Danny cut his hair. His mood isn't quite as warm and fuzzy as it usually is. We are not sure if there is a connection...
Hey. Danny B here. It’s Friday Juke Box time. I have no idea what I’m going to write about. I understand this happens sometimes but this is a weird situation. I have SO MUCH that I COULD write about that I am drawing a complete blank as to what to bring to your attention this fine day. Do I make it obscure? Do I write about a band so obvious that it would garner an ironic attention getting fervor from my beloved audience? Do I bow down and post about the jerky mainstream pap that is currently getting the most attention on the “charts,” whatever that means? Get off the dick, yo. I like to find a common ground that all of us can stand on. A ground that is rocking, rolling, party time, high fivin’, let’s-chug-this-sixer-before-heading-into-the-show, good vibe rock that we can all screw the pooch to. A band that all of us can get behind one way or another: Rocket From The Crypt
Rocket is a hard, yet easy, band to write about. The praises are easy. The music is appealing to even the lowest cretin. It’s all wrapped into a tight meth-fueled bow for you. Stack your pomp, slide on those creepers and listen, my friend. RFTC s a rockin’ good time but easily not the best band that John Reis, guitarist extraordinaire, has been a part of. John and cohort Rick Froberg man-handled a superb alt-rock melodic noise outfit called Pitchfork. Also, they went on to start the seminal, post-punk Drive Like Jehu. Soon after Rocket enjoyed (outjoyed?) a downward slide, the two boys reformed with Hot Snakes, a back to basics honest to goodness Rock band. All three of these bands are worth your attention and can blind RFTC with a thousand suns when it comes to orchestration and delivery. To me, that is. I am but one microcosm in a sea of electric sheep. Rocket From The Crypt was a Universally Unifying Entity (cult status pending) at a time when true Rock did not really exist. It was a soulless time between horrible early ’90’s radio “punk” and Nirvana. Rocket released an endearing album that I hadn’t heard yet entitled Paint As A Fragrance. It is a wonderful, innocent, catchy piece of crap is what it was. I love it. Seek it out. Cherish it. Then move on to the album we came to praise today – Circa Now!:
When this record hit the shelves in 1992, I had never heard anything like it. What the shit was going on?? It was catchy, it was fun, it had horns (I hate horns). You feel me? This was something different and it demanded your attention. Come back with me, my brethren, to a time when a world hadn’t heard ”Short Lip Fuser” or ”Hippy Dippy Do” or “Killy Kill”. It was confusing. It was Magical:
Ok, the almighty You Tube doesn’t seem to be yielding too many songs from this record (Speedo must have his dirty mitts at the ready deleting and “cease and disisting” if you get my drift) but believe me when I say it blew my mind when I first heard RFTC. Do yourself a huge favor and download Circa Now! *clears throat*. Come on people. Do I have to smack you in the gob with it??
Circa Now! was followed shortly by the pretty good Hot Charity, and the flawless The State of Art is On Fire, before Rocket slipped into what I call “the curse of major label appeal.” Scream, Dracula, Scream is considered by some a breakthrough record that set the course for hi-fi, playing with the big boys, Rock N Roll. It flopped in my opinion. DIDN’T DELIVER. Boy was I disappointed. Blech, I still taste the bile in the back of my throat when this record was released onto my hard head. When was I to be amazed again by the frumpy teenagers that recorded Circa Now?? Never again, sad to say. Circa Now! was a drop in the bucket, a flash in the pan, the juice extracted from the loins of San Diego dorks in search of a good time. Here, just so you don’t think I’m dumping these cats too quick, check out this vid from their final hurrah. It was Halloween so don’t think they wore this crap all the time. RFTC were a lot of things but they weren’t no gimmick. So Good:
And this? Maybe it was still Halloween:
Rocket brought balls out Rock back to many an ear and believe me, it was appreciated. Style, class, guitar playing to the utmost extreme and a caring attitude that said “Yes, we can.” I can’t go on. I’m getting choked up. Speedo, I loved you when you were chubby, I loved you when I could see your skeletal cheekbones, and I love you even now. Thank you for playing. Buuuut… how come your bar is never open when I’m down South? Just wondering. Is it a front?
Friday End Notes: I’m still thinking about the “major label appeal”. Why is it that a lot of outstanding bands, that seem to have a pretty big underground following, decide it’s time to “mature”? They decide it’s time to make that jump to a major label thinking that this is the right move. They decide that this particular label (pick your own multi-national corporate label…they’re all the same) will help them spread their message to a wider audience without having to compromise the band’s ultimate vision and songwriting (HAHA! This never works. What are you, fucking stupid?). I’m sure getting paid for your talent is a clear decision-maker when it comes to signing bonus’s and royalties and whatnot bullshit, but listen to me. That chump change is not worth your integrity. You will be raped and humiliated if you do not play their game. Major Record Labels (from here on: MRL) care about one thing: money. That’s it. Bottom line. Hopefully, I’m not telling you something you didn’t already know but it might be so goddamn obvious that it goes over some heads. Let me make it clear. You wrote the best twelve songs in your life and you want Gomer in Tennessee to buy it from his local Wal-Mart and save his life through the majesty of your guitar tone? MRL doesn’t care. If Gomer and his friends don’t buy 25,000 copies the first weekend according to SoundScan, MRL is going to drop you like a hot rock. Or even worse, not promote you AT ALL and you will become a write-off. I would much rather fail than be ignored, youknowwhatI’msayin’? That little independent label that supported you through your hard times still cares about you and does the best they can. If you are able to write the same kind of tunes that people fell in love with to begin with (and you don’t switch gears and put out a techno record), YOU WILL SUSTAIN AND MAINTAIN A HEALTHY FAN BASE THAT WILL HELP AND SUPPORT YOU AND PROVIDE YOU WITH THE DAY TO DAY EMOTIONAL CRUTCH THAT YOU AS AN ARTIST CRAVE. MONEY WILL NOT SOLVE ANYTHING. Sure, being rich and adored by millions of idiots is probably great. Buuuut, probably not. Have you seen Behind the Music?? That shit doesn’t lie. Before this turns into a full-on article, I think my ultimate point is: Just be happy where you’re at and stop being a greedy fuck. People will still love you. Just not as many people and that’s ok. Making music should not be about money, music should be made for release and personal satisfaction. The rest will follow.
Hey jerx, email me at weatesand@gmail.com or I will shave your head and make you listen to Minor Threat.
In another life, DannyB wanted to be a magician. In this life, he is. Sort of. Photo courtesy of The Barbecue Queen
Hi Dee Hi Doh Hi Da once again, Lovers of Ear Pain. Thanks for returning. Or, if you are tuning in for the first time, welcome to my head. I’m Danny B. and this here is the Friday Juke Box. A little sumpin’ sumpin’ to help your weekend party get started off right. What I’ve noticed this week past is there are a lot of people out there in the world that need to get their krunk, their swing, their swagger or their shimmy on and stop worrying so goddamn much. Life is too short. Let me start by getting THAT cliche’ out of the way. Know what you need? A six-pack of some incredible IPA (allow me to suggest my favorite: Big Daddy IPA), a sleeveless tee of your choice, a time machine, and a strong neck for banging. Let’s take a stroll through the wasteland with Accept:
Dude, you don’t even know the journey you are about to have. Hush. Don’t say anything. I see the questions in your eyes but all you really need to know is this. Listen.
Are you ok? Oh man, here, sit down. Drink this. I hope that wasn’t too much to take in all at once. But, check it, that was only the opening track to one of the greatest Heavy Metal records of all time, Restless and Wild:
This cover version is different from the one shown on the above video, I know. The above pic in the video was the original cover released in Germany and then when Restless got released internationally, the cover was changed to the one above in the pic. I grew up on the one where the singer, Udo, is choking the shit out of the guitar player, Wolf. This cover rules so it is the one I recommend. Although a couple of Flying V’s on fire is pretty rad as well. It’s a toss-up.
Restless and Wild was Accept’s fourth record. The first three are good but nowhere near as dynamic as this shredder. With Accept’s funny Engrish lyrical style, the twin guitar attack, the overtly homoerotic themes and the fact that their singer, Udo, is the ugliest midget with the sweetest voice to ever singer Metal made me a fan for life. Booya, Gramma! Just check the godliness that is the title track out:
If that riff doesn’t hit you in the taint, you ain’t a friend of mine. This album makes me want to riot and tear phonebooks in half. This album makes me want to start an Accept tribute band because I would be ok playing these songs over and over again. We would be called Ahead of the Pack and posers would run with fear. A gang of miscreants ready to piss in your ice cube trays and take your little sister to an R rated movie. Maybe The Shining at the midnight showing. See?
“Live for today, the goings going fast, you are ahead of the pack! never look back!” Dude, words to live by. Throw this album in the extreme playlist of your ipod and tackle that shit. You know what I’m talking about, player. This record is flawless and should be found and purchased by all two of you reading this. On vinyl.
Accept def hit their stride with their next album Balls to the Wall, that boasted their most popular hit song and it’s one I’m sure you have heard before. Let’s revisit:
Great song and GREAT video but this album really fell flat for me. No real definition and no real pounders. Needless to say, I was disappointed when it came out. Although, the use of gang-type chorus vocals by the rest of the band were employed on this record for the first time and it would play heavily on the next couple of records to come (like almost every song) and I LOVE that shit! Heavy, deep kind of monotonous chanting/singing of the druid variety. You’ll know what I’m talking about when you hear the title track off of my second fav Accept album, Metal Heart:
I couldn’t mention Metal Heart without mentioning Accept’s awesome breakthrough video, Midnight Mover. Peep this:
I remember that video being granted all sorts of awards for it’s camera trickery (pre computers and CGI). Funny how dated it looks now but it is SO RAD! Spinning Accept! Just like the record on my turntable. Now, just to reiterate, Metal Heart is an album you should own… go ahead and get the one after that, Russian Roulette. It’s got some amazing bangers on it but some clunkers also. Worth owning. But the album you should own and live by is Restless and Wild. Use it as a guide through the most messed up times in your life. It’s a middle finger to the establishment as well to your boss, to that dick at the laundromat that won’t stop talking to you, the cretin who thinks not tipping is righteous, that bozo who won’t even consider that Cheers is the best sitcom ever. You know who I’m talking about. Don’t sit around with your thumb up your ass too much longer because it might turn old Udo on and then who knows what he’s liable to do. Pick yourself up by your bootstraps, go have a pint and bang thy head. I have spoken.
Friday’s End Notes: The wife and I watch a lot of TV. We kind of have to because we have kids and sometimes the screaming little knits have to be ignored. Focus on the glowing square filled with images from the outside world! They will bring you comfort! I have my faults (I love ” Cops” and “Friends”. Hey, it’s a funny show, ok?), and she has hers (she loves any third or fourth tier “Flavor of Love” spin-off, the “Bachelor/Bachelorette” franchise, or anything with idiots living in a house together). I gotta say though, I have come around in the last couple of years: Big Brother has got to be one of the best series on TV. I can’t get enough of this show. Jackasses scheming their way through this endless web of deceit, lies and backstabbing. Stupid competitions that are laughable, yet they give these people a little fun who are locked up for our entertainment. I will certainly not get into the whys or why nots of this show because I’d be here all night and I have an episode Tivo’d ready to watch, so eff that noise. Take it for what it is. Stupid garbage that pacifies the mind and lets you escape for an hour (three times a week) through the summer. That’s what TV is, right, an escape? I love being informed but dammit, give me some pap. Don’t judge me.
If you would like to get together for a brew and listen to Metal, or if you just want to buy me this shirt, weatesand@gmail.com:
This image got sent to us a year ago by the tireless Colin Meagher, from the out-takes of some photo work he was doing for someone else. Look no further for proof that bikes and wool go together like peanut butter, apple slices and hot sauce.
Further evidence of the grand cosmic oneness of all things mountain bike and wool, informing us that subconsciously we were on the right track, was this other picture from the same photo shoot, of male model Piper J. Cub, looking as dashing as ever, in his totally coincidental, organic cotton, Swobo Champ t-shirt:
About the only thing needed to complete the circle to Escher-esque James Burke levels of interconnectedness would be if we could find an image of a sheep, riding a bike, through a cotton field, wearing a human pelt costume, all silence of the lambs style (silence of the lambs, get it? Even that is tied in! I’m blowing my own mind, man…). Since that’s probably not gonna be too easy to source using google image search, we’re content to bask in the perfect glow of the above pictures and know that we’re on the right path, relatively speaking.
Speaking of relativity, Connections really was one of the most badass TV shows of all time:
Interwebs, I am dizzy with excitement to bring you today’s installment of the Friday Jukebox. I am your humble, idiotic host, Danny B. I am the person typing these words that you are so kindly reading and I appreciate that. We here at HTATBL.com enjoy that you stick close to us, hang on every word we say, and then head out into the world with a straight razor when we send you the kill-word via the microchip we have planted into your cranium. We might need you to kill, Interwebs. You thought that it was maybe a spider bite or some sort of allergic reaction on your scalp when we used the tiniest of drills while you were sleeping. It didn’t hurt after the sedative kicked in. We’ve been busy, Interwebs. Very busy. From house to house, town to town, our minions carrying out our wishes. Our wish: for you to do our bidding. Our bidding? To rid this planet of mediocrity. It’s very easy, bitches. Listen to Torche:
Torche are a heavy, downtuned, pop-laden, beautiful masterpiece of a band hailing from the dismal, sunshiny state of Florida. Torche was formed out of the ashes of another superior sludgy/pop destruction unit known as Floor. Don’t sleep on their self-titled record released on the pop punk label No Idea. So crushing yet beautiful at the same time. Crazy for the boy:
Torche and Floor have one guy in common, Mr. Steve Brooks. I suggest you take some lessons, Interwebs. This WILL be on the test:
Drop A tuning with the low E string tuned to “Z”? Dude is a genius. Look at that fucking guitar string just hanging there. WTF? We are all idiots because no one has ever thought of this before. Let’s get the most disgusting, floppy, spaghetti-string tone and croon the most simple pop vocal melodies over some vicious riffs. GENIUS. My good friend, Aesop (as well as other rock dignitaries that I admire), seem to write off Torche as some sort of posing, cock rock Metal wannabes but holy god man, listen to those riffs! Pounding! Delicious! It’s sort of like Lucky Charms in all it’s sweet, marshmellowy, teeth-rotting goodness! If anyone has any doubts to my testimonial, witness Meanderthal:
Meanderthal was my record of the year in 2008. It is a perfect record. I always described it as the perfect Metal record for the summer. Much like a Van Halen record, this bombshell needs to be blasted out of the sunroof of a Chevy going 70 mph down a sundrenched blacktop near the beach while heading to the most epic BBQ your pal Cheaver is going to throw this year. Not to be missed. To quote Aquarius Records: “It’s like pop punk given a sludge doom makeover”. Perfect. Check this shit out:
That was probably the poppiest song on the record. Believe me, when you’re a grown-ass man and you’re running around in the woods with your pals in fabricated monster costumes filming a video for a song of yours, you have my vote. That is one of the elements that seeps from this band’s music is their sense of humour. Why take yourselves so seriously? Rock out and wear a costume and kick your feet a little. It’s not rocket science. Now listen to this:
No fancy video with Wild Things dancing around but you get the picture. Me and Hightower are banging our heads right now and draining the keg, yo. “I bet Cheaver has some whiskey!” Hightower would exclaim with a drunken smile. He is absolutely right. That fucker Cheaver has been bogarting his stash of bourbon in the loft above his garage and trying to lure that 19 year old from down the street up there for a bit of the ol’ swig and grope. Jeff Cheaver’s bar-b-ques are legend and so is his musical tastes. Hightower finds the whiskey right when Cheaver pops in a cassette of Torche’s first album. Check it:
“Bathed in napalm, it’s easier said than done. War is beautiful.” Definitely a winner of an album, but we’re drunk as clams and we need to hear Meanderthal again! Play that shit, Cheaver! I swear, the guy threw a hole-in-one at the disc golf course yesterday while he was stoned as Barney Rubble, but the guy knows how to throw a party. If it weren’t for this overwhelming urge to to head across town and carve up some jackass frat boys with this broken bottle, I’d stick around to see what Old Cheaver had for us next. That’s ok, at least I have a soundtrack.
Friday End Notes: Prop 8 was recently overturned in California which means my brothers and sisters can marry one another and each other. Sign on the dotted line, folks! Love doesn’t come with a piece of paper and a ring but it needs to be recognized (especially when it comes to taxes and healthcare and hospital visits and parenting). Gay Rockers (and I’m thinking of one in particular), don’t be a Bob Mould. He was silent for too long when he could have made a difference. The gay community needs your voice. Don’t be ashamed. Use this unique time in your life to step up to the mic and proclaim who you are. It would help a lot. Cheaver asked me to ask you. Dude is totally progressive.
This is the summer that forgot Santa Cruz. While the rest of the country, and the whole northern hemisphere for that matter, has been marinating in a mix of sweat, cocoa butter and fear brought about by record setting temperatures, here on the California coast we’ve been blanketed in steady cool fog for the past two months. For the albinos amongst us, that is good news. For everyone else, all those people who get depressed when deprived of sunlight, it sucks. This hasn’t been the coldest summer on record, but it’s come close.
Still, it’s not like this is an arctic blast or anything. We have it lucky here, living in an air-conditioned paradise where it rarely gets hot enough for pets to die and where a winter with more than four heavy frosts is considered cruel. People grow banana trees here, for crhissake. How bad can it really be?
Familiarity breeds contempt though, and when you get used to a certain pattern of life, a three month spell of sunless mornings broken only by a two hour window of sun in the afternoon before a cold onshore wind blows the fog back in to obscure everything with a dripping film of grey, well, it gets pretty fucking depressing. Some of us moved away from the outer avenues of San Francisco because of this kind of shit. To hell with what Mark Twain may or may not have said.
Aaanyway, figuring out how to dress for a ride has been a merry game of Russian Roulette. Bundle up to stay warm enough near the coast, and end up sweating like one of Hernando DeSoto’s troops marching through the swamps of Florida. Yes, that’s pretty obscure. But I bet good money those dudes were sweating out their body weight each week… Orrr, dress light and suffer the clinging damp and hope that you can climb through the fog bank and find sunshine for long enough to dry out before plunging back into the gloom. Or carry a backpack full of clothes. Sucks.
Fortunately for us, we work at a company that happens make clothes perfect for just such a shitty, shifty climate. 100% Merino wool jerseys that are super soft and comfortable and perfect for warding off chilly mornings. Merino-poly blend technical jerseys that can handle a a huge range of temperatures and remain comfortable and breathable, and not get stinky. Wool blend arm and knee warmers, that can keep your flexy bits toasty warm in any temperature or moisture level, and are light enough to easily stuff in a pocket if the sun ever dares get warm enough to make your sweat gland smile. Hell, we’ve got knickers too. Knickers rule in foggy weather. This has become the uniform of this non-summer, and I’ve been wearing the shit out of it all:
And for those days where the weight of foggy misery has wrapped so close around me that the only true respite could come from crawling back into the pre-birth womb days, one of these:
Is there a hidden irony in a black base layer, photographed on a dark background? No, not with a summer like this kicking me in the nuts. Dark on dark is about par for the course. I’m pretty damn glad to have these clothes, and while I might be biased about their performance, I’m pretty damn proud of how well they work in this kind of funk. And I’m daydreaming of escaping this grey, grey ooze and logging some time in exactly the same duds somewhere way up high where the sun will probably be shining but the chances of hailstorms and getting struck by lightning are also right up there. And I know these clothes will work real well up there too…
A week already? Really? Damn, time flies. Here’s Danny B, with another installment of bummer life audio avoidance. Dig deep, kids:
Hello, people, are you reading? Are you watching? Do you even care? Do you want to be amazed? Well, go watch Cupcake Wars because that shit is tight! I’m cutting to the chase this week (what does that even mean?) and heading straight for the heart because the throat is overrated. I’m throwing down the gloves and asking you: Are you ready to Love? …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead:
…And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead (or “Trail of Dead” or henceforth to be known as AYWKUBTTOD…. uhhh, maybe just “The Trail” will do) are an indie noise-art-rock outfit hailing from Austin, TX. A lot of jackasses like to compare them to Sonic Youth but I think the only thing these bands have in common is feedback and constant cymbal ring. The Trail write love songs. Not the type of Chicago/Foreigner/R. Kelley love songs you are used to. Their songs have an ethereal, almost angry feeling to them. It seems the boys in The Trail have had their hearts broken more than once and their muse seems to be disappointment born from a nerdy misunderstood childhood. The two main songwriters are Conrad Keely - a dark, brooding, Spock-haircut sporting stoner-genius – and Jason Reece, the definite “bad boy” of the band, once member of one of my favorite hardcore bands from the ’90’s, the Mukilteo Fairies, and one of my favorite drummers of all time. No joke, this guy wails on the toms like no other. These two started out as a duo and seemed to add a new member to The Trail every year they were together. I swear the last time I saw them in 1997 there were 13 people on stage. Bands have to mature, right? The Trail’s career span has been spotty but mostly brilliant. Two really cool rumors that add to their Robin Hood mystique: 1) They have been known to show up at SXSW showcases claiming to be the band who was playing that night and robbing and ruling the stage but eventually being thrown out and banned from the club once their cover was blown. Punx. 2) I heard they were playing some Hard Rock Cafe and during their set, they smashed a glass case on the wall and grabbed Stevie Ray Vaughn’s guitar, plugged it in, and ripped a super solo before being rushed by security and thrown out of the Cafe. I might be getting that last story mixed up with The Icarus Line but I enjoy thinking that it was The Trail. Today, I will be talking of only their first three AMAZING recordings. The rest you can leave alone…
Let us start with the self titled …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead:
This album was an original in a sea of late nineties toilet poo that seemed to be spawned by the likes of Marilyn Manson, overblown Beastie Boys hype and Beck. This was a punk album that was put out by the amazing Merge label (home of Superchunk and Neutral Milk Hotel). It is loud, dissident, and full of beautiful noise. Both quiet, introspective and blasting, the noise is there. Posting this next video gives me chills (both douche-chills and authentic ones). It is so damn cheesy with the crappy TV show “Farmclub”, the awful dancing hott chix surrounding the stage and the obviously fake audience but a) this seems to be the only video available for The Trail’s song “Richter Scale Madness” off of their first record, and b) I think this truly represents what they were about. Not giving a fuck if they’re surrounded by stupid shit like strippers, and also destroying their equipment at the end which they did for like 5 years straight after EVERY SHOW. Check eeet:
After the self titled record, The Trail actually used the studio to their advantage. This is the stand-out record for me in their catalog – Madonna:
This is THE record, folks. It is beautiful, swirling, depressing, uplifting…just like being in Love. They scream, they howl, they croon, they seduce and they laugh and cry. Check out the standout track from this beast, “Mistakes and Regrets”:
That drumming gets me in the nads every time. It makes my gristle throb. “If I could make a list of my mistakes and regrets, I’d put your name up top and every line after it.” This album is about sex and drugs. NAILED IT. Man, I should be a rock critic. Seriously, if you get no other record this month, make it “Madonna”. The hot tub will never be the same again.
Onto The Trail’s final accomplished release. I am talking Source Tags and Code:
This was The Trail’s much loved major label release. They definitely deserved all of the acclaim they received at this point in their lives because they put out one hell of a cuddle/noise/destructo fest of a masterpiece. This album is probably the pinnacle of the band’s lifespan but I’m still pulling for Madonna (seek it out immediately in the name of all that is holy). This record is polished and recognized. It knows exactly where to hit and hits it well. Here, check a couple of high profile live performances that will get your sphincter puckering:
Ok, The Trail’s next album, World’s Apart, is a pretty good album but dodgy. The standout cut (and title track) is a weird curse-laden track about the state of popular music and the “what’s wrong with kids today” mentality that I love so much. After this record, it seems Conrad just wanted to smoke grass and write like the Beatles because I lost touch with The Trail. Hey, if you like the Beatles, you might like The Trail’s later shit but it ain’t hitting me in the groin….and when I have sex with my loved one, I want to be hit in the groin. You feel me? Of course you do, that’s why I love you.
Friday End Notes: My new mountain bike is almost done. Single speed mountain custom frame by the illustrious Black Cat. Seems he has beat me to the Karp punch but that’s ok, he’s slow on other things. Expect a lengthy Karp post here very soon since my new bike will be called “The Karp”. It will be filled with sarcasm, hatred, fun, throb, and bounce. I will dominate certain downhills and relax with my beer when fools want to throw down. The Karp is a legend in my own mind and will soon be visible to the adoring public. The Karp will be seen at your BBQ in the next month and you’ll be all like “I read about this bike, yo!” and I’ll be all like “I like his style.” and you’ll never know it was me. So below the radar, dawg. Beware: THE KARP.
You wanna throw down? weatesand@gmail.com. Subject header: hey, I’m reading your shit! You suck!
The above pictured t-shirt, known affectionately around here as “Badge” (or sometimes, Badgeboy, Badgie, ol’ Badgerino, Badgenheimer, or Badgeass…) is one of a pair of t-shirts we introduced relatively recently, around the beginning of the year. There’s “Badge”, above, and “Tullio”, below:
Now, if I was a betting robot (which I am, actually, and a very poor one at that. In fact, I probably missed my calling, could have had a great career as a cooler in Las Vegas, given my almost spectacular consistency at picking exactly the wrong winner every single damn time), I’d have called Tullio out as the potential hot seller. For starters, he’s red, which is always a solid bet for a t-shirt color. And he’s got a globe on him – everyone loves globes, right? And there’s that whole homage to Tullio Campagnolo going on there, which, for anyone even halfway into bikes, has to have some decent subliminal pulling power. Right?
Whereas Badge, well, he’s blue, and he has a big shield on him, doesn’t that make people think of cops? And aside from cops themselves, don’t most people kinda shy away from dressing in homage to them (emphasis on “most”)? Or am I being paranoid again?
Maybe it’s just me. Because in a recent number crunching wrestling match, ol’ Badgey is selling the wheels off of Tullio, at a ratio of about 5 to 3. I wouldn’t have called that, nosireebob. Hats, it’s the same deal, but a lot closer. Still, Badge holds an edge over Tullio, and I will go out on a flimsy limb right here and say that the tullio hat is a far more handsome rig than badge. Has the deeper cultural message sent in the deeply profound motion picture “Fear of a Black Hat” been lost on us already?
Possibly. But I digress…
I decided that it was just another instance of my bad taste not being able to recognize a true winner. That, or I had gravely underestimated the selling power of the words “avoid the bummer life.” Then, this weekend, I saw this:
The freshly minted 2010 penny. Now I’m not gonna go out and claim that the US mint outright stole our badge design for their new penny, but it sure does seem a teeny bit suspicious that the new coin looks as much as it does like the badgenator. Coincidence? I think not…
And if anyone knows their shit about subliminal messaging and the power of symbolism, it’s those damn freemasons that run the country. They may be the illuminati, but they have their designs locked down tight. Too bad they left out the bit about avoiding the bummer life.
I hear black helicopters circling, time to go. In an attempt to pull this string of t-shirt nonsense together with an extrapolation of last week’s post about voting with your wallet, and maybe sprinkling a bit of DannyB magic outside of Friday, I leave you with this meditation on the dollar bill, courtesy of The Last Poets. Play it loud, and pay attention:
We apologize for this break in transmission. DannyB had to go live his life last Friday, but he’s back again, bringing us enlightenment through music. Or something like that. Welcome back, Danny, bring it:
Death Grunt to you loyal, weekly HTATBL reader. Death Grunt to you. I am so glad to be back in foggy Santa Cruz after spending a foggy week in San Diego by the foggy pool with a foggy drink in my hand. No wonder my memory is foggy. Upper Marine Layer be damned. This last week has definitely put me in the mood for some soul crushing, old-school Viking Metal though. You too?? Rad! Let’s travel back into time to a place that was a kickoff point to church burning, post-KISS shoulder pads, Scandinavian scowls, retard-plod riffs that will lift your carcass to Valhalla and solos that will bend your spine in a master-cringe. I am talking the seminal, wonderful, and most excellent Celtic Frost:
“Who are these clowns??” you might ask yourself. Well…..bow down to your new Masters, dipshit. The Frost will own your ass by the end of this here little old post. Give them some headspace. Give it some time. Sprinkle with a little inhumanity-to-man, top with a crapload of misanthropy and you will have To Mega Therion:
Don’t say anything. Shhhh. Just admire this H.R. Giger painting on the cover. Willie says that all artists are dead. Well, he is wrong. Gaze in wonderment at Satan I. Now look at this:
What? You’re not in the mood yet? Listen to this:
and then bang your fucking head to this:
(yeah, I know the pictures are the same and don’t move. that only serves to underscore the bone flaying awesomeness of this all…)
I don’t know what else to say. Tom G. Warrior and crew have said it all with these two songs. I could go into a lot of explanations why you are a victim of trends and why you should kill yourself because you don’t own this record but this make it clear. Have you heard the song “Into the Crypts of Rays” off of their first EP, Morbid Tales??:
Have you not wallowed in the deep, fetid pools of the Frost’s second EP, Emperor’s Return??:
To Mega Therion is a Metal Record that will have you on the floor in awe (if you are really, really stoned that is…..or praying for a dead relative’s well being). It is Celtic Frost’s first full length release and it is a crusher. I could go into Celtic Frost’s past as Hellhammer but I think you should read and discover for yourself. I could also pontificate on how Celtic Frost changed the game with their genre-bending masterpiece Into The Pandemonium but that is a whole ‘nuther post unto itself. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, I should really be talking about how absolutely essential ITP is to your collection but I don’t want to scare you. Into The Pandemonium is Advanced (thank you Klosterman). You will need a few years to actually comprehend what you are hearing, my little gromlette. They open the record with a cover of Mexican Radio, fer crying out loud!! DID YOU HEAR ME?? Celtic Frost OPEN their record, Into The Pandemonium, with a COVER of Wall Of Voodoo’s “Mexican Radio”. Who the fuck does that?? JESUS CHRIST, IS THAT THE POINTER SISTERS ON ONE OF THESE TRACKS?? WHY DOES TOM SOUND LIKE ROZZ FROM CHRISTIAN DEATH ALL OF A SUDDEN?? Advanced!!!
Ok *whew* let me gather my wits because I am flustered here and getting off track. This band did amazing things and then went on to do dismal glammy scummy things that I can’t even digest. Please forgive me for skipping a large part of Metal History and bringing you to the present with a reunion that was pretty incredible. The Frost did one more album in 2006 that was a doomy, downtuned bang-a-thon entitled Monotheist that I do recommend, but it is a different idealism from when the band went to shit in 1988:
Kill me.
Tom G. Warrior and a different crew of hired hands have formed a new band that garners your attention. They are called Triptykon (and I even cringe when I hear this name. see the End Notes to understand), and they are a droney, sort of nu-metal shadow, of a time that once was. Somehow fulfilling and depressing at the same time. Celtic Frost is Dead. Long Live Celtic Frost:
Friday End Notes: Thomas Gabriel Fischer, aka Tom G. Warrior, is an interesting, yet annoying, individual. I cannot put my finger on it but I idolize the dude, and am repulsed by his arrogant bloated persona, all at the exact same time. Dude has done a lot for Metal in his lifetime for sure, but wtf man, back off a bit. He is so far up his own ass it’s incredible. From his his long-winded, Shakespeare-wannabe Celtic Frost autobiography, Are You Morbid? (which I loved, by the way, because I am Frost-biased) to his idiotic skull cap of nowadays hiding his receding hairline that no one gives a shit about. Tom, come on man. It’s just me and you. You are not a poet, you are not a prophet, you are not a savior. You’re just a banger like me, that grew up like me, that wants to think about cool shit like Conan the Barbarian and wizards and the occult and pissing our parents off. The people that are clouding your head with Visions of Grandeur (not a Celtic Frost song but should be) are just sycophants. They can take a long walk off of a short tumulus as far as we’re concerned, right? I can talk man to man with you, Tom, because I am you. We. Are. The. Same. Come down off of your cloud and be a guy who loves the good stuff like beer and chicks and Metal and riffs and bad solos and Ibanez Icemans. I’m gonna go listen to some Venom now and talk shit about the corner liquor store guy that won’t even look at me because I have a pentagram on my backpack. Religion is sometimes so stupid, huh Tom? Yeah, I thought so. You are so cool when you want to be.
End on End Notes: One thing Tom is really famous for is his “Death Grunts”. His amazing vocal stylings have confused and disturbed many with his guttural throat gruntings. I personally love the hellhammer out of them. It definitely sets the Frost apart from all the other riff-raff. Now, thanks to some nerd with too much time on his hands, and Ryan the Snake for finding it for me, I present every Death Grunt, Heyyyy!, and Whooooaaaaa! that Tom G. belted out from every Celtic Frost album edited down for your enjoyment. You do not want to miss this. Thrash!:
It is foolish, in this day and age, to believe that any of us here living in the “first world” can live an ethically pure life. With very, very few exceptions, we are all consumers to some degree. We all have a carbon footprint. To those of you who don’t consume, and who are living a life completely in harmony with the forces of nature, totally balanced in the physical, psychic and cosmic senses of the words, my hat is off to you. Hell, my head is off to you. Because that is a pretty big order.
We use electric lights to brighten the dark. We use keyboards attached to glowing screens to type and read, to communicate. We buy food from inside of buildings with large refrigerators and a wide variety of options on how to feed ourselves from packaged nutrients, some animal, some not, some live, some dead, some raw, some processed. We drive cars. We ride bikes made in big factories and shod with tires made out of nylon and rubber, bikes made in other countries where people make less money than us and the air quality is probably pretty fucking bad, bikes that are put into huge containers and shipped around the world.
We are all consumers, some of us far moreso than others. None of us are pure. There is no smiley self righteous moral high ground. Our human existence – thanks to our prehensile thumbs, our big brains, our curiosity, our constant hunger, our need to procreate – is one of consumption. We are the scary animal. This is the crux of our modern life. Do we just throw in the towel and live the scary animal life to the hilt, eating everything in our path until we swallow the planet, and ourselves, entirely? Or do we believe in our higher consciousness, pull ourselves up by our evolutionary bootstraps, and try to balance the scary animal with forethought and conscientiousness? Even if we know that any attempt at individual higher plane living is going to be severely compromised by the nature of the machinery that is at the core of our modern lives?
Is there such a thing as ethical consumerism? Our civilization is defined by commerce; our religion, the most effective way of keeping the masses in line, is the accumulation and spending of material wealth. As individuals, we are microscopic particles of dirt in what is basically a Mississippi River of trade. On our own, we can’t do shit to change the course of that river, or to stop from being washed out into the Gulf when that river is done with us. So, pretending to leave the river, to stop consuming entirely, to flip the bird to the world as we know it and go live the life of a hunter/gatherer, well, it’s a noble gesture. But an entirely futile one. It won’t change a thing. And, as a gut check, take a look at how the other hunter/gatherer societies are doing around the world these days. Not so hot…
Life is a series of compromises. We, as microscopic particles, can’t change the course of the river all by ourselves, but it’s a big muddy river and it’s muddy because it is chock full of us, in our teeming billions.
A smart guy who started this company was fond of the saying “vote with your wallet.” He probably learned that from another smart guy he once worked for, and in this day and age, unless you are somewhere at the top of the food chain (in which case you won’t be stooping to read this, you’ll have your army of eunuch-slaves keeping an eye out for things), that act, spending where you believe, is about the most that you can do. Vote With Your Wallet.
It’s fashionable for a brand to rally around this call, albeit dangerous. But it is something we believe matters. Vote With Your Wallet. Pay attention where you spend your money, pay attention to where your money comes from, and pay attention where your money goes after you’ve spent it.
Will your buying a relatively inexpensive bike made in Taiwan do anything to stop another asbo-fucking-lutely world wrecking mega-clusterfuck like what is happening in the Gulf right now? Probably not, but you are only one particle. What if your friends also bought bikes? What if all us soft, rich (in the global sense), white and light colored people voted with our wallets? Stopped driving all the time, and started riding, even just a little bit more? Mississippi River flows into the Gulf of Mexico, a whole lotta change has been made along the course of that mighty river by all those little particles over the years, and it’s not over yet.
Will deciding to buy a garment stitched up right near here in Oakland, California, out of respectfully treated Merino Wool or organic cotton, have any noticeable impact on the North Pacific Gyre, or make sweatshops go away?
Probably not. But we have to start somewhere.
Nobody is pure. We sell bikes that are made in Asia with parts made out of petroleum by-products. We sell synthetic shirts right alongside our locally made, earth-friendly fiber garments. We are in the glasshouse and we have a handful of rocks. But we also have an idea, that if we all act with some respect, and think about what we are doing before we lay the blood of our christ – the almighty dollar – down, that maybe we can end up pointed somewhere other than straight to extinction. Maybe that makes us hypocrites, but at least we are honest hypocrites.
So much for Avoiding the Bummer Life today. We’ll be back soon with more talk about music, drinking beer and doing skids. Just needed to get this one off our chest, so to speak.
The picture above is a lesson in how to harden the f@&k up otherwise known as Andy May, snapped here by the lens of Kelley Richardson, shortly after Andy finished the XC race at the Downieville Classic the weekend before last. Every time you think the climb is too long, or the sun is too hot, or the rain too wet, or the wind is blowing too hard, or your back hurts, or you are tired, or there’s too much traffic, or your biorhythms are off, or whatever other bullshit excuse you might use to tell yourself not to ride, think of Andy. Andy only has one leg. Not to put words in Andy’s mouth, but I lay money that any excuse you, or me, or anyone can come up with for not riding is probably pretty weak compared to missing a leg. To say nothing of the million and one excuses we can all come up with for not racing.
Andy rules. We’re proud to see him wearing our clothes.
And yes, we know the following video is probably almost as old as this company, but it’s still a goodie:
Today’s message has been brought to you by sheep, dust particles, and the letters H, T, F and U. Thank you for reading.
