Kyuss - Blues For The Red Sun:
Finally picked up the full album.
This band is, for me, a marking stone. That said, the actual stone that made the mark was their amazing Welcome To Sky Valley (originally being a self-titled, and earning the new name due to the album cover).
After hearing this album, I am glad that I started with Sky Valley. Blues For The Red Sun is nowhere near as powerful as Sky Valley.
However, it's also far from being bad. The immortal Thumb and Green Machine are fantastic examples of Kyuss' material that was written with only 2 then-active chemicals, as opposed to the usual 12. The late appearing Allen's Wrench is also a nice surprise, although oddly placed in the album.
The rest of the album is, almost completely, the usual Kyuss audio trips. As usual, they are done with much excitement, vitality, and drugs. Lots of drugs.
Tom Waits - Franks Wild Years:
Tom Waits grew on me fairly quickly, and very strongly, up to the point that I was under the impression that this guy can't do something bad. He can do something less inspired, or more confused, but never to the point that its just bad (as opposed to one, Frank Zappa, who sometimes got a bit lost in himself). This guy is the most talented musician ever, I said, and you'll need a pep talk directly from god to have any hope of ever rising above him.
Then I heard Franks Wild Years.
Being the last part of a trilogy that contains my favorite Waits record, Rain Dogs, as well as it being one of my favorite records of all time, I was very interested to see what happened to Frank in the aforementioned Wild Years.
Typically of Waits, the concept is almost completely lost in metaphors and obscure references. Not that lyrical coherency is Waits' strong point, at least not stories that last more than a verse.
The music though, is what is important, obviously. The fantastic Marc Ribot is playing guitar on this album too, but is almost completely robbed of his spotlight given to him on Rain Dogs. His broken, flamboyant, dissonant, yet all very melodic style is hardly given the proper attention it deserves.
The rest of the music is more often than not a collection of what could be best described as Frank Sinatra after a heroin-induced stroke trying to conquer the Hollywood Bowl. In true Tom Waits fashion, it all sounds very sinister, like there's something much bigger than the apparent, like there's some monster hiding beneath whatever crooked smile Frank has, but the music itself is less compatible than Waits' almost patented blend of cabaret, jazz, blues, avant-garde and theater scores.
It's a difficult album. Some songs (the shrielling I'll Be Gone, and southern-sounding opener Hang On St. Christoper) sound so natural, while most of the rest of the album sounds forced, confused, and still suffering from said heroin-induced stroke.
Cathedral - Caravan Beyond Redemption:
Everybody knows Cathedral, led by the unmistakenably charismatic Lee Dorrian. Kooky, goofy, cynical, and alternatively optimistic or pessimistic, depending on the song, this band are somewhat of a forgotten gem.
They aren't really doom metal anymore, not really heavy metal, not really stoner metal, not really prog metal. They are stuck somewhere in the middle of all of these categories on this album, blending in mostly the good of every genre.
It all blends fairly well in the first half. The monsterous The Unnatural World is, for lack a better term, monolithic, with less serious songs like Voodoo Fire and the brilliantly named Satanikus Robotikus are humorous without being obnoxious, and are still very solid songs.
The second half of the album is a bit less tight, but does not deteriorate to tedious repetition and filler (ahem, Gojira, even bigger ahem, Mehshuggah). Here too, even the songs that are obviously humorous are still well written, and aren't blatant "JOKE SONG!! HAHAHAHA!!!" type songs.
All in all, it's a good album. It's far from being the monsterously inspired Caravan Bizarre, but it's a very solid album.
And for some less important albums (as far as I'm concerned):
Dozer - Through The Eyes Of Heathens: Very good blend of the metal and rock sides of the stoner equation. Solid songwriting, often anthemic choruses, and generally a well-written album. 8/10.
Witchfinder General - Death Penalty: Sabbath-worship ahoy! Unlike Sabbath though, the music is uninspiring, confused, and messy. Vocals piss me off, too. 3/10.
Grand Magus - Wolf's Return: It's got Kingslayer on it, and some other songs that I did not listen to, because I kept Kingslayer on repeat. 7/10, will probably raise the score after I will stop listening only to Kingslayer.
Fair To Midland - Fables Of A Mayfly: First song is good, the rest isn't. Confused, overly artsy, but good instrumentation. 4/10.
My left wrist hurts. Really badly. Doctor's orders: voltarane gel (anti septic, muscle relief and good for burns/stings/skin fungi/etc.), and bandage the arm so that I won't play move my wrist much.
My wrist has been hurting on and off ever since, but never in such a scale that it completely disables my hand. It hurts even just typing.
That which is neglected tends to grow. That saying was written in graffiti on some wall in Tel-Aviv. Apparently, there is much truth in it.
I feared that it was caused from my 7-string. I don't have large hands, and I tend to play my guitar very low. Also, it started a bit after I got my 7.
I went to see the doctor about it, and I told her about my playing, and when I told her where I work at (dairy farm), she said that it is much more likely that I got it from there (I also started working there around the time of the initial happening). This makes me feel much better, since I'd rather develope a vicodin habit than give up my extra string.
The worst part? I'm working on a new track of mine, which I really like and am very proud of, and the muse for it has been slagging me with a baseball bat lately, and now it all grinds to a halt.
The even worse part? The dude who writes bass for me, who already has arthritis for a very long time (he can still play, but not for a very long time, and he has a bandage on his hand during the day) just got another infection in his other hand, so he's disabled aswell.
The worse worse part? I didn't get any good painkillers...
There must be something beyond the universe. Some sort of nothing, pure, white, black nothing. To touch it would feel like everything, and it is impossible to see through any of it. To be in it is to be non-existant, detached from all concievable and inconcievable forms of being, and integrate one's self into this endlessly limited place.
And of course it would be limited, for everything is connected. One into another, and another into the one after, back to the first one, and going forward again. To have an end is to have limitations is to nullify ourselves as a fleeting moment in the endless and startless non-history of non-being. Boundries must be only expanded, never broken.
Transcendance is possible. Through death? Or rather through life? Through belief. Through action. Through belief in the action. Through none of the methods known and revealed to man, for these or other reasons.
One must question, are we not there already? Is a widely revered man not an existantial step above the working class, no name Joe Average? Hell on earth indeed. Heaven must be in the penthouse, then. Spiritual worth is worthless. Nothing intangible worth to keep in a 50th century world, cold and electronic, calculated, cynical and inhuman.
Would you give all your possesions if you were promised eternal and otherwise unattainable happiness? No NO no ONONONONONONO. Happiness is overrated. From anguish, from sadness, grows progress. The most beautiful flowers in the world needs animal shit to grow. Life as we know it is a cruel and hilarious joke of cause, effect and retribution.
Cheese. I love cheese. The good life. May we all achieve our dreams. Claim the top of the hill, stake our flag on the mountain top, jump from it and fly away into the sun, to burn ourselves into disintigration, for we are only moths and flies and insects, drawn not to the light, but to the darkness behind it.
So lately, I've been listening to a shitload of stoner rock/metal. I never really understood why they called it that, cause most bands sound like bad Sabbath clones, and only a select few actually sound like they'd go well with a cold beer and a blazing joint.
But I figured that there has to be some reason, so I sat down and listened to a bunch of stoner bands, among them new acquaintances (Down, Spiritual Beggars, Priestess, Spirit Caravan), as well as refreshing my already existing, if somewhat limited, collection of stoner bands (Sabbath, Kyuss, Queens of The Stonage, Weedust).
Boy, was I wrong.
NP: Black Sabbath - Sweet Leaf
While I know plenty of bands that would sound much better under the influence, not many give me such a hunger for green as Down. I am so happy I found this band.
So I think a bit, and I decided that I should definitely smoke up with some Down and Kyuss. But I really can't be arsed to get hold of some weed, and in such a small community that I live in (less than 400 people), rumors spread fast, and while I don't mind people saying stuff about me, I do mind the fucking nosey poofters that can be found here who may call the cops on me.
But then I remember: I still got a small hash finger! Sweet! I'll just smoke it in the woods or something on some beautiful day. Should give me a good atmosphere too, since the outdoor area over here is just beautiful.
NP: Black Sabbath - Faeries Wear Boots
Now I just need to find someone to smoke up with, cause it's no fun to get high on your own.
... ... ...
I couldn't think of anybody. One of my smoking friends is practically unapproachable, since he's balancing the army and his girlfriend, I lost contact with another, another friend of mine only smokes with his brother (he's weird), and everybody else is in the army.
Date: February 14th, 2008
Time: 13:00 hours (1 PM)
After a long day of work (woke up at 3 AM, worked until 12:30-ish), at a temperature of 15 degrees celsius tops (and about 1 degree celsius lowest), very strong, bone-cutting cold wind, and occasional rain, I finally got home. As I work at a dairy farm, I was anxious to get into a nice, hot shower.
I open the water, and god damn, uncle sam, they were freezing. "No biggy", I thought, "I'll give them a couple of minutes to warm up". After about 5-10 minutes, I checked again, and they were hardly lukewarm. I then remembered a very dark notification from one of my co-workers:
"There's been problems with the hot water in all the area today"
Right then, I had 2 choices:
1. Remain filthy, stinking to the high heavens, and worst of all, with really bad looking hair.
2. Take a cold shower.
I then asked myself, "What would the manliest of men, the biggest butch of the bunch, the hardest among the hard, the toughest being in existance, PHIL ANSELMO, would do?". I thought, and suddenly, an apparition of master Anselmo appeared before me, and said:
"Im'a tell ya what you gon' do, boy. You gonna toughen up those weakass pansyfuck lame excuse for balls you got thar', and you gon' git into this here shower, even if it's the last thing you ev'r gon' do! Achieve a new level of power, brother! DO IT!"
Then he gave me the infamous Anselmo death-stare, and vanished.
I knew what I had to do. I wasn't going to like it, but goddamn it, I was not going to give up!
I took off my clothes...
And jumped in!
The water was cold, but I wasn't about to give up! I WILL have soft and silky hair!
I reached for the shampoo bottle, picked it up, and...
DAMNIT! Wait! There's another bottle that I bought yesterday! Where is it? It's not here, so it must be in the other bathroom! I snatched 2 towels, wrapped them hastily around me, took a deep breathe, and sprinted out towards the other bathroom!
Surely enough, the shampoo bottle was there, and it was very full.
I came back to the shower, and once again, the cold waters frightened me.
Again, master Anselmo appeared before me, and said:
"Dude, nice job with the shampoo! You know a brother has to keep his hair strong and healthy, and wash with both shampoo and conditioner! But you're makin' me SICK, with this chickenshit cold water crap! GET IN THERE!"
With conviction in my heart, I once again entered the cold shower! I poured some shampoo on my hands, and started to rinse.
Suddenly, the shampoo got in my eyes! Oh, the terrible stinging sensation! I was blinded! Hands filled wit shampoo, I couldn't rub my eyes to clear them! I have no choice, but to finish the task, and only then clean my eyes.
So I rinsed. Hard and fast and fast and hard, did I rinse. Finally, I washed my hair and hands, and grabbed a towel to clean my eyes. The bathroom never looked so beautiful.
But I was not done, for master Anselmo declared that a man should wash his hair both with shampoo and conditioner!
I picked up the conditioner bottle, and thankfully, it was full. I poured onto my hands, and began massaging my scalp with the white, creamy substance.
But then, a bit of conditioner fell almost into my eye, and was stuck between the inner corner of my eye, next to my nose. I knew that one wrong movement would force the conditioner into my eye, and it shall sting anew!
Hastefully, I rinsed my hair with the conditioner. I could feel master Anselmo's growing pride, as he watched my brave endeavors. Finally, I washed my hands and hair (which was now smooth as silk, and shiny as the sun itself), grabbed a towel, and carefully remove the evil blob of hair conditioner away from my eye.
With a quick wrap of a towel around my waist, and another to cover my head of now-gorgeous hair, I quickly paced to my room, and turned on my heater.
I only wish that next time, there will be hot water.
I actually find the idea of a good night's sleep much more appealing than having a foursome with the hottest women on the planet, with them fulfilling my every sick and twisted fetish and me being on high on X and weed.
Eyesight is obviously the first thing to become faulty. Coordination and balance come next. After that, it's disfunctional response to any kind of stimuli, which is where I am at, I geuss. I think that after that comes the will to live.
And I need to go to work in an hour and a half, no less! It could help, though. Get some blood pumping through my veins. It's harder to stay awake while laying in bed than when standing in cow shit.
Cup of coffee? No, coffee is too heavy. I'll have some tea. And some cookies. Need something with big amounts of sugar. SUGAH! What do i do? What do I say? Fuck it, in the end it all goes away! Shavo is a good bassist. The drummer guy is also good, and Serj is evidently much more capable of vocal delivery than what he shows in SOAD. Daron sucks though. He's the weakest link.