Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Reality TV is mental Gonorreah!!!
So, my wife and I share one TV in our household. All of you married gentlemen out there know what that means. You pretty much end up having to watch whatever you're better-half feels like. Well, I have to snap! I've been filled to the brim with piss and vinegar...
So, I've invited my dear friend, ShitStorm skins-man Rick "The Devil's Metronome" Smith to crank out a blast beat while I drop some lyrics on your asses on the topic of Reality TV...

Alright Rick, let's do this shit...
REALITY TV IS FUCKING SHIT 
BLAST BEAT!!!
1,2,3,4...
Reality TV is fucking shit, it makes my asshole want to spit, I think im gonna lose my mind, time to slaughter you TV swine,
Real World and  Road Rules douchebags and sluts, Real Housewives are malignant cunts, tattoo shows are pussy as fuck, Kim Kardashian is just a fucking mutt, 
The Bachelor is a dickhead I’ll fill his face up with scars, mosh you pansies to death on Dancing with the Stars,  Tila Tequila has Gonorreah she got it from fucking dogs, Americas Next Top Model can get impaled on my meat log,
American Idol is so fucking whack, I’ll charge you with a frozen black metal attack, Randy Jackson what a fucking douche, squeeze his fat head till his entrails ooze,
Reality TV can lick my bung, from where a bloody stool has hung, I want to vomit on my fucking TV, you’re infecting my eyes with HIV. 
Reality TV can give me a wipe, after dropping a deuce studded with corn and blood stripes,  I declare brutal unholy Satanic war on all you attention starved jerk-offs, meat-heads and whores


Monday, April 2, 2012


Game of Thrones is Black Metal as Fuck!
HBO's epic tale of nice tits, swords and sorcery returns!
 My wife and I wore corpse paint for last night's premier. You pussy-ass Power Metal supporters out there in Cyber-Camelot might claim that Game of Thrones reps your scene to the bone, with all the kings and knights bit. In part you might be right. But remember this... the Knights and Kings on Game of Thrones (those easy-to-hate California blondes) of House Lannister are the show's douche platoon. The real bad asses of the show are the stoic Northerners. Those other fuckos, they're the Power Metal faction of this epic tale set in a fantasy realm. But as for the North, the land of Winterfell, it doesn't get anymore Black Metal than that! I mean, come on... Winterfell?! As if the province's name alone doesn't sound like a fucking IMMORTAL album title, the Northerners of Winterfell keep pet wolves, strictly worship the "old Gods" and send messages via Ravens! Way frostbitten! Who doesn't dream of seeing a war between Black Metal warriors and Power Metal ass-wipes? We can all witness it symbolically through GAME OF THRONES.
Season 2 is here boys and girls... And if you carelessly slept through the first season, than you need to be on this! Here's the checklist: swords, sorcery, tons of sex from all genres (not excluding brother on sister action), political intrigue, wolves, ravens and blood by the gallons... [Christ! It almost sounds like my bachelor party...] 
I will spare you the synopsis because I would like for you to uncover this masterpiece series for yourselves. But I will give you the general premise. The likable, yet boorish warrior king of the seven kingdoms encounters a bit of misfortune, leaving a vacant throne. In his lieu, would be aspirants to the vacant seat come from out of the woodwork to make a play for power. Meanwhile, there's this little blonde broad (who's not too hard on the eyes, by the way) running around in some dessert with two pet dragons, fulfilling some prophecy. She went from being a Nomadic War Lord's Booty Call Slave to becoming a desert messiah. And to provide the appropriate side plots- a slew of tits, whores and whore houses abound, episode after episode. PER-VER-SIONS!!! 


Like anything else from HBO, this shit is fucking gold. The writing on this is superb, with a microscope-like attention to plot intricacies, set and costumes. I appreciate this show on many levels, but primarily for not insulting the intelligence of its audience. The characters are excellent, oh, wait... there is the exception of the current king on the Iron chair...



King Joffrey! Who even looks like that? I can't even find a word to even begin to tear into him and in part it might be because his peculiar appearance bugs me out! This guy is a world class Ass-bag. I want to bludgeon him to death with a spiked club and vomit in his mouth as he gasps for final breath. I will probably never be able to see him in any other work beyond Game of Thrones because of sheer repulsion. He's a fucking sadistic motherfucker! But not in a cool, lovable way like me. No, he's a dick. 


And here's the head-kick, he is the son of a brother and sister combo. That's fucking disgusting. Maybe that explains his odd 'Grey Alien in Technicolor' look? Might be chromosomal! One clear result of inbreeding is facial asymmetry, and well clearly... He looks like a Parakeet with Down Syndrome.
Listen, I don't care if your sister is the last piece of ass on Earth, you just don't go there... Oh God! I can't even think about banging my sisters! Well, it doesn't help that they're both a pair of fucking pigs but that's besides the point... 


King Joffrey, Boy-King Bitch, I hope you get decapitated by Rob Stark, King of the North.
Black Metal will Prevail! 
Anyways, jump on this ASAP!!! This is an oasis for the brain in the Red Waste that is modern day entertainment. Another top-notch HBO joint! I thought they set a high benchmark when they dropped ROME, but this is on a whole other level. Hopefully this series will see more than two seasons as ROME did in its unjustly shortened time span. 

Journey to Lysergic Spiritual Dimensions...
I'm off to see the wizard... the wonderful wizard of God!

I went on another one of my mystical journeys. This one was aboard the star-ship Psylocybin. Upon my return, I couldn't wait to report to my loyal servants on all the wonders I had seen in the inner cosmos. Unfortunately, the bulk of my notes are rather nonsensical and probably only make sense either in the moment of conception or under the state hallucinogenic influence. I salvaged two entries, but I myself can't make heads or tails of them....

This one I wrote down on my ascent upwards. The psilocybin had just knocked on my sub-conscious' dressing room door and said "Let's go, it's showtime, we got 5 minutes till we're on..."     



Gliding the purple dragon-ship through dense green haze, Nibiru comes trailing through making its cosmic way.
 Pierce through the dead star’s dilating eye... our galaxy explodes and lights the crimson sky. 
While wielding the axe of epic doom, I decipher the divine geometry of my ancient tomb. 
Tie-dye  cosmos stains the surface of the moon. Brace yourselves for aeons about to wind down soon.

Electric priests of Saturn’s third ring, nibble on the Eucharist of invisible flight...
Bearing the secret of pitch black light, they gather in secret under the fall of  night.
 The final fear crawling up my spine as their oracles prophesy the fall of time. Sands of the millennial glass return from whence they fell, Lucifer ascends from whence he fell...
Leading Venus as both they soar over Earth, their laughter swells as our world turns to hell, fulfilling the ancient curse.
Intergalactic caravan blazing through space, to build a new temple upon Jupiter’s moon base.
 Enlightened prophets of the sacred double helix crypt, 
 keepers of the shrine that house the ancient secret texts...

(Dude, that was so stoner-doom!)   



But then, I peaked, and everything just went downhill from there (philosophically speaking, I still had a blast!) I just ceased to be coherent in any intelligible way...

The following are excerpts from voice recordings. I could no longer focus enough to use hand-eye coordination at this point. This is the recorded segment from that phase of the trip that made the most sense, though hardly...

“No one can rot as beautifully as Eye, the couch eats me slowly...
 Is this where I’ll die? 
In between these folds like a green polyester, non-hypoallergenic vagina full of loose change.
 Fuck it, my arms are like branches man and I can just stick them both out the vagina-couch’s labias and just regenerate man it’s not that strange! Isn’t that beautiful man? 
Vaya primo, que rica son las drogas, tremendo arrebato, DRO-GA! DRO-GA! DRO-GA! Mira que basilon los munequitos!
 [LAUGHTER] 
No one can regenerate as beautifully as I! 
Oh my god, I am the sun! 
No way bro, I am the fucking god damn motherfucking sun of the universal orb of...
  What the fuck am I talking about bro? 
[LAUGHTER]
 Oh yea, the sun...
And so, If I indeed am the sun, the one to brighten your fun, at least for some, then let me shine rays of light and knowledge from beyond...
Bro...
[LAUGHTER]
 The key to wisdom is this-PA LA PINGA!
 Fucking Fuck It Bro, Thats It... not even playing around!
[LAUGHTER]
 Practice this mantra in level 9 of psychedelic transcendence-
Om, Pa La Pinga, Om
 Om, Pa La Pinga, Om
Om, Pa La Pinga, Om…
You shall see my child. 
You shall see.
 This mantra is the key to being happy when shit is crappy…
Wait… what? 
That’s my shit bro, Kasmir by Led Zeppelin, Clouds will dance now cause that’s what they do when this jam permeates...
 Robert Plant wore blouses and had feminine mannerisms but he  entered many pink flesh portals because that nigga said what?
 He said PA LA PINGA...
Jimmy Page bought Aleister Crowleys crib, Why?, because the nigga  said PA LA PINGA...
 Zeppellin was HUGE in Cuba!
 You know what else is big en CUBITA LINDA? Saying PA LA PINGA!!!! 

That’s the seed of knowledge kid! 
That’s the wisdom of the ancients right there! 
PA LA PINGA! 
Yo the economy collapsed! 
The reply: PA LA PINGA!  
Fuck, A hurricane is coming! 
TO THE DICK! PA LA PINGA! 
Drugs kill brain cells...
 PA LA PINGA!
 It’s simple isn’t it? 
That’s why I am the Universal Guru!
 [LAUGHTER]
 Doesn’t make sense to you?
 Fuck it! 
You know why?
  Cause I’m tripping uber-balls...
 so you know what 
[LAUGHTER]
 PA LA PINGA Consorte’! 
OM-PA-LA-PIN-GA-OM!OM-PA-LA PIN-GA-OM!
[LAUGHTER]!                    
Attention Psychology majors and Timothy Leary-esque psychedelic psycho-nauts: Feel free to weigh in if you can decypher what my subconscious mind was screaming at me... 


The Black Metal Restaurant Critic.
Disclaimer:
I started this 'Black Metal Restaurant Critic' bit when I put out Tales Of Perversion Volume 2. I know what some of you might be thinking "Oh, you're just biting off of VEGAN BLACK METAL CHEF." Some of you may be familiar with Vegan Black Metal Chef on YouTube. I myself am a big fan as well as a subscriber to his channel. I just want it to be known, that my restaurant reviews are in no way a plagiarism. The fact is that it is purely coincidental that my review of the Pad Thai in Tales 2 coincided with his Black Metal Pad Thai recipe video on YouTube! In fact, exactly one week after I pressed Tales'2 I contacted him about it and let him know about the weird Co-Inky-Dink. I also offered to send him a copy of Tales' 2 but he never responded with a mailing address. I guess he thought I was going to go all Count Grishnach on his Ass! Pussy Ass Bitch! Anyways, I'm the originator of this goof, so Vegan Black Metal Bitch can blow me...
Now, on to the bit... but first let me change into my Black Metal persona...

I know, I know... the striped Polo shirt isn't very atmospheric. It's Miami style Black Metal, we're a tropical people my brother!
This month I have most infernally chosen to feast on the flesh and bones of my burnt satanic offerings in North Miami Beach’s unholy chapel of high priced Asian dining, Oishi Thai (14841 Biscayne Blvd North Miami BeachFL 33181). The eve of the diabolical feast went as such…
I begin my malevolent incantations of abomination at this eatery by cursing their inferior wine crypt. As the sacrificial Asian waitress approached my feasting altar to ask if I wanted to begin with a ritual chalice of wine, I ordered a bottle of Satan’s Blood 1972 from the Infernal Winter Vineyard. She said they didn’t have it. So I was stuck with a Merlot. As I gazed upon the menu scrolls I did not find my favorite Asian fare of Black Cat killed on midnight Friday the 13th, stewed in goat’s blood. So, to quench my Transylvanian hunger I looked up at the silvery winter-moon and summoned the Shrimp Pad Thai. They took a dark century to serve my meal. When it finally arrived, I was buried by time and dust. I noticed a peculiar smell emanating from my Pad Thai and as I tasted the unholy meal… It was burnt, like my parents’ church back home in Norway! How do you fuck up Pad Thai at a Thai joint? So, for your abominable desecration of my unholy feast, I curse you for all dark eternity. Next time I’d rather go to Dimmu Burger.
 HAIL!
Reprinted from Tales of Perversion Zine Volume 2
Burnt Offerings Aftermath!
I shall now loosen the sixth seal from my Charmin hell scroll, and tell you a tale from the Pagan past, inscribed onto the infernal fecal parchment, on the eve upon which I returned to my dungeon of devilishness from that horrid feast of Pad Thai swill, that I wouldn't serve to my winter-wolves. I would serve it only to JESUS!..
  
“As I sit upon the infernal white porcelain throne I call upon the sleeping titan nestled in my bowels of hell. Arise, oh great Behemoth of my fecal waste. Come forth from the gates of my colon with your unholy putrid stench. As the beast awakens, my entrails twist in excruciating agony. I recite the ancient incantation of conjuring. Shemhamforash... Let this 666 pound log of Lucifer be brought forth into the Earth and wreak its unholy mayhem upon the plumbing. The great ancient one begins his descent down the pits of my inner hell. I scream out at the winter moon in agonizing infernal torment as the mighty Behemoth’s size is larger than the ritual earth portal (aka my bung-hole). With a furious splatter the enormous brown caca-demon lets out a demonic bellow and falls into the depths of the whirlpool of souls. Circling once... circling twice... then sinking deep into the murky waters of the river Styx (or the Miami sewer system) to do Satan’s bidding. I sigh in relief, and open the scrolls of Charmin, where it shall be written, and it also shall be done, recorded for dark centuries in bloody shit-stains"








New Tales of Perversion Merchandise!
Supplies are limited, Hook Up Now!!!
Also, we'd like to announce our new smoldering hot phone chat line for zoophiliacs...
Of course the fine print is virtually illegible. Our rates are through the roof! 
Music Reviews from the Hell Mouth!
OK douche-bags, here's what I've been getting high to lately...

Om-God Is Good-Drag City Records
OM is the sacred, mystical syllable found in all of the Dharmic religions. It is believed that the sound ‘Om’ is the root transcendental vibration from which all spiritual life (and even Godhead) originates. It is often pronounced in the lowest and most guttural of sound registers in order to harness its full potential for spiritual awakening (I assume that the depth of the chanting is what produces the depth of trance.) Similarly, OM the band is a sacred and mystical listening experience, a dense spiritual mountain of sound which elevates those who slowly, but surely ascend towards its apex. Sonically, they thrive in the lowest of the low end. It could be surprising to a new listener how full and massive this band sounds, considering the fact that they consist of just bass and drums…
In one word, you may sum them up by calling them ‘meditative’. They crank out these epic fucking riffs that give you a soaring, transcending feeling. At other times their sound takes me to a dreamscape in my mind’s eye of me sitting high atop a cloudy mountain, watching eagles and vultures dare while I contemplate on the setting sun as I polish off a mammoth Spliff. 
Not unlike previous efforts, the lyrical content is fashioned remarkably well, considering the grab-bag of religious/mystic references which appear at random. A fine example of this- referencing Buddhist terminology (Converge onto the death grounds, advance the Rinpoche') on the same song that pulls out mentions of Christian mythology such as Golgotha and John the Baptist (not to mention Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.)  Well, the OM is the universal sound vibration, so it seems natural that this crew would incorpoate universal spiritual themes.
 Formerly consisting of SLEEP’s rhythm section, OM’s drummer Chris Hakius bowed out after 3 albums and two EPs and was replaced by GRAILS skins-man Emil Amos. An almost seamless transition of percussionists, but Amos’ style is just a tad more syncopated than Hakius’ mega-minimal, free-flowing approach. The quieter aesthetics of their previous full length PILGRIMAGE set a tone for this release. Unlike their first two albums which were chock full of huge Bong-rattling riffs, GOD IS GOOD is a bit more prudent on the volume levels, which feature Steve Albini at the helm as production consiglieri. Clearly the focus on this project was ambience and they create it by adhering to an obsessive middle-eastern formula on this joint. The album starts off with ‘Thebes’, a nineteen minute astral projection into the ancient Arab world. I swear that as this song builds you can almost envision yourself in a sandy middle-eastern bazaar under an ardent red sun, as a distant call to prayer rings out from atop a minaret, Sitar and Tambour reverberating in the midst. Excuse me, Hassan, ah, yes, As-Salaam Aleikum right back at ya', um, could you point me to the Lebanese Hash? Cisnero’s trademark Tibetan/Byzantine monotone chant translates fittingly in Arabic intonation. I know, I know, you’re saying “NINETEEN MINUTES?!” I thought the same when I first popped it into my laptop (and the CD too.) But then at 8:28 when Cisnero’s bass churns out a monolithic open note, let’s you hang on it, and begins to pluck at his bass strings (that sound like fucking steel tow cables), what follows is a bass line that marauds the metronome-like ride cymbal and aggressive (yet minimal, and loose) drumming of Amos . It’s at this triumphant point that you begin to wish the song droned on for 19 minutes longer. For four minutes this simple, yet skull-crushing configuration of loosely recurring chords takes you deep into your pineal gland with DMT-like efficiency. Once you are about to cross into the void at 14:57, they slow it down even more and crank the heaviness up to 11 on the dial (Spinal Tap style) and it fucks you all up. Ride Cymbal, Ride Cymbal, Ride Cymbal!  It is at these moments which OMs music uplifts the soul into a state of musical nirvana, not unlike their monosyllabic namesake, the Om mantra. I think I'm going to hire Cisneros and Emil Amos to just follow me around with a mobile drum kit and bass rig, acting as my personal theme music. Ride Cymbals, glorious Ride Cymbals! The other gem on this four track release is ‘Meditation is the Practice of Death’. Distortion gets shelved for this one. Instead, they opted for a silent swelling bass line with some Dub-like echo effect on the percussion thrown in every few measures. This is probably the ideal track to meditate on- 10 minutes prior to entering an altered state of consciousness via Entheogen of choice. This band is my musical obsession for 2012. I’m intrigued by the sum total of their minimal, two-man formula which captivates my attention in a way that not too many bands are able to as of late!


Ice T-Original Gangster-Sire/Warner Bros.
You wouldn’t need to do much reasoning in order to come to the conclusion that modern day rap is straight pussy ooze. Everything is so radio friendly that even the most “thuggish of the thuggish,” by getting auto-tuned to death and back, are common fare for top 40 ear torture. The current starting line of rap will disappear faster than it gets pre-packaged because none of it is built to stay relevant for very long and so imminently it all falls off. The overwhelming bulk of it is molded to fit the ever changing landscape of vomit-inducing mainstream norms. Soccer moms in their Toyota Sienna jam out to Kanye and Pit on their way home from Pilates, is that something I want to be a part of? Absolutely not! Not even if said soccer mom is halfway bangable! As for those Masters of Masengil-ness called the Black Eyed Peas... I'd sooner opt for an epileptic blind-man to give me a second circumcision (without being anesthetized) over having to listen through half of one of their ear cancer inducing crap fests. And don’t even get me started on that pussy willow Drake.
Now, take this certified classic of hardcore ‘gangsta’ rap into consideration. Remember when records would be released that made White America shit itself in its really tight Levis? I ask you this, When was the last time (if ever) that you slid this one in? The joint is hard as fucking nails! I’m taken by how this little gem from 1991 stands the test of time. This record is still beyond relevant after two decades and would more than likely slay any of its modern day whackster-rap imitators. Original Gangster is 24 tracks of non-filler gangster rap with a clear East-coast influence in the beat production. Ice was originally a Jersey boy, so maybe it was imminent that though associated with the opposite coast, the instrumentals were to be geared towards a slightly NY style (sort of like how Eric B and Rakim sounded on “Know the Ledge”.) ‘Mic Contract’ is exemplary of said style, using a funky guitar lick looped over the bombastic up-tempo rhythm of an 808’s kick. This formula gets revisited periodically throughout the album, like on the track called ‘Bitches,’ which slows it down a bit, but still using another masterfully sampled loop, this time a horn. Of course I have to state the obvious, the classic ‘New Jack Hustler’ is on this joint, which was the catalyst for Ice’s super stardom (By the way, unlike the album, New Jack City doesn’t hold up with time. I saw it last week for the first time in years and it harbored more cheese than a Packers cheering section.) If there are any Black Sabbath fans reading this, check out a cut called ‘Midnight’ off of this album, it’s the gangsta’ rap version of Black Sabbath’s title song.  Later on in the joint by track 18, the world hears Ice’s hardcore outfit BODY COUNT for the first time (that first Body Count record is the shiz-nit by the way.) It would be responsible to mention at this point that alongside Public Enemy's collaboration with Anthrax, Ice was crucial in bridging the transition for the HipHop-to-Alternative crossover of the early 90's. Don't forget that BODY COUNT were on the first Lollapalooza bill. ‘Escape from the Killing Fields’ sounds like it could have been scratched out by Terminator X but still having a certain South Central flair. This whole record is banging all throughout. The rhyme schemes and cadences are a little rudimentary, but it was ’91 for fuck sake. It was not till a few years later that hip-hop lyrical delivery would be proliferated during the “golden age” of the mid 90’s. Ice can rhyme motherfuckers, make no mistake about it. He can paint a picture. So vividly, in fact, that I think I want to start flipping bricks and toting AK-47s while sporting the greasiest Jeri-Curl ever seen this side of Easy E. He sure makes it sound cool, the whole bit about being a cocaine millionaire at age 19. And besides, give the man his props, asides from having made serious dents in rap history, his wife looks like this…
Yea, it’s fair to concur, that the man is a fucking real-ass hustler, straight up pimp, motherfucking G…


Ravencult-Morbid Blood-Hell’s Headbangers Records
Okay, question... What do you think is cheesier, the band name or the label name? Actually I dig the band name. I know that some might think this band name really blows exorcist-chunks, but I think it’s pretty cool, maybe because it sounds like something that might come out of HBO’s Game of Thrones. This Black Metal band hails from Greece, though you could easily make the presumption that they crawled from out of the Scandinavian woodwork somewhere. In other words, they definitely display a strong Norwegian influence somewhere along the lines of ‘De Mysteeris Dom Sathanas’, especially on the freezing-cold riffs. But what I liked most about this record, and ultimately what made me cop it were the Thrashy parts. I wouldn’t necessarily call them a blackened Thrash band, but rather a Thrashy Black Metal band. They have definitely progressed since their demo, which isn’t fit to use as a plate to serve digested Gyros and Falafel in peanut-filled shit form. Their first record ‘Temples of Torment’ is better than the demo, though a little repetitive. I checked out some cuts off of that record on YouTube and wasn’t too moved. Truth be told, I opine that they really needed to re-formulate a little at that point. But on Morbid Blood they got it right, clearly showing progression which they should receive notice for. I can only speculate that if they put out another joint it should be ridiculously fucking good. The Devil only knows, this one is really tight. Good recording quality here so if you swear by the black bible of Necro-style production this is not for you. I’m not implying that the recording is squeaky clean, but for proper sounding Black Metal it’s not exactly set to the template. I’d say that the production values are similar to, say maybe, SEPULTURA ‘Beneath the Remains’…
As far as the song writing, these guys pound it out with precise blast beats and that aforementioned cold/grim riffing style. But again, I have to reiterate that it’s the thrashy bits in here that really spice the cuts when the blasting gets old. They permeate a sort of Venom meets Motorhead meets early Destruction flare that’ll have you Black Metal Maniacs dropping your battleaxes and broadswords and starting circle pits that’ll look like a frozen whirlwind from the Pagan north. Some good samples from this album would be ‘Possessed on Burial Ground’ and the title track.  It was an article in DECIBEL magazine that sparked my interest for this crew. According to the article, these guys are not with all the corpse paint and chain-mail armor bit. They’re just about the music, and that speaks volumes to me. Black Metal records can easily suffer from an obsessive attention to the imagery that is more often than not, a little cheesy. I would love to interview these guys and ask them how long it takes before it is socially acceptable in Greek society to propose Anal sex. The Greeks invented anal, did they not? Either that or they trademarked it somehow because as most of you well know, the act of butt-fucking is termed as ‘Doing it Greek Style’. The cover art is sick too. I give it a rating of 8 inverted crosses. Perfect music to play at your little cousin’s first communion!


Naam-s/t-Tee Pee Records
At first glimpse of this album art, you should roughly know what to expect. But there's way more than meets the eye. I'll be brief... Imagine HAWKWIND getting mega-grimy on Skull and Bones blotter acid, meeting BLACK SABBATH at their absolute stoniest and then sharing a heroin needle in some abandoned dairy farm in the Catskills (where this joint was actually recorded), now add Sitar and Hammond organs and a psychedelic black metal freak out as the album's closer. The fittingly titled last rite on the record, Black Ice, bursts into a blast of frozen pagan fury -four minutes in- that had me reaching for my mace and gauntlets. Okay you're not sold? How about if I say that they remind my peculiar ear of a stoned Neurosis doing Saint Vitus covers? Still not inerested to look them up? Hey man go and fuck yourself then, I mean really... 
If Fuzzy Wuzzy took top-notch acid and joined a band, it'd be called Naam. There's bigger muff in this joint than in a Vanessa Del Rio flick. You even get a respectable Planet Caravan ripoff that makes high-time very enjoyable. I had previously made a reference to a certain iconic Stoner-Doom outfit in Tales of Perversion Zine Volume 2, in which I state that the unmentioned band made me wish that...
 'I had a custom built, Hash-smoke filled '76 Chevy van with an air-brushed scene on the outside panel of some Viking carrying some Valkyrie with big tits up a snowy mountain with his pet Wolf trailing behind'. 
Well, let me retort... I take it back! Naam seems to be the better soundtrack to play in the 8-track deck of said Chevy band.
Hey, maybe that's a genius marketing idea for all these perennially 70's-sounding revivalist-improvisers to steal from me?
Vinyl? Fuck Vinyl! 8-Track bitches!!! 
This is my number 2 choice for Bong time. OM being the current first.
Now I have a rehashed interest in HAWKWIND... go figure!
Fuck, I should really be rocking a headband and a fistful turquoise rings right now!

Sun Ra-Three Classic Albums-Real Tyme Jazz Records
I struggled in the beginning to write this review of the great prophet Sun Ra because what earthly words could form compatible adjectives to describe Ra. I won't bother. I will just embed a cool little BBC documentary on him at the end of this review, and hopefully you will take an hour of your "precious" time to learn about a way heavy cat. On this 2-disc set you get three Ra classics from his '50s period. You get the 1956 releases of 'Jazz by Sun Ra' and 'Supersonic Jazz', his first two known recordings. Also in the set is 1959's 'Jazz in Silhouette', which along with the other two records are glimpses into Ra at his "tamest," dare I use the term. No earthly bondage can tame this life force known as Ra, may it be over-stood. What I meant to say by the "tame" remark is that you can probably use this as background music for the next time you host a cozy dinner party for the sophisto-pseudo-intellectuals that you met last Wednesday at StarFucks Coffee. It'd be a hit. These three albums compiled together and played in their entirety display the classy compositions of his earlier work, prior to the heady psychic vibrations of his latter, more thoroughly avante-garde writing. Still, there are passages here and there which abound in mysticism, when not soaring the uptempo numbers with quaint melodies.This is just about as cool as jazz can get before ascending into the astral planes-such as Ra did more and more throughout his career on Earth. From a very early age, prior to his journey to Saturn, Ra was an exceptional male human who was a voracious reader, particularly of Esoterica, Gnosticism and Masonic knowledge. As advanced as Ra's thought-waves were, it makes me wonder, Did Ra write compositions using Solfeggio frequencies? Is there healing to be found in Ra's music?

[Answers are found only when questions are asked?]
The "true story" (according to human accounts) of Sun Ra's life has long been a lightning rod for myth-creation, but what we do know for fact is that the man was a genius. One of the (if not THE) pioneers of Afro-Futurism. P-Funk got their whole schtick from Ra... believe me! Later on after P-Funk, you would see Ra's Afro-Futurist vibe revamped in hip-hop (by Digable Planets, Kool Keith, and Outkast.) Why couldn't I have discovered Ra in my heavy LSD phase? I will be posting up some more stuff about Ra on May 22nd to honor his confirmed date of appearance on Earth... Enjoy the documentary...




Helms Alee
These Motherfuckers are some bad motherfuckers!!!
Had it not been for the fact that this Seattle crew came to town with TORCHE and BIG BUSINESS (around June of last year if I remember it right), I would never have been exposed to them otherwise and that would have been highly regrettable. This little 3 piece from the land of StarSucks, Jimi Hendrix, and Flannel-as-couture rocked out so fucking hard at my beloved Churchill’s Pub that immediately upon returning to the Pig Cave I got online and ordered both of their releases on Hydra Head Records.

 Yea, Yea, I know they’re a touring band and needed the cash! I should have copped their two joints at the gig! What the fuck do you want from me? I was broke, you douche! I was only able to get into the show thanks to my show business friends. My show biz insider and one of my favorite people on Earth- Rick, threw my wife and I on the guest list otherwise I would not have been able to make it out to Churchill’s for the gig that night. They blew Big Business right off of the fucking stage, which was ironic since ‘Business’ was partially responsible for the decent Tuesday night turnout, probably thanks to being billed as ex-members of The MELVINS.

Anyways, this little 3-piece crew tore it the fuck up while captivating the shortened attention spans of a fickle Miami crowd. The star of the band that night would have to be the drummer. This chick can play like a motherfucker. You had to see her pounding away on the skins; she was fucking hammering them so hard that the drum kit kept sliding forward. Some of the people near to the front of the stage kept coming up to adjust the drums back towards her. The drummer also sings on lots of the jams, and that in itself is a quite a display because she does so during parts with these sick off-beat time signatures. This blew my mind to no end. You wouldn’t believe the fucking coordination on this broad! The bassist also sings on parts, at times on her own and other times in unison with the drummer, and this produces some of the most interesting bits of the songs, where they take on this weird kind of ‘children schoolyard chant’ type of vibe. The bassist walked into Churchill’s “Green Room” amidst full-on, Miami Weed and Beer debauchery and I instinctively passed the Dutchie upon the left hand side. She seemed a little shy to take a toke off of my mammoth joint, but I said “Oye, this is Miami, so Dale!” and she politely took her dainty two tokes and passed back. 
Wait, I'm still bugging out on the fact that a real shit-hole like Churchill's has the audacity to call one of their catacombs a "Green Room".

 The guitarist dude has a brutal voice as well. His guitar work brings the songs in and out of rumbling distorted quakes, with some really (dare I say) beautiful melodic interludes woven in. The studio work on both of their joints has a very warm feel to it, often sounding like a grungy, heavy cup of Hot Rock n’ Roll Cocoa on a rainy Seattle day. Perfect listening for when you are flipping through all your old Sub Pop vinyl in your Log Cabin. Check out the WEATHERHEAD record.  I think it’s just a little better than their debut NIGHT TERROR.
 (I'm just being the fastidious little fuck you've come to loathe!) 
Fuck it, I would pick up both if I were you. A must-bring record for my next road trip. If you can get the joints on vinyl, I would suggest that, they probably sound phenomenal on that format with those production values!




New Merchandise from 
Penetration Records!!!

PENETRATION RECORDS, the world’s first all Gay hardcore, punk and metal label is proud to introduce its 2012 releases:
PENETRATION Records are celebrating their 10th anniversary of pumping you with Man-Core by re-issuing the long out of print legendary homo-core album CRO-FAGS "THE RAGE OF DARRYL". Hot, sweaty, shirtless construction worker hardcore influenced by COCKsparrer, COCKney Rejects, Revolting COCKs, Joe COCKer, BuzzCOCKs, and The DICKies. 

Also out now, further proving that Skinheads are all truly latent homosexuals, 

And Cumming soon:

All of these records are exclusively available through:
Penetration Records, where the boys come to play!




How to commit hipster genocide?
Well, in strategic terms, it doesn't take Sun Tzu to figure out that the head leads the body... 
If you remove the figurative head, the corpus will follow... So, to pull the plug on the hipster ass-bag trend/fad/whatever, you go for their queen bee... May the hipster-caust begin...

Zooey Deschanel,
For the crimes of helping to coin the phrase “adorkable” (cringe), and for just plain being really fucking annoying (like brutally annoying), this tribunal finds you guilty as charged. I, Lord Pig Latin, by the powers vested in me by the potentates of the infernal kingdom, sentence you to give this sweaty bubonic plague having, pubic lice riddled executioner a post-bloody diarreah rim job. As so it has been decreed on this day. As you have chosen for your last wish, you may now intone one of your idiotic “quirky” singing outbursts….  

Relax, dumb-fuck! Nobody wants to fuck you! Believe me!