the chemistry of common life

i woke while the sun was still around. she had been long up before i joined her, watching.

why does pigeon do such brown-toned whisperings? whistlings? the greasy preenings? while i sleep must she?

coos from throat? recession-sized dynamo fluffing at her--

puffed, or ruffled and-- and up at her

brickish lectern? coughing pillow-talk in the fashion of gasping? to which audience?

i'm not one to listen. not through a window i won't. i wouldn't have yr answer.

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this morning was gloomy, or probably was, because when i woke up in the afternoon a gloom had already settled to roost. three hours of natural light i received today. three. the past couple of days has served a purpose quite like that of a whirlwind, yet somehow the side of the barn has been replaced, the cow has been dislodged from the tree, and my tractor rides again. this is all considering i'm a farmer, which i most certainly and rather obviously am not. so, you know, in place of "side of the barn...replaced" you are invited to think i meant to write "prospects for the future...brightened." feel free also to assume i was thinking of "self-worth...massaged back to mediocre" when i wrote "cow...dislodged from the tree." figure the tractor part out on yr own. now, all that's left to overhaul is my mood and its nasty dependence on humans.

and moving sideways toward topics more suitable for the interwebs--i forgot about fucked up.

or i forgot about the fact that fucked up was a living entity, an hardcore band, a group of individuals who enjoy making music and continue to make it. well. i remember again. happy day. whoo. py.

in fact, i remembered fucked up was an evolving hardcore band and did so around the time that whirlwind whipped itself into my existence. the whirlwind now has a soundtrack, by the way, and i have a new anthemic, anthem-sounding, anthem-type thing. kind of like an anthem you could say. check this out though: it's catchy and it serves as a fine paragon for a demonstration on how fucked up is pushing people around even outside that ridiculous neolithic/simian circle-formation ritual, fooling people.

well, fool me all you want. although fucked up insists on staying an hardcore band and although their new full-length "the chemistry of common life" strays a little far from the conventions of hardcore (farther even than, say, "hidden world," an album for which i personally was not a giant spokesperson [it was just nice to have innumerable releases compiled on two LPs, even if the tracks were simply re-recorded and sounded less "hardcore" than they had originally]), i'll convince myself fucked up is still an hardcore band.

in case you haven't read any reviews of this record on websites like pitchfork (who, incidentally and following the conventions of tard-faces, has posted a review for "the chemistry of common life" that contains at least three grammatical and typographical errors [first sentence: grammatical error; second paragraph: typo ("arm-swingng"); final paragraph: typo ("Black Albino Blues"), this release has some curves. like those in a road or a pitch, pervert. however, it doesn't feel out-of-sorts. fucked up began as a fairly straight-forward hardcore band and slowly fucked with their sound in a manner similar to the way they fucked with their audience. take it away from what we all know as "hardcore." open the album with a flute. close it with a 7 minute song. use three guitarists. write clean, high-register vocal melodies. the only way to keep a genre from stagnating is to broaden its confines, to include a dynamic band whose music fits just outside of the genre previously; or win an hardcore audience, keep them with you, make changes, and then let them speak up in yr defense when yr definition of hardcore is called in for questioning--an established band needs to revitalize the genre, to push the limits from the inside.

fucked up is fucking up hardcore.

please find and listen to this record from cover to cover.
there are five songs i believe to be the highlights.
songs from other bands you ask?
we'll see.
what's my new anthem-type thing?
aww, you do give two shits.
black albino bones.

on a side note--listen for the sweet fluctuation in the bass note on "no epiphany" around the 2:14 mark. sweet.

less talk.
more rock.

amanda woodward

if you ever find yrself cooking a breakfast of slightly crispy cubed hash-browns and cheesy scrambled eggs with diced kielbasa, onions, and green peppers at noon-thirty on a wednesday, remember yr not alone. if you ever find yrself craving such a meal, remember state meats on state road in parma, ohio for all yr slavic culinary necessities. and don't forget the loaf of rye, chum.

i've just slammed a mug of ginger herbal tea and topped off venae cavae with a delicious treat of grey-green that sidles up sweetly on you like a silver-bearded forest-sage wizard. the day was just peeled like an unwashed orange about fifteen minutes ago and all traces of an inked and stained sky have been swept into a far northern corner. my windows are scaled with white blinds, cutting slits in a soft, quivering sunshaft like a grater shaving rinds. amanda woodward is working perfectly.

let's get me some more tea for this, son. orange herbal sounds appropriate.

from the humid french commune of caen come amanda woodward with hardcore in hand. some would call their music screamo (as one might say of you&i or kodan armada, perhaps), but i see it more as frenchy hardcore. not french. frenchy. all generalizations, stereotypes, and prejudices present, prominent, and paraded, amanda woodward play hardcore like french people. or here's a slightly less depricating manner of stating it: if i requested that my good pal mookie ninjak (man-of-intrigue/maker of frenchy films/musical compatriot) whip up a debord-esque cinematic dime-piece, amanda woodward's music would appear in the movie. because i said so. or if a band had to be french and play hardcore in a movie the music would sound like amanda woodward. there.

gerome's cries sound-out from a distance almost, across a channel, behind the drums, with fervent romantic grit and a bit of spit-flecked dirt. what i hear are beefy bass lines dancing, bouncing alongside angular, aromatic chords--a stinging sweetness that leaves bitemarks. shimmering cymbals sound like someone splashing around in a sugary stream of oiled melodies, breaking the surface of drugged harmonics to reveal bright, ghostly guitar tones swimming fluidly at the unpredictable pace of a human heart.

like biting into an unwashed orange.

quite like it.

i've listened to all that i have by amanda woodward (which i believe is everything) repeatedly, uninterrupted for most of today. for hours, everything else fails to satiate. it sticks in yr ears like pulp on yr tongue. it coats yr cheeks with a sour taste that keeps you from being able to enjoy anything else. and lord knows i like my sour tastes. they have a couple small releases, a full-length that i'd say is the masterpiece of the bunch, a cd that compiles some older or more elusive tracks, and supposedly another LP on the way at long last. a smattering of songs appears below.

additionally, i have listened to cursed at last. i knew of their existence but shied away. i'm a punk guy, i'm a metal guy, yes, but i'm only very selectively a hardcore guy. however, cursed are good at what they do. real. [sic]. good. it's the way straight-forward hardcore should be done. i think they might double-track the bass on certain songs. listen. (sick).

i've been considering putting up more songs by bands that remind me of amanda woodward but i truly believe that i have none. i imagine i could read some reviews and see what dudes have to say about it, but i'd rather sit here and convince myself that all other bands that share amanda woodward's sound are unappetizing and painfully mediocre.

got it! i got it! jr ewing! maybe a bit of their stuff? a little hot cross even? i think i sense some similarities here. (the interplay of the two guitars reminds me a little of the first pretty girls make graves album too, i suppose.) it seems i jumped the gun. good. i'm excited. get excited. amped. turn it up.

scare yr neighbors.

akimbo

rainy days always make superb shower days. rainy days always make superb sipping days. rainy days always make superb slouching days.

i feel clear-headed and cleansed. this does not mean, however, that i am not in the process of baking, steeping, and jamming. rejuvenation does not precipitate a change of habits. it just means i feel refreshed, and thus, resume my daily practices with zest and appreciation anew.

baking: creeping orange.

steeping: arabian mountain spring jasmine blossoms complimenting chinese green tea leaves.

jamming: akimbo.

on an unrelated yet critical point i'd like to mention that the rain has just graduated to a veritable downpour and a hippie-type girl who happened to be passing just across the street lifted her arms and face to the sky as if to acceptingly embrace the helplessness of her situation. i'm going to go ahead and guess she was smiling.

good. good for her. onward. in the time it took me to write what i have so far an entire akimbo album has played through. that album is 2004's "city of the stars"--third LP by the seattle natives. that album is pretty damn good--the third of five pretty damn good LPs by akimbo. "harshing your mellow" in 2001; "elephantine" in 2003; "city of the stars" being quick work's epitome in 2004; a fourth--"forging steel and laying stone"--in 2006; and "navigating the bronze" in 2007. busy little buggers. and whatever should i discover but that akimbo has written, recorded, mixed, mastered, and planned on releasing a sixth full-length entitled "jersey shores." the album was intended for a september 23 drop, but as these things go, it will not be available in stores until october 30. the band is going to be doing quite a bit of road-doggin' with crates of "jersey shores" in a van though (e.g. october tour), so be sure to investigate the situation as well as go to the show (chicago, october 29 @ empty bottle w/sweet cobra & millions) and investigate the new album. you know. investigate. as in buy. you can probably get such information with less hassle and far fewer sassy words, but i thought i'd consolidate yr chores and provide the usual, the expected: the basics. one-stop shop is a phrase i'd advocate if you were looking for one.

i will not outline all of their albums. it's tedious. plus, akimbo seem to have a knack for relative consistency of style and sound. it's full. it's hard. it's heavy. it's rock. it's...shit, well...rock. sometimes bluesy hardcore feel akin to bison. sometimes thrashy and more than sometimes on "harshing your mellow." pretty massive riffage to be found all over. kind of remind me of young widows. sometimes i even feel like i stepped on a jagged, jangly jesus lizard somewhere in the heap. sometimes i feel the dark snare of an hot snakes low and evil riff ringing out. the vocals are certainly this man's unadulterated yells, by the way. no bullshit coating his vocal cords. just like takaru's vocalist (technique not sound). shredding esophagal skin. pure pipes. just throat. he's just doing a bunch of yelling. "wow, he sounds angry." damn yea. it's what i'd call fucking rock.

but. but. akimbo is akimbo. they write like akimbo. they play like akimbo. rock refreshed, clear-headed and cleansed is still rock. but. zest and appreciation anew is what akimbo provides. it's different. it's fucking akimbo.

start wherever you'd like. fuck chronology, dog. or not, you know. go chronologically. whichever. whatever. but listen to it here. or elsewhere. wherever. you know, whoever. akimbo.

below will be the fruits of others' labor--artwork that i often use as a way of defining and describing myself. yea, you do it too, you asshole. i see you. and i then guess you are someone with whom i may get along swimmingly. so yea. whenever.

akimbo will be fully represented. a song from each of akimbo's first five LPs is down yonder. furthermore, a bison song, a young widows song, a jesus lizard song, a song by hot snakes, and a takaru song will all be chilling together below. i think i'll throw a sweet cobra song on for the hell o' it/because they're playing with akimbo in chicago/due to mammoth riffage during the last two minutes of the track i'm posting. milk that money riff. always milk that riff you brought in to practice. the one that had all yr bandmates nodding their heads and mouthing the word "oooooooh" with their eyes closed when you busted it out. always milk that money.

and one last comment, a laudatory postscript--thanks for keepin' it real, akimbo. yr shit's just real. no other way to put it. i find no inklings of disingenuous efforts nor do i sense a recycled sound. how could i summarize? you dudes are original? you seem like scummy punk dudes who would never pass on smoking thai stick, occupying various administration buildings, breaking into the ROTC, or bowling? and i'm all about that? i suppose. but there's something missing in that.

language proves to be a crippled vessel indeed, yr dudeness.

i guess there's only one way to put it, akimbo. yr shit's real.

tune down, smoke up, and go hug a rainy day.

samothrace

when the sun reaches the tops of the shortest trees and yr mind rests in gentle sleep-shapes samothrace picks you up in its palm and presents you to the dying day. like the rumbles and haunting flight of whales' cries soaring high and heavy, these kansas natives weave dark tapestries of melancholic metal one might find trapped in the bowels of a sunken ship. somehow i feel hope in these songs, leaking and swirling like mist from the quiet surface of a bottomless sea. i find comfort in the bone-trembling bass of it all; the pit i find myself staring up from when i catch a glimpse of a passing solo; the low, gruff, inhuman cries buried perfectly in the mix. and did i mention that waiting for upwards of five minutes to hear impressively massive riffage could never be described as waiting? to me samothrace is a stew, a dish labored over by an excellently-skilled chef, the cutting of explosions in the sky into cubes and carefully, slowly stirring the tender pieces into a cauldron in which a heady, musky omega massif broth has already been simmering for months. top that shit off with a dash of cough and a pinch of deadbird.

i must warn you. this shit is bomb.

for the sake of backing my super-cool name-dropping i will include songs by explosions in the sky, omega massif, cough, and deadbird along with a samothrace song. oh, and an öroku song because samothrace includes one or some ex-öroku member(s) i believe. a regular buffet of jams, i must say.

also, samothrace has finished recording a new album and are now on an huge u.s. tour (chicago, october 11 @ TBA, w/lone wolf & cub). look out for that shit. or come back and read me raving about it.

pelican

language is a crippled vessel. language is a crippled vessel. very rarely am i able to convey what i truly mean by opening my mouth.

ah. my tongue is a mute ferryman...

today--the seventh anniversary of what i will now refer to as "the atrocities"--was born a snail, a wet, black-golden spiral perched delicately, placed caringly, poised for minimal movement atop a lovely version of a glistening slug.

as an aside, today is actually september 24, and this post shall now also be titled "nocturnal" for two reasons: a) i recently acquired the 2007 black dahlia murder full-length of the same name, have listened to it in its entirety approximately eleven times in the past three days, and have come to the conclusion that despite my avoidance of metalcore i find myself entranced by the black dahlia murder's musical abilities (e.g. faaaaat melodic riffs, siiiiick blasts); b) every haphazardly-wrapped package of daily musings i deliver to thee garbage heap's curb/public-property tree-lawn will not only be labeled according to the band or album that most accurately describes the day i've had/feel i will have but also include (hopefully) zip files of either a whole album, what i view to be choice cuts off an album, or what i view to be the band's career highlights. zrozumiv?

please note my usage of the phrase "minimal movement." nearly two weeks after the inception of ye humble ol' cesspool i decide to finish the first post. i also decide that i unabashedly admit i like the black dahlia murder. i like the band.

however, i have yet to hear their sophomore effort, "miasma." i have a feeling it won't appeal, or that it will and i'll then have their entire discography. whatever. i do wish the vocalist could somehow have his howls and growls always come out together because i'm not a big fan of either until they're simultaneous. i ask for that shit raw, dude, not scenester. but you listen and tell me the riffs aren't delectably thrash-attack, drumming isn't a battalion of beefiness, leads do not lynch yr pleasantries. and the solos...the solos...

fine. fuck you then.

enjoy the pelican highlights as well as choice cuts from black dahlia murder's "nocturnal."