Mother fucker.
Dälek is releasing a new album, Abandoned Language, and it comes out tomorrow.
Dälek!
New album!
And I didn't know about this until just now holy tap-dancing Moses. This is like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. Yes, a gargantuan, chain-encrusted, fire-breathing Christmas.
Ehm.
So, you'd think that a combination of math metal, Jams's omnipresent white noise, a website consisting of nothing but thousands of pictures of food, and shouting at your computer to locate a copy, any copy, of the album you totally didn't fucking know existed would result in a soothing night's sleep. Wouldn't you?
Alas, some things just don't add up.
I just found a torrent for Abandoned Language. I hyperventilated as my trembling hand carefully manipulated the correct sequence of options that would hopefully, god-willing, deliver this unproven jewel to my ears. I blessed the wanton network of piracy that is the internet and may have developed tumescence.
I wonder if I'm the only person in the world who's losing sleep over industrial noise rap.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
I always pronounce it "thee-ate-err" in my head
It's not that I'm a hater, far from it, but neither am I in there watching that red carpet with emphatic enthusiasm, flailing limbs, and a heaping pile of pseudo-voyeurism. You know what I'm talking about. That shit can get out of hand. I did, in fact, take in the middle third of the proceedings, and it certainly invigorated my extraordinarly limp interest in movies in general. I have seen exactly three '06 movies at this point, you see. I can't place a precise cause on my aversion to the theatre, but when friends and lovers come knockin' on my door about this or that hip new big screen number, I shrivel up inside.
I mean, she wore what? Get out of town.
I like that upon finally - finally - completing my critically acclaimed year-end list in the timely season of seven freaking weeks into the new year I actually gave Blood Mountain by Mastadon a third listen and sincerely understood the hype. We clicked, it was hot. I don't know that it'd penetrate that deeply into my graces the way my other two or three metal picks did, but the stripped down, rock n' roll flavour is compelling. It's simpler, more straight forward, more about the rock and less about, say, smashing in your buttocks or whipping one's wang out whilst combatting aliens on a far away inferno-choked world.
Which is not to say that Mastodon couldn't happily do both of those things at once.
I don't really have much to say this week.
I am deeply pleased that Happy Feet won a fucking Oscar.
I mean, she wore what? Get out of town.
I like that upon finally - finally - completing my critically acclaimed year-end list in the timely season of seven freaking weeks into the new year I actually gave Blood Mountain by Mastadon a third listen and sincerely understood the hype. We clicked, it was hot. I don't know that it'd penetrate that deeply into my graces the way my other two or three metal picks did, but the stripped down, rock n' roll flavour is compelling. It's simpler, more straight forward, more about the rock and less about, say, smashing in your buttocks or whipping one's wang out whilst combatting aliens on a far away inferno-choked world.
Which is not to say that Mastodon couldn't happily do both of those things at once.
I don't really have much to say this week.
I am deeply pleased that Happy Feet won a fucking Oscar.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
He's finally come stumbling home
I feel bad about neglecting you, blog.
But real life staged an intervention. That and, after downloading some Limp Bizkit for an ecstatic blast of sheer nostalgia, I discovered that someone had quite seriously tagged it as "post grunge" and I threw up all over my keyboard and lost about a week of my life.
That and, y'know, work and exams.
Sometimes I worry whether my quality in one pursuit or another is indicative of any actual talent, an unequivocably personal expression of skill, or just mimicy with varying degrees of accuracy. Other times I wish my mind had an RSS feeder that put into print all of the disparate tidbits of the absurd that make me question my own wholesomeness. There'd be something in it for everyone. The hilariously mundane (why did that person look at me just now oh god I hope they like me) to the outright offensive (I wonder what faces that person makes during orgasm) would all be presented in impersonally glorious monotype and the internet would be scarier for it. The thing is, I don't even really will these thoughts to percolate through my admittedly thick skull the way they do, they're just sort of there - mechanical responses to stimuli I have little control over. I'm like Pavlov's dogs blessed with the cornucopia of human experience that is wikipedia, eight AM classes, and a libido - shit like this is bound to happen.
I think that, when you get down to it, we're all like Pavlov's dogs.
I'm just throwing these out here because it's mid February and I just don't want to write about them anymore. Don't look at me like that Jams, I wrote like thirty other reviews you can read. After this embarassing little hiccough fades from memory (and my hackles cease to raise at the thought of picking up writing again after a five, six, seven week absence), I can finally get back to what's really important: unstructured mediocrity.
Best of '06, ten to one:
10 Inhuman Rampage - Dragonforce
9 Orphans - Tom Waits
8 Beast Moans - Swan Lake
7 Ships - Danielson
6 Roots & Crowns - Califone
5 Return to Cookie Mountain - TV On The Radio
4 He Poos Clouds - Final Fantasy
3 For Hero: For Fool - Subtle
2 Gulag Orkestar - Beirut
1 Six Demon Bag - Man Man
I really tried to give each of these albums a solid dissection, but it proved too much a task for even one such as myself. Of course I did express my exhaustive, semi-erotic love of nearly half these albums already, so what's the harm in a little cop out? It was agonizingly difficult to put these ten little albums in any semblance of just order, which - among the many other parts of my excuses - can explain my long absence, at least a little bit. Indeed, upon finally placing Beirut ahead of Subtle, and marking my most excrutiating decision down in words, I did suffer a stroke and very nearly swallowed my own tongue.
Mustering up the cajones to once and for all proclaim that Six Demon Bag was the uncontested best album of two thousand and six cost me the use of the right half of my body for nearly a fortnight.
I don't know how to explain what this terminal stretch of my latest, oddest project means, and I'll be damned if my meagre praise can accurately express the quality of workmanship, the veracity of art that each of my choices represent.
Just listen to the freaking things. I'm tired.
But real life staged an intervention. That and, after downloading some Limp Bizkit for an ecstatic blast of sheer nostalgia, I discovered that someone had quite seriously tagged it as "post grunge" and I threw up all over my keyboard and lost about a week of my life.
That and, y'know, work and exams.
Sometimes I worry whether my quality in one pursuit or another is indicative of any actual talent, an unequivocably personal expression of skill, or just mimicy with varying degrees of accuracy. Other times I wish my mind had an RSS feeder that put into print all of the disparate tidbits of the absurd that make me question my own wholesomeness. There'd be something in it for everyone. The hilariously mundane (why did that person look at me just now oh god I hope they like me) to the outright offensive (I wonder what faces that person makes during orgasm) would all be presented in impersonally glorious monotype and the internet would be scarier for it. The thing is, I don't even really will these thoughts to percolate through my admittedly thick skull the way they do, they're just sort of there - mechanical responses to stimuli I have little control over. I'm like Pavlov's dogs blessed with the cornucopia of human experience that is wikipedia, eight AM classes, and a libido - shit like this is bound to happen.
I think that, when you get down to it, we're all like Pavlov's dogs.
I'm just throwing these out here because it's mid February and I just don't want to write about them anymore. Don't look at me like that Jams, I wrote like thirty other reviews you can read. After this embarassing little hiccough fades from memory (and my hackles cease to raise at the thought of picking up writing again after a five, six, seven week absence), I can finally get back to what's really important: unstructured mediocrity.
Best of '06, ten to one:
10 Inhuman Rampage - Dragonforce
9 Orphans - Tom Waits
8 Beast Moans - Swan Lake
7 Ships - Danielson
6 Roots & Crowns - Califone
5 Return to Cookie Mountain - TV On The Radio
4 He Poos Clouds - Final Fantasy
3 For Hero: For Fool - Subtle
2 Gulag Orkestar - Beirut
1 Six Demon Bag - Man Man
I really tried to give each of these albums a solid dissection, but it proved too much a task for even one such as myself. Of course I did express my exhaustive, semi-erotic love of nearly half these albums already, so what's the harm in a little cop out? It was agonizingly difficult to put these ten little albums in any semblance of just order, which - among the many other parts of my excuses - can explain my long absence, at least a little bit. Indeed, upon finally placing Beirut ahead of Subtle, and marking my most excrutiating decision down in words, I did suffer a stroke and very nearly swallowed my own tongue.
Mustering up the cajones to once and for all proclaim that Six Demon Bag was the uncontested best album of two thousand and six cost me the use of the right half of my body for nearly a fortnight.
I don't know how to explain what this terminal stretch of my latest, oddest project means, and I'll be damned if my meagre praise can accurately express the quality of workmanship, the veracity of art that each of my choices represent.
Just listen to the freaking things. I'm tired.
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