metal sound wimpy. Now, I’m not saying that punk rock ultimately is a better genre then metal, or a more original one. But one can not deny the fury, original style, passion and genre creation of Black Flag and Minor Threat. So as metal was reconfiguring itself (in 1992 black metal’s roots would begin to emerge, something I caught a glimpse of on my visit to Norway and thought it mostly to be a joke, driving me further from metal’s arms) I was expanding my palate and exploring the local scene of Washington DC.

Others kept going forward and in that time have taken metal to new heights and making it more relevant and solid. But one of the reasons I bring up Black Flag and Minor Threat, who remain staples of punk rock today is because they were originators. They threw everything out and built something new on the rubble. So while any genre gets more fans and grows and has more bands, everything after the first wave just becomes a derivative. So what do we do with that?

These have been my questions over the last few weeks as some of metal’s biggest names have released new albums. From what it seems, people in the music world can’t stop talking about High on Fire’s De Vermis Mysteriis. It seems to me that if you want to break out of your genre’s ghetto and get attention by mainstream and hipster press, you should write a loosely based concept album. I don’t think that High on Fire did this because they were seeking a bigger audience. In fact I think the stoner rockers, filled with piss fire know what they are and strive instead to just get louder and faster and heavier with each new album. But the pundits and intellectual mafia seem to love a bit of concept album to deconstruct endlessly. The problem with this is that the music is always secondary, even when it’s fantastic. High on Fire is no Fucked Up in their concept. The crooked, half-baked story line about Jesus’s dead twin, quantum leaping and some HP Lovecraft sci-fi never gets in the way of High on Fire stomping on your face. The songs aren’t tailored to fit the narrative, they just stomp and speed over your idiot face.

And in the cannon of careers this is a high point for producer Kurt Ballou. This sounds like High on Fire live, which is what made me like this band. I’m only familiar with their last three albums at this point, but Kurt took himself out of his post-hardcore ears and produced a loud, ugly, heavy record. Which is what High on Fire deserves, because they are a band that just seems like they belong in the 70′s rather than the new century. Matt Pike’s dusted, rusty vocals are the shit, and it somehow dates High On Fire to a time they didn’t exist in. Perhaps they took the time machine back and forth to create the ultimate in evil.

So here we have exhibit A, where metal has now emerged once again out of its own evil hole and into the light of more mainstream or hipster populations. Never mind that the band is opening the Mayhem festival, an energy drink sponsored traveling circus of some of metal’s most popular, but ultimately weakest bands from the “MetalCore” genre that no one who actually cares about music listens to. This is an attempt at growing an audience, perhaps to capture the old ears of Slayer and Anthrax fans or to confuse the casual Motorhead listener who only knows “Ace of Spades”. Will High on Fire break on through truly, probably not. Even opening for Mastodon on their last touring cycle the band couldn’t really catch a break. They keep putting out amazing albums, doing with metal the things they love, but it’s all derived from history.

Napalm Death
Utilitarian
Century Media

Napalm Death should always be refereed to as NAPALM FUCKING DEATH. Since 1987, bassist Shane Embury has embodied one of metal’s ugliest genres, and can be seen as an innovator of the genre of grindcore. The early history of the band is complex and just where this sound emerged from and who was responsible is difficult to asses (even after reading Choosing Death), but it’s clear that Embury was their from the beginning and has held a consistent line up for over 20 years now. In the case of Napalm Death putting out new music in 2012, it’s not a matter of whether they are historically important, but if they can maintain their heaviness.

Now once again, I have something to admit. I haven’t been a big Napalm fan since Fear, Emptiness, Despair. I just stopped checking in with them. Further, while I love grindcore, not many bands do grindcore justice. One of the things that I love about Pig Destroyer for instance is that the production is LOUD AS FUCKING SHIT and I want to hurt things when I listen to them. Most grind is low-fi basement nonsense that makes it sound childlike. It is the former that Napalm Death did on this their 15th album since 1987 that makes it true to form.

Utilitarian puts most younger bands to shame. Frankly, if your kids are listening to bands with dudes with make-up and pressed hair and not Napalm Death, you should put them down. Because we as a society have lost. It’s sadly not the youngsters that are keeping grind alive, and Napalm Death proves this. Singer Mark Greenway just sounds so damn heavy in his own right that the rest of the band has to, and dutifully does, keep up with his sunken low, but spitfire delivered growls. Even when the band takes some left turns, such as saxophone track early on, it’s just a hijacking of a style and sound the band is credited with originating. They set the standard, which was breaking all the rules of metal in the first place. Even when it catches the listener off guard, and it does every time you hear it, it belongs.

Ultimately, Utilitarian sounds more authentic than just about anything else you are going to hear come from metal this year. Partly because it’s made by the innovators, but also because the innovators decided not to take a back seat and show the kids how it’s done. There is no reason to even entertain albums that aren’t up to these standards, set firmly by the godfathers of grind.

Municipal Waste
The Fatal Feast
Nuclear Blast

The genre of Thrash Metal was one that never seemed to get it’s due. Granted all of the big four (Anthrax, Slayer, Megadeth and Metallica) had their roots in a thrash sound, but it was only Anthrax that ever made a name for themselves. Others had decent careers, though most still went the Megadeth/Slayer route in terms of subject matter. Only D.R.I seemed to be having the fun that Anthrax did. In fact, they were having more fun then the boys from New York City. Perhaps it was the sun, ever-present in their lives n Texas and then California. But DRI was a band that just seemed like they were having a good time.

So why it took so long for a band that so clearly worships DRI to emerge is unfathomable. But in 2000 the world lucked out and got Municipal Waste and for the last 12 years this band of Richmond knuckleheads have given us horror movie rock closer to The Toxic Avenger then Friday the 13th. The appeal of this band can not, nor should it be denied. And while the nod to DRI is clearly in effect, Municipal Waste could be seen as part of the first wave of thrash, twenty-five years too late.

I’m in love with The Fatal Feast. And not because I think it’s the greatest metal album, greatest thrash album, or even one of the best albums of 2012 (though I am sure it will get a mention in the top 5 by years end). I love it because it does exactly what I want from Municipal Waste. It delivers fast songs, with awesome blast beats and double bass, Minor Threat speed riffs and Tony Forressta’s demented lyrics, delivered like a true Richmond punk. Lets not forget they got Tim Barry of Avail to throw down a verse on a song this time. That’s the kind of added spice Municipal Waste may need to rely on these days, but it’s a spice I love.

The Fatal Feast is a nod to b-movies, gross out humor, and drunken idiocy. Lyrically, Forestta is at the top of his game, clearly becoming a story-teller of the weird and wacky with a great sense of detail and sense of humor. And that’s hard as shit to do, to be funny, entertaining and EVERLASTING, but Foressta has the gift. It doesn’t hurt that his backing band is tight as fuck, “delivering the goods” as they do starting off in “Repossession” and lasting a blistering 39 minutes to the great “Residential Disaster”.

Part Slayer, Part Anthrax and Part John Waters, Municipal Waste may never be taken totally seriously by the doom and gloom metal public at large, but the fact that they are having fun is infectious, bringing others into the fold. The Waste is not about alienation, no matter how weird they actually are, but having a good time. And as such they have graduated from “The Art of Partying” into a more precise delivered arsenal of some of the best thrash music that has ever been recorded.

For these ears, it’s clear that Heavy Metal is for now solid in its place amongst the music world. The genre embodies a multiplex of sounds and styles, and the bands that have been around the longest seem to still be the owners of the genre. Rather then stepping into the concept of experimentation, the act of refining seems to be the order of the day. The band’s aren’t trying to shock people by pulling from external sources, but getting together and trying to get better, louder, heavier and faster. Each of these albums by these three hard-working bands are some of the tightest performances, with speeding tempos and big ol’ blast beats. The older these dudes get the harder they go, and that’s promising for metal. It’s been a genre of great progression, but what it needs most is solidity to remain viable. I think we’re all in good hands.

Reoccurrence

Allergy season means poor sleep. It means tossing and turning all night in a daze of half oblivion and total awareness. It means I sit at this desk, in this house and fall asleep upright while listening to fiREHOSE. I decided today that I was gonna take a nap. Why fight this madness with energy drinks today. I don’t have a job, fuck it. My responsibilities are to me and me alone still. So I headed for bed.

I couldn’t sleep for the first hour. I got a phone call and a text message that broke my shit slumber daze. I tossed and turned. I felt chased and strangled. I could hear the fluids in my head break and crackle and settle. It was disturbing and disgusting. There are no worse sounds than the sounds of one’s own body. The fluids, the veins, the bones, it’s awful.

Finally I fell asleep. But it wasn’t a good sleep. I had that recurring nightmare once again. I’m walking in Washington DC, and I turn a corner and suddenly I am greeted by hundreds of severed heads of statues and I look up and their will be some huge, terrifying sculpture very close to me. This time it was some fucked up penguin, laying on its side, paint chipped and eyes drawn by some schizophrenic in the middle of an episode. It has a giant fin extended up to the sky and it’s wrapped around a large stone hand, that of god I suppose, just emerging from the clouds. Nothing that notes it is man-made, except the cold grey and its lack of movement. I see other monoliths now, emerging and growing up from the earth. Obelisks reach up past the clouds. Around me the heads are now statues, some grotesque and weird, some just broken and ancient, but others just normal castings of humans, supposedly famous. This time, the statues come alive. Men in suits begin playing soccer using some of the discarded heads, they laugh at me as they are kicked.

I hear, from some sound system pleas for money so that this junkyard of statues can purchase some finding that will re-create some epic moment in history. I don’t pay too much attention because I am trying now to get away from the moving statues. I weave in and out of corridors and emerge back out into a big field of hills. There are giant statues in the distance and lining the middle ground is a holocaust of statues. They all feel alive and violent, as though they are near animation, and thus an uprising of annihilation. I am the only living creature present and they are all fixated on me. Giant heads of buddha’s start to turn in the distance. And though they are so far away in proximity, the largeness of them makes their angry facial features fell close and real. The fury is about to be unleashed. I am terrified. I wake myself, sneezing, saved by allergic reactions to the pollen that covers me.

Giant statues have always frightened me. I fainted the first time I went to the Statue of Liberty as a sentient human (I was there once as an infant, clearly, I have no recollection of that trip). Tall buildings fascinate and mortify me. These man-made structures that pillage the sky and defy gravity with intense engineering. I wish for them all to fall. And yet I am fascinated with them. I want more of them. I can’t marvel at the beauty of nature, the Sandia Mountains behind my home now and not see even larger, terrifying images over us. I am no christian, but a statue of Jesus, much like the one in Rio seems appropriate.

There is something about these offerings to these gods that I find appropriate. They are fearful for a reason, because we fear these gods. And while I would also prefer other images over taking our horizons, these gods make sense to me. This need to see what is on this planet and a wish for more is in some way my need to face this odd, irrational fear. All I know is I haven’t felt right all day since waking from this nightmare. I fear my sleep tonight. I should like not to spend hours haunted by this graveyard of our idolatry. I should like to find peace instead.

Ceremony – Zoo

Ceremony
Zoo
Matador Records

What does it mean to be an adult? This is a question I ask my self almost daily. After all at 35, I look more like a kid then ever. I suspect I act more like a kid now then I did when I was at an age where most people still wouldn’t have considered me an adult.

Adulthood. Blech. I’ve fought joining along with it my entire life. It seemed soft and full of compromise for the sake of others and not for what was right. And sure, I grew fat and slow physically, but I look at the pictures of my friends on facebook, and I don’t see faces I relate to anymore a lot of the times. And it doesn’t always have to do with marriage and jobs and kids. Those things change you, sure. Family should change you. But it shouldn’t transform you into something unrecognizable to the people you grew up with. Neither should jobs or relationships. And while I’d like to think I’ve grown and progressed, I am fairly certain I have never devolved into some shell of a human being.

This is what Ceremony wants us to believe on its controversial new album Zoo. The world of adults is nothing but boredom, failure, ugliness and monotony. And in so many ways, this is a convincing record carrying that message. Unfortunately, even I have to admit now that their legacy as a hardcore band complicates the effectiveness of their message. Zoo is one of those albums where the messengers’ own story gets in the way of the art.

I should first say, that I enjoy this album. From start to finish, it’s a great punk record, pulling on a great number of influences and finally adopting that Joy Division worship into something familiar. Zoo is a gritty, garage punk album with tastes of the genre that spans its existence. The guitars are sharp and cutting as Ceremony has always been known for and Russ Farrar still sounds like damaged goods, though he’s clearly changed the cadence of his voice.

What’s hard to swallow, as a fan of this band though, is the radical change in sound. It’s not that it’s bad, it’s fantastic. But this is not the Ceremony I have grown to know and love over the last two years. It is an entirely new band, with only scant aspects of their former, face splitting, floor rolling, spit, piss and blood identity. This album, unlike anything they’ve done previously is palpable. Even their contract required covers EP, which was horrid, was at least unlistenable and grotesque. And for a band of Ceremony’s history, with a carnal nature hell-bent on self-destruction rather than introspection, this feels like a safe bet. Especially considering the theme of the album is all about growing up.

Here’s where I get tripped up. They have this great anthem at the center of the album called “Adult” and it literally asks “How did we get so old?”. But is that question of its audience or of the band itself that seems to have “slowed down”? Farrar even goes so far as to suggest that being an adult means giving up the things we love, suggesting that passion will always lose out to comfort and security. And I’m not going to lie, comfort and security are two things I too am looking for. But not at the expense of myself, of doing the things I love, of expressing myself, even when that expression seems immature and juvenile to my peers who used to stand in solidarity with me.

And so, to my ears, Zoo is a safe bet because it sounds like a safe bet. Everything is crisp and clear and clean. I don’t want to smash my head through a window as Ceremony has nearly inspired of me. It doesn’t inspire me to yell, not in the same fashion as past efforts, but it does bother me at a certain level. Because I want people to age and get increasingly angry, upset and invested, because they should be engaged in the world around them. Because as an adult I have learned that those who occupy the financial power in this world, they want you to be excluded, to feel content and relaxed, but not engaged. And I have never felt more alienated by the world around me then I do as an adult. Which isn’t to say I don’t have awesome friends my age that chose to live in opposition of a world that makes it increasingly more difficult just to get by. But again, I’ve seen so many faces from my past, and I don’t recognize them that much anymore. It’s not because they’ve changed physically as they’ve aged, but that reckless abandonment where they were willing to fight and love is gone. Zoo feels like that kind of resign, that kind of containment. Maybe that’s the point I am missing, but it’s not easy to see.

Liberteer – Better to Die on Your Feet Than Live On Your Knees

Liberteer
Better to Die On Your Fee Than Live On Your Knees
Relapse Records/Band Camp

If you asked me sincerely if I ever thought something truly brilliant could come out of the combination of Anarchism and Grindcore, I would probably say no. I have a soft spot for the political theories of Anarchism. In the realm of the theoretical a world in which people provide for each other sounds might fine to me. But Anarchism forgoes the ego of the individual and the ego is not something that can be eradicated.  Of all the models of political and social organization that I have been presented, Anarchism makes the most sense if it can be achieved through non-violence, but the tradition of anarchism will always be mired in roots of violent theory, making it scary to the masses. Ultimately it is Anarchy that all revolutions are built from, when the masses finally get fed up with their governors and rise, but nothing sustainable ever comes of it. It usually just devolves into some form of lazy democracy. The recent uprise in Egypt comes to mind as we watched beautiful anarchy erupt against fascism only to settle itself into representation for all by others. That’s ego of a few hijacking a movement. It’s gonna happen every time.

As for Grindcore, I love grindcore. The older I get, the more I love grindcore. Somehow as a youth I was passed up on this genre. It was the underground of the underground.Part punk, part metal, Grindcore is crushing, fast, furious and mostly unlistenable to anyone who was not kicked in the head at a Butthole Surfer’s concert. You have to be brain-damaged, just a bit to enjoy the unrelenting pounding of drums, drenched in overdrive guitar and growling, barking vocals. Me, I know I am brain-damaged from the shots to the head, the inhalation of photo chemicals in my twenties, the use of pharmaceuticals, the illnesses, the alcohol and ten years in corporate America. That shit fucked me up, so it’s not really a surprise that I like grindcore. Would I even attempt to get most people I know to listen to this music? Not a chance in hell. Not until today.

I read this interview with Matthew Widener, the one man genius behind Liberteer and I got really excited to go hear his latest album Better to Die on Your Feet than Live on Your Knees, under new moniker Liberteer. Matt’s not just your run of the mill punk rock fuck up, like me. Matt’s actually got a lot of brains in his head and he knows how to use them, rather than just abuse them. This is actually pretty typical of grindcore musicians. Even when seeped in violence and gore, grindcore attracts readers and wordsmiths. Dudes who spent too much time with Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the VCR and Philip K. Dick in their backpack. It’s a tribe of outcasts smarter than anyone around them, but generally ignored by society around them. Unlike Liberteer though, most of this genius is expressed in clinically explained violence or some kind of fantasy/sci-fi genius that it’s all just mostly fun and silly. And I like fun and silly.

So what is it about Liberteer that I think is important enough to come out of a five month writing slumber? This is an album of research, of poetry acting as a call to political action. One of the strongest points Widener made in his Show No Mercy interview about anarchism was “ before a vanguard can engage in the hard, nasty business of revolt, they need the support of the people. Violence can’t be legitimized, but culturally we can have a context for it. And even then I have issues, since you deny someone their freedom when you hurt them, which is a breach of the only real dictate we have as beings: Be culpable for your freedom and make no act that denies someone theirs.” It is here, the crux of Anarchism where it’s dream and it’s reality meet and must somehow be reconciled in order to legitimize itself. Widener, on his album reflects on this not just by bone crushing grind, but the utilization of musical cues that for American’s sum up patriotism. But the context of his bugle blasts here are not some Fourth of July over a pit of hotdogs blind love, instead they are the former calls of independence. Dude even get’s mad symphonic on the instrumental “Sweat for Blood” where it builds from a Neurosis like jut to a full on battle cry one might find in an epic fantasy where the down trodden are finally about to conquer the oppressors. What this says to me though, as a long time fan of the grind, of the political punk, of the upset the set up mentality is that we have to question not only that which opposes us but the means and calls in which we lean on to guide us towards what we want.

Patriotism has never meant blind acceptance of anything, anyone, anywhere says. But I have found that revolution is not as easy as a brick through a window either. The context of violence, should that be the means of revolution is one that has to be considered. But further than that, we have to look long-term, we can’t have a revolution for the sake of revolution, though I think Widener might disagree. Liberteer is a more complex look at Anarchism and one that needs to be considered, not just by the crusty punks but by those that suffer in what is now a post Occupy movement. Will we move beyond a system that doesn’t care about us, that does only and will only cater to the 1%? It’s hard to say, but perhaps some insight could be found if we sit down, let the grind movements rile us up while reading along to the lyric sheet. If the adrenaline of the music and the poetry of the writing on Better to Die On Your Fee Than Live On Your Knees doesn’t move you, chances are you will suffer at the hands of those you are feeding.

2011 At The End

This blog has been mostly inactive since October. For a number of reasons, I didn’t really feel like writing about music. Or anything else for that matter. It’s just one of those things that happens to writers. Sometimes, they actually live their lives. And that’s what I’ve been doing. Living life, rather than sitting in front of this blasted computer, writing about music like people care anymore. And maybe they do.

Some people sent me reviews for records that I listened to. Some of them I liked. Some of them I didn’t like at all. But I didn’t feel compelled to talk about them. I don’t feel like talking about music, which was sort of the point of this blog. And now that I don’t really feel like working on the point of this blog now, I just didn’t write them. So if you sent me something and I didn’t review it, sorry.

This year, 2011, I did the following things: I joined and quit a band, I started a band with a person I respect, admire and love very much, we went to Phoenix to see two of my favorite bands and bonded, we played our first show together, I learned how to screen print, I made a zine and did a bunch of readings, I put out a short collection of stories, I bought two basses and two guitars, I met some friends, broke some hearts and had some incredible times, I got shit faced on Halloween and decided to puke and streak in a house full of strangers, I saw the Pixies in Santa Fe with my best friend in the whole world, I also saw No Age in a VFW hall, renewing my faith that music can still be powerful even when the hipsters try to corrupt it, for money I was an extra on a TV show, did freelance writing for a tech company, delivered news papers and recently transported the body of a deceased person across state lines, I didn’t make near enough doing these things to actually live but they were experiences I will never trade, I met a young lady who challenges and changes me every day with her grace, compassion, honesty, love and desire to learn, love and grow.

You came for the records though, didn’t you. You don’t care about the personal life of some asshole blogger. Okay, maybe if you are one of my friends who reads this shit out of kindness. Normally, I go ape shit on like five awesome records. But this year, I just don’t care. I’m just gonna give you my opinion of the  5 records you should listen to that came out this year. They are as follows:

Des Ark – Don’t Rock the Boat Sink The Fucker. Lovitt Records – By now, if you don’t know how amazing Aimee Argote is then I can’t help you. Stop having a shitty life and go buy this album now. You will cry and love and laugh and pound fists and beers. Don’t be fucking stupid.

Pygmy Lush – Old Friends. Lovitt Records – Pygmy Lush are simply the best band that no one is talking about. This album is the reason I hate not just the music industry of major labels and hipster douche bags, but even independent punk music. No one cares, except the people at Lovitt and the guys in Pygmy Lush. And it shines through on this epic fucking album.

Waxahatchee – American Weekend. Self Released – Katie Crutchfield owns hearts as she breaks them. Honestly, I don’t think there is gonna be a song writer that emerges from this DIY scene of kids with no confidence like Katie. She’s a buzz word for her band, for her writing and because we still live in a world where girls with guitars get comodified. But Katie is more than that. ANd this album proves it. Set for vinyl release in January, every one is gonna be talking about this.

Assholeparade!/Slight Slappers – split. No Idea – I just got back from having lunch with Justin and I listened to this album on my cold, snowy, desert drive. I hate the world and it’s grey skies, but I am so thankful for Assholeparade! In the DIY perspective, Assholeparade! is a juggernaut. And the best part of this is Slightslappers is now I part of my musical lexicon. The older I get the more I want loud and fast. The first three records this year mentioned are very in tune with my past, Assholeparade and Slightslappers are very much my present.

Zomes – Earth Grids. Thrill Jockey – Asa Osborne. He does what he does, the way he does. The way he makes music makes so much sense to me. Sometimes it feels like my own celestial vibrations being put on vinyl. You probably won’t like this at all. But I don’t care, it’s some seriously amazing sounds.

I don’t know what the future is for Korrupt Yr Self, the zine or the blog. I didn’t find my voice this year, or at least I don’t feel like I did. Or I couldn’t hone it or something. I don’t know. 2012 is going to be filled with even more adventures, bigger changes and a lot to ruminate upon. Thank you for stopping by.

What we write about when we write about love

Butterfly upon the wall, you look so happy there, how can it be that bad? I’ve only stapled your wings down. Now you can’t fly around. So what’s with that frown? - Kurt Calloway

A butterfly, too beautiful to capture in my net. I can only hope you land in my palms and I will carry you gently, until you want to fly away. - Me

I don’t remember lyrics much, and above, those amazingly beautiful words, are lyrics I have remembered for half my life now. They live in my heart and are as much a part of me as my hands and feet. At the age of 17, when I thought I had a perspective, my friend Kurt understood his own obsessions, that masculine desire to posses what we love, to capture and frame it in our own design. It’s amazingly powerful to consider how young he was and how aware of himself he was. I’ve always loved those lines of poetry, as dark and scary as they are. Kurt loved with a kind of obsession then that is not all too unfamiliar for a young man who just wants to be loved back. And it’s an awful place to be and it’s one that often manifests itself into some really bad shit the older you get. Often in ways you don’t intend. I have been guilty of this, making mistakes to try to hold on to love and those I loved too tightly. And it never works out. Ever.

I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately, for a variety of reasons. I’ve found myself in place once again, where I am actually capable of loving the way I used to, when I was young and careless. This is do, in no small favor, to hanging out with my friends, most of whom are so much younger than I am. Loving these people, growing and connecting with them has made me realize how much control I tried to have in my life, always to my detriment. This of course has great affect on the effectiveness of loving people and being loved by people. The desire for control instantly limits the boundaries in which we love people. And I have fallen victim to that, but I have also realized that the boundaries we have exist to try to keep us safe.

I think about what Kurt said a lot in my life. It’s taken 17 years to really understand it. It’s taken being in love with women, spending my life with them and realizing my actions were actions of control. As someone who considers themselves a feminist, this has been a hard pill to swallow. A pattern of what is essentially abuse emerging because I was too anxious at life, felt too controlled by external forces, felt that if I didn’t address every detail, instantly that things would spiral out of control. And guess what, they spiraled out of control anyway. Now I live in Albuquerque, New Mexico, unemployed (still), playing loud music and pretending I am smart enough to be in college. I love my life, but nothing is really in my control.

There is a girl. There is always a girl. Even when there isn’t a girl, there is a girl. Okay, she’s actually a woman. Obviously. Just for the record, the words man and woman seem so serious to me. I mean serious in a stern, kind of strict and oppressive way. When writing about things that are awesome, I’d rather use language that has a sense of delicacy. Anyway, there’s a girl. A woman. Whatever.

This isn’t really about her. I mean, it is, but there are friends that are falling in and out of love. And this is just as much about them as anyone else. There are friends in new relationships, mostly though in relationships that have existed before I landed in town. There are some that are ending. There are people who are getting married and I didn’t even know. There are relationships falling apart. There are relationships that are strained. There are girls I loved from a safe distance, the circumstances never quite right. There are amazing friends, here in my life every day, and those divided by geography but no less important to my heart. This is as much about that girl, as it is about every one. Because I’ve been thinking about love (and patience, temperance and presence) to an obsessive degree lately. The scientist in me wants to crack the code. The artist in me wants to ponder it endlessly (like I am here). The rationalist in me wants to hit myself in the face with a pan and go read all the shit I have to read about Leo Szilard. But that’s where the second quote I left above comes from. It’s something I wrote, recently. Very recently in fact. And though it was born about my specific feelings about a specific person, it applies to every one I know. And as Kurt’s voice sings his song to me, I answer with my own words. A response 17 years in the making. One I am happy to have finally gotten to.

I love Kurt, that 17-year-old poet and singer. He loved with a recklessness and lack of self-preservation that was terrifying and head shaking. He just didn’t give a shit about getting hurt, and he got hurt deeply, a lot as a young man. And then one day he found love, and so far as I know he’s still in love with that woman. But I remember his words, always. I sing that damn melody all the time. But now, I finally have a response to that question posed. The only way to love is without restriction, and if you get hurt, you just brush that shit off. Let the butterfly have its sky. That’s what it was designed, through millions of years of evolution, to do. It may land in your hand and stay. It may fly away before you even have time to realize it was there. But don’t try to capture it. It’s just not possible.

Eating Peyote, Having Anonymous Sex

William F. Willard here. Since moving to New Mexico with my man Erik, I’ve been wandering the desert, listening to a bunch of Sabbath, eating and shitting nothing but beans and green chilies and stuffing my body full of drugs. I just got back into Albuquerque and dropped in on Erik. I noticed him twitching and muttering to himself in between questions and anecdotes. Following is a short interview I had with the man behind the blog.

*My comments are in bold. Erik’s will be italicized, like this.

The Waxahatchee review was some of your best work to date, and yet you’ve dropped off the net for the most part. When are you gonna lay science down on the people?

The people will be reminded, when the people are ready to be reminded. The world will get, when the world asks.

What are you doing in between posts?

I’m doing what I need to be doing. There was a neutron bomb, man. The world has changed. The world continues to change and recede. We all have our work to do.

You seem hyped on some new music though. Are you gonna share your thoughts?

The soundtrack in my mind as of late has been rich with interesting and exciting new records. The thoughts however are inconsequential at this time. But no doubt, I have my views. There are important works out now, they are uneven, but they are important.

Like what? What’s on your turn table, that’s recent anyhow?

This question is irrelevant. We have issues of class, gender, race, imperialism and survival in the modern world in our art. You need to find it, Willard. You need to search the streets, cross the seas, wade in the rivers. The music will find you. (mumbles incoherently).

What was that?

(mumbles incoherently. laughs.)

At this point, Erik got up and went into the kitchen and made tea. After that he pulled  pill boxes out of his cabinet, emptied some of them into his hands and ingested them. After he passed out in his chair, I checked the cabinets. I found boxes of Magnesium, Alegra, Pseudophedrine, Vitamin C, Advil, Melatonin, expired bottles of Immodium (empty), Pepto Bismol (empty), and Tylenol. I also noticed that the floor was covered in frozen burrito wrappers, coffee grinds, empty cans of energy drinks, and depleted bottles of beer, whiskey, Southern Comfort and rum. I found plenty of cat food and there was no evidence that Beau Beau and Cash had been neglected.

I am convinced Erik is working hard on bringing you science about music. A review of his last.fm account finds listens to Das Racist, We Were Promised Jet Packs, Mastodon, Wild Flag and more. The next morning I checked Erik’s mail. Along with a copy of In The Shadow of the Bomb, Erik also received new records from Worriers, featuring Laura Measure (whom Erik has a crush on), Young Offenders and Bridge and Tunnel.

If you need some reading, check out his open letter to American Apparel on Error Vizion. It’s worth your time. For me, I know it’s been almost a year since I checked in, but I’m going to do what Erik said and hit the streets. I filled my ipod with New Mexico bands (Ronoso, Noisear, Tenderoizer, Sabertooth Cavity) from Erik’s computer and am gonna search the world, laying my head on the pavement, listening to the hum of the earth.