Raise yer hand if yer a Stooges fan! You in the back…no hands? Hit the road, chump. The Pansy Train is leaving, and you need to be on it. For the rest of you, my chosen, enlightened peeps…you who get me, you warm the cockles of my shriveled little black heart. This round’s on me. Y’all understand the Stooges were, quite frankly, one of the greatest Rock ‘N Roll bands ever. From bringing the music back to its brutal basics in the late 60s to the white-hot grease fire they burned as in the early 70s, there’s little doubt about the impact the Stooges have had on the world at large, even if it took awhile for folks to catch on. Do you consider yourself into punk rock? Hell, heavy metal? Then get on your knees and join me in thanking the Gods of Rock for handing Iggy Pop, the Asheton brothers, Dave Alexander and James Williamson the thunder and the lightning that hit popular culture head on, before popular culture knew what hit it. “I got a right!” shrieked Iggy. (And, fuck no, I’m not forgetting about the MC5. I’m sure some day I’ll have some more of this Il Circo Ruchè wine and there’ll be no recourse but to write a long winded love letter to Rob Tyner and company, but I’m trying to focus here!) The Stooges came swinging out of Ann Arbor like Mike Tyson with a head full of PCP and showed everyone how to get it done, no time for bullshit.

And that is why, my friends, with heavy heart I am here to report that The Weirdness (Virgin Records), the first Stooges album in over 30 years…is pretty lame. All the pieces were in place, except for James Williamson, the shit-hot guitarist from the latter days of Raw Power. The lineup from the first two albums had reconvened in 2003 to play some sporadic gigs. Frontman Iggy, Ron Asheton on guitar, brother Scott “Rock Action” Asheton on drums and punk rock journeyman Mike Watt on bass to fill in for the late Dave Alexander. (“Thunderbroom”…fuck yeah! If I need to talk up Watt’s contributions with the Minutemen or fIREHOSE, you’re reading the wrong freakin’ spiel.) All reports were positive, and for those of us not lucky enough to catch one of these rare shows, the Live in Detroit DVD left no doubt that a few guys old enough to be your grandpa can still kick it out as easily as flipping you the bird.

So what happened? Age? Maturity? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I point my accusing finger at what I perceive to be the two biggest problems The Weirdness presents us with…exhibit A: Iggy’s supremely stoopid lyrics. Not that anyone ever mistook him for Bob Dylan, but back on the original triptych of Stooges majesty the simplicity and bluntness of his words had a certain kind of street poetry that complemented the thuggish force of the players backing said words. And I know, I know…a 60 year old wine connoisseur living in Miami is gonna have a different outlook than a 23 year old drug-fueled miscreant hanging on the fringes of Detroit in 1970. But to these ears it just seems like the man’s been drawing on his status as legendary “elder statesman” as lyrical inspiration since way before the Stooges reunion. Don’t get me wrong…I truly don’t think it’s an ego thing, and he genuinely seems to be a pretty cool guy, and he sure as shit runs circles around men one third his age when he’s on the stage. (Seriously…I don’t have that kind of energy now, and if I have half of it at that age, I’ll realize I’m a goddam superhero and it’ll take 30 federal marshals to bring me down as I storm the gates of Skywalker Ranch to piss on George Lucas’ grave screaming, “Jar-Jar Binks? Jar-Jar fucking Binks?!?”) It just seems forced now, like he’s trying too hard.

Was it really necessary to print a hand-scrawled note on the CD of 1993’s American Caesar to let us know that it’s “no formula shit” and “individual expression”? Am I wrong in thinking that “Free & Freaky” on The Weirdness, extolling living life as such, Iggy-style, was expressed so much more directly (and more effectively) in 1970 on “Loose”? Are songs like “ATM” and “Mexican Guy” (who stole his lady) supposed to mean something to us, or maybe resonate with the youth of today? When he lets us know “My Idea of Fun” “is killing everyone” are we supposed to believe that? The Stooges were a nihilistic pack of button-pushers with a gutter’s-eye view of the world, and you could believe they’d push back if pushed into a corner, but killing for fun? Call me reasonable and all, but it seems a juvenile subject to me without a more Misfits-style creativity behind it. Maybe it’s got something to do with Iggy’s professed love of Slipknot, who I’ve had limited exposure to, but I still don’t give a shit about them seeing as how I’m not 14. Maybe I’ve misinterpreted the song. Only heard it a few times, as well as the rest of the album. I’ve tried to give it a chance, I really wanted to like the goddam thing, after all.

On “Trollin’” Iggy sees a hot chick and tells us, “my dick is turning into a tree”…great and all, I mean, hooray for boners. (Really…if the time comes where I have to rely on a little blue pill, so be it, but three cheers for waking up with wood almost every day.) I’ll say it again while reiterating that I still have a certain respect for the dude: it comes off as forced, like he’s trying too hard to prove Mr. Free & Freaky doesn’t give a shit. Get a grip, man, we already admire you. Spice it up some, dream up a story about a bum you see from your window and how he came to be in that cardboard box. Something. Anything other than constantly reminding us what an individual you are in unimaginative ways.

Ugh. Big disappointments take a lot out of me. We’ll have to continue this next week with exhibit B and Part 2…

Maxwell is accepting paypal donations to ease his pain and shock

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Feelin’ a mellower mood tonight. Or rather, like I might have been bitten by a tsetse fly. I’m beat, but before the African sleeping sickness completely overtakes me, I’m gonna chill a bit with the new Wilco album, Sky Blue Sky (Nonesuch Records).

I don’t get around to much Wilco back at home base, mostly because a certain friend of mine is a freakin’ nut for them. Hanging out with him almost always involves: copious amounts of beer, sometimes brewed by him (we like us our barley and hops, what of it?); bad movies (I don’t know how we went one more day without checking out Gingerdead Man…Gary Busey in da house!); and, oh yeah, after he’s got a little sauce in him, there’s about a 99% chance of Wilco. Sometimes an LP, sometimes the I Am Trying to Break Your Heart movie. There’s a moderate chance of Uncle Tupelo, but strangely, rarely any Son Volt, although I know he’s got it. I rarely mind, depending on my level of drunkitude. There are sure as shit worse friends to have than Wilco fans.

I am, however, certainly enjoying having this one to myself for right now, not having seen mi amigo since I got a hold of it. Oh, we’ll share the experience eventually, toasting Jeff Tweedy’s talent while declaring undying platonic love for each other. Then he’ll go puke in the bathroom sink and I’ll pass the fuck out on the air mattress on the living room floor while watching his well-worn VHS copy of Demon Knight. (Shit, I should call that fucker, see what he’s doing this weekend…)

The band in question, I’m assuming, need no introduction, so…what’s the deal with this Sky Blue Sky? It’s been in stores since May, I’m a little late to the party, but that’s my m.o., baby! In my ‘tardy opinion…not blown away, but another solid effort from a damn solid outfit. You won’t hear the fuck-it-let’s-try-it experiments of the last two records. No oddball noises or voice samples, no droning passages or soundscape kinda stuff. They seem content to play it pretty straight this time, but it suits them because it doesn’t sound like a throwback to earlier material. It’s just another step on the Wilco path. Not the countryish twang of A.M., not the sunny pop of Summerteeth, but what Tweedy and company were feeling when they went into the studio. In the interest of complete disclosure, I do kinda miss the “damn, what are they gonna do next?” vibe I got from the last two, but Sky really sounds like a band comfortable in its own skin, with nothing to prove. Besides, it’s not like “normal” pop rock tunes with guitar, bass and drums topped with “Ooh, babe, I miss you.” The creativity on display here is more akin to the Band. You won’t be wowed by how “out there” Wilco can get, but if you’re inclined to liking intelligent, confident songcraft, give ‘er a shot. Piano, Hammond organ, lap steel, Mellotron and more all create a warm, friendly atmosphere. Kingpin Tweedy’s words still tend towards relationship matters, but often open to interpretation. They convey a mood without being specific, which is a true songwriting talent. Forgive me while I quote a lengthy chunk of “You Are My Face”: “I remember my mother’s / Sister’s husband’s brother / Working in the goldmine full-time / Filling in for sunshine / Filing into tight lines / Of ordinary beehives / The door screams I hate you / Hate you hanging around my blue jeans / Why is there no breeze / No currency of leaves / No current through the water wire / No feelings I can see / I trust no emotion / I believe in locomotion / But I’ve turned to rust as we’ve discussed / Though I must have let you down / Too many times / In the dirt and the dust”. Incidentally, the harmony vocals as the verses lazily jangle along remind me of “The Boxer” by Simon & Garfunkel. It doesn’t sound like it, and I’m probably just addled by sleeping sickness, but there it is. The twin lead guitars towards the end of “Impossible Germany” (while a third plays rhythm – fuck yeah!) come off like a languid Thin Lizzy. (By the way…if your musical diet doesn’t include a healthy dose of Thin Lizzy, four out of five doctors agree you likely have poor eyesight and erectile dysfunction. Hey, I have no medical background, I just report the facts.) “Sky Blue Sky” lopes along with a down-home lilt that comes effortlessly to these guys. “Please Be Patient with Me” is a heartfelt plea to a partner, and I’m playing it for my girlfriend the next time I see her, as it articulates in 3 minutes 19 seconds what my paralyzed tongue can’t. “What Light” exhorts all, “If you feel like singing a song / And you want other people to sing along / Just sing what you feel / Don’t let anyone say it’s wrong”. The chorus is simple, catchy as hell, and kinda dumb. Also stuck in my head at work today the entire time I’m listening to some woman tell me she wants her account number changed because it ends in 666. Instead of telling her that’s AWESOME like I should, I let the song play in my head while she implored me in some indeterminate accent, “Because dat is de mark of de debbil.” (Ah…sometimes I like my job.) “On and On and On” ends things on a pseudo-hopeful note with a mid-tempo piano riff, because “we’ll stay together yeah” but still “we’re designed to die”. I’m thinking of having it play at my funeral, right after “Baby Got Back” but before “Fuck Christmas”.

OK…I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that avant-garde guitar hero Nels Cline is on board to further elevate these tunes out of the realm of “ordinary” rock/pop. His sheer control of his six strings is striking, and a perfect fit, especially if you’ve heard him freak out on his own, or with Mike Watt or others. (Check out the Live at Perkins’ Palace disc from Banyan for some primo 70s Miles Davis style skronk ‘n skree!) Also, Jim O’Rourke didn’t produce this like he did Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost Is Born (Wilco did it themselves). As an ex-member of Sonic Youth and countless explorations of the outer reaches of sound on his own and in a group context, he doubtless had an impact on those two beloved albums. He’s on board here for a little acoustic guitar as well as string arrangements. (For those of you who care about such things. Don’t fret none, I’m one of you. I understand.)

That’s really about it. I’m pretty sure the guy next door hates me and may be breeding tsetse flies. Before the sleeping sickness totally engulfs me, I’m gonna go smash his window and bust a bottle over his head. Just to be sure. Good night.

Maxwell Custer will have a profile page next week. This editor swears. Or he'll buy the beer next time they're out.

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A’ight, got a fridge full of beer, extra smokes and we have music out the wazoo piled in front of the stereo. Randy’s here now, and it’s time to get our nerd on. After we go through the Los Rabbis he brought plus the latest Lightning Bolt, it’s time to edumicate him on the glories of the Karl Hendricks Trio.

Maybe it’s because they don’t get out of Pittsburgh much anymore, but it seems more people have seen Sasquatch than heard this band, and that just ain’t proper. I think Randy’ll dig ‘em, so…

Karl Hendricks formed the first Trio after a lo-fi crash ‘n bash solo debut, the I Hate This Party EP, which followed the breakup of Sludgehammer. Four great songs I still listen to more than any of the early 90s 4-track stuff that actually got heard. (In college radio-type circles, but still.) It looks like Randy’s hooked by the time “Beergasm” blurts from the speakers. “I didn’t know he was ever this punky”. He smiles, but Karl Hendricks 101 has just begun.

I play a few key tunes from Buick Electra and Misery and Women, the first two full-length group efforts, making sure to visit the smokin’ cover of the Stones’ “She Was Hot”. I’m compelled to hit most of the Some Girls Like Cigarettes 10”. “Some nights I miss you / Some nights I miss you more / Some nights I miss the bed / And have to sleep on the floor.”

I saw this band many, many times in Pittsburgh while in college. The Iron City had a fantastic underground rock scene at the time (probably still does, but I’m woefully out of the loop), and you could guarantee that if a touring band came through town in those days, one of the following would be on the bill: KH III, Don Caballero, Hurl, Swob, Blunderbuss, shit, am I forgetting anyone? Good times, but enough with the nostalgia trip…the thing is, as many times as I stood five feet from the Karl Hendricks Trio happily getting my eardrums pummeled, I never really knew what the band was into. Hendricks’ Naked Raygun shirt was reassuring, of course, but…?

So me and my boy Randy take it upon ourselves to discuss as the empties start to pile up and the ashtray fills. They’ve covered Tim Buckley, Donavan and Neil Young, but they don’t sound like any of those cats…although when Karl’s blazing through a 5 minute guitar solo, ol’ Neil comes to mind more than anyone else. Just like Mr. Young, the musician-types may scoff at the lack of “technicality”, but the passion behind the string-mangling is no joke. If you don’t hear it, you’re just a jerk. (No, not you Randy, calm down. I would have already pulled the ripcord on this session if you weren’t obviously enjoying it.) “Dinosaur Jr?” Randy posits. An obvious touchstone for the hard drive of the upbeat numbers, but these three play with more control. Another friend once wondered if they might be Helmet fans. Possible, but the chunky, fuzzy power chords aren’t as precise. We realize we’re even dorking ourselves out and take a piss break.

Armed with a few more Golden Monkeys we get back down to business. A Gesture of Kindness storms out of the gate with “Foolish Words of a Woman in Love”, “Four Babes in a Pontiac” fly by (did that one just flip me off? I ask the Monkey in my hand, but it speaks no evil), and we arrive at the nine-minute monster of “Your Damned Impertinence”. For A While, It Was Funny goes by pretty quick. I do dig this album, but I can’t explain why I’ve listened to it the least of all of them, except for the tunes “Naked and High on Drugs” and “A Boy Who Plays with Dolls”. I make a mental note to listen to it more and cross my fingers that I don’t just have a subconscious desire to be naked and high on drugs while playing with dolls. This one, from 1996, was the first one released by Merge Records, who have done the world a huge favor by reissuing most of the earlier stuff originally on smaller Pittsburgh labels Peas Kör, Big Ten Rex and Mind Cure. (Spirit of Orr stepped up to the plate and made Gesture available again, first issued by Fiasco. Bless you, Spirit!)

Randy’s looking anxious about too much geekspeak…time to get down to the meat and potatoes, the crux of the biscuit if you will. (Suddenly kinda hungry…should we order a pizza? Maybe I’ll just offer Randy some Ramen noodles. The pizza guy seems terrified of this place.) 1998 saw the arrival of Declare Your Weapons, the king daddy of Karl Hendricks Trio albums, the one where it all absolutely clicked start to finish for me, where one of my favorite bands became one of the Most Important Bands Ever for me. Randy raises an eyebrow, and I’m just shitfaced enough by now to get up on my soapbox, although hopefully still with it enough to make some kind of Max sense.

See…more than any other band, I really feel like I’ve grown up with this one, from the lustful adolescence of my early 20s to the premium wage slaveness of my 30s. Over time, Hendricks’ lyrical focus has shifted some from being drunk and sad about girls (good god, the undergrad Max could relate!) to a more mature observation of society, especially the forgotten blue collar underbelly. Hendricks the Observer has evolved; boozy depression has become angry disappointment (good god, modern day Max can relate!). “Do You Like to Watch Me Sob?” (“Is that what gets you off?”) has grown into “When Will the Goddamn Poor Wise Up?” (“When will the goddamn poor wise up / and just kill everyone in a suit / When will goddamn me wise up / and stop putting my faith in you / I’m getting too old to care about / what they call right and wrong”). Hendricks the songwriter has learned to spice his tunes with a creativity and confidence that goes far beyond the usual boy/girl crap, especially on those that are still about the age old boy/girl crap. “Your Lesbian Friends” breaks my fucking heart every time I hear it. It’s a ballad where the narrator bitterly describes trying to entertain his mate’s friends and find a way to relate to them while she’s out finding a new love. “Your lesbian friends come over; they curse when you’re not here / But they calm down when I offer them some beer / We try to talk, but they don’t even like football / Without you around, we’re getting nowhere at all.” And then he gets really bitter, misdirecting his anger at his houseguests while addressing his partner: “I sit in the chair and I wait for the song to end / Gotta break up another fight between your lesbian friends / Those friends of yours, they sure know how to wreck the house / Haven’t they got better things to do with their fists and mouths?” “Know More about Jazz”, “Like John Travolta”…this whole album is a shining example of what pop music is capable of, and a humiliating kick in the crotch to the shit that clogs the radio waves. I wanna put Declare Your Weapons in a steel cage match with any of Linkin Park’s crybaby teenybopper dogshit and watch it cry for mama. You listening, you little candyass Park pussies?

*ahem* Randy’s eyes are wide enough to tell me I should step down a little. Still on the box, just a lower tier.

After a few tunes with the Karl Hendricks Rock Band, an expanded lineup with Matt Jencick from Hurl joining on second guitar (surprisingly, not really as loud as the KH III), a reconstituted Trio put forth The Jerks Win Again in 2003, the last we’ve heard from them so far. (Fuck…do you like to watch me sob?) Right off it announces itself as maintaining the quality level with “Chuck Dukowski Was Confused”, using former members of Black Flag to examine the current state of things. (Fuck’n A, Karl!) “Chuck Dukowski was confused / He wants to live, he wishes he was dead / Though he wrote the best song on Damaged / Henry Rollins gets all the backstage head.”) Randy, like all right-thinking folks, is a big Black Flag fan, and he’s visibly excited. Think he’s a Karl Hendricks Trio fan for life now, too. I love that guy. I need a beer. The hits just keep on comin’, and we hear something kinda remarkable. (No, definitely, as I’m about to remark on it.) There are countless songs about addiction. (Shit, might have to throw on Master of Puppets after this, as the lesson almost endeth.) Sometimes about alcohol, usually about drugs…never have I heard someone write a song about a debilitating dependence on food. Morgan Spurlock should have used “The Overweight Lovers” somewhere in Supersize Me. Dang…catchy as hell with the low-key wah-wah (or not, I’m not really sure what that sound is, outside of guitar) as it chugs along and sad as hell in its depiction of a co-dependent couple lost in a haze of junk food and little else. “The one wants to talk all night / The other is just trying to avoid a fight / And in this manner Friday night was frittered away / But a box of key lime tarts could make it all okay.” You might think it’s a mean jab from a man of average physique until you hear “So many miserable ways / To drag yourself through this goddamn world / Force yourself on feeling good / And in the end you might find it turning into your friend.”

At the center of this fine LP we come to “I Think I Forgot Something…My Pants”. (Still with me, Randy? I’ll take the thumb up as a yes…wait…don’t…you’re gonna clean that up, right? Good…you do that while I get us beer and open a fresh pack of Mavericks…geez…did I smoke a whole pack already? I’m a retard…) Pure pop music perfection in a rock ‘n roll context. Karl the narrator lets us know folks with any fashion sense won’t sit next to him (“No matter how crowded the bus or how great the movie”) before revealing “I left the only woman I ever loved / At a Dunkin’ Donuts in Cleveland.” He’s got some pictures of them together, but Jesus Christ, you never want to see them. Key the chorus, while the band kicks it out with conviction: “And I think I forgot something [pause] my pants / My dignity, my armor and my lance / I think I left all my original thoughts back at some bar / I thought I had some friends around here somewhere / Now I wonder where they are.” A few verses later, after declaring the love in his heart for various marginalized folks (the saints and the robbers, hot Asian babes) the story changes and the only women he ever loved were left at a strip bar in Cleveland. *sigh* People line up at the troughs for miles around because they can’t get enough of Rod Stewart croaking out the fucking “standards” they’ve heard a billion and five times before, and The Jerks Win Again languishes in the cluttered shitholes of a few assholes like myself. When will the goddamn poor wise up? (Randy hi-fives me. I love that guy.)

I throw on “The Summer of Warm Beer”, all 13 ½ minutes of it, and let Randy absorb the majesty of Karl Hendricks beating the shit out of his guitar like “Cortez the Killer”.

Then I reflect a little in my stupor. Selfishly, I wish the Karl Hendricks Trio were more prolific, but these people have lives and families and jobs. They’re not a “career” band. Maybe that’s why it’s so good, a few guys getting together when they have time to do what they love without worrying about expectations. Fuck, I don’t know, I don’t have that kind of talent.

I do know an appearance in Philly by this group is a rare event, and I’m still kicking myself for missing the last time, Doc Watson’s, summer ’03. Didn’t have a car at the time, figured I’d take the train and catch a cab back if I had to. At least until my dumb ass got drunk as hell the night before and fell off a wall to eat shit on the sidewalk, cracking my skull and back and somehow twisting the shit out of my ankle. The ankle was the worst of it, could barely walk the next day.

What, Rand, I never told you about that? Well…….

“Oh fuck, I embarrass myself
When I try and tell you what that band means to me
I can’t live up to the kind of pressure I feel
In the face of rock history”

- the Karl Hendricks Trio, “Know More About Jazz”

Maxwell will have a profile page, just as soon as his editor gets his shit together.

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Many moons ago, in a story far too long to relate here, I met a man named Maxwell. And while I was throughly impressed by his musical knowledge (he's encyclopedic, I tell ya...) and his amazing taste in food and drink, what impressed me most about him was the fact that he could drop into any conversation anywhere and fit right in. He's a drinker and a talker and a hell of a writer. So please join me in welcoming him to the site and checking out his new column "Picking Through The Wreckage With A Stick"

--finn

I like a lot of different music. That’s nothing to brag about when you spend a good chunk of what you make on that and a handful of other geeky interests, when you’re the kind of guy who gets more excited about a remastered reissue of PIL’s Metal Box on vinyl than grown-up shit like, say, buying a house. It’s an illness. Don’t emulate.

That said, sometimes a guy’s in the mood for Cannibal Ox, sometimes Nick Drake. This week I’ve been feeling some of the louder and heavier shit I’ve picked up recently.

First up for discussion is Alabama Thunderpussy’s latest, Open Fire (Relapse Records). Gotta hand it to these guys, it’s a freakin’ corker. I’ve always liked them, and I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t heard the last few albums, so I don’t know exactly when the shift from southern boogie-tinged stoner rock to full-on raging Metal came, but it’s a damn fine fit. (You’d think the half-naked barbarian dude on the cover with blood-drenched mace and sword while knee-deep in hectic slaughter would’ve tipped me off. I can be thick like that.) No one really gets psyched when a band they like replaces a singer, but new guy Kyle Thomas belts it out like a champ. There’s still some southern flavor, but the thrash ‘n groove of these tunes smacks you around the way all good Metal should, sans cheese. It’s a mighty enough record that the Frazetta-style painting kinda makes sense after a spin or two. Songs about greed, valor, distrust…and I can pretty much guarantee “Whiskey War” will be stuck in my head for the rest of the summer. Kudos to guitarist Erik Larson for leaving Avail to devote his full attention to this first-class outfit. (Finding an Avail fan over 15 is a tough task, like trying to find any relevance about Paris Hilton.)

Also had the good fortune to come across a reissue of the 1969 self-titled album by Morgen on Probe/ABC Records. (Thanks, Forced Exposure!) Apparently back in the day this was some privately pressed release of like, 2 copies. (OK, an exaggeration, but all these “private press” re-releases hitting stores these days get hyped with lines like “Originals go for $300+!” and “An edition of 100 copies made”. And of course, words like “legendary” get thrown around. And you think to yourself, dang, I’ve been a hardcore music nerd since I was like, 15, reading magazines and scouring websites that make me pretty much unlovable to all but my mom and other losers that have to step around piles of records and comic books just to get to my bed. How come I never heard of this? Then you make lists of stuff to check out in tiny little notebooks that look like the scribblings of freakin’ Jeffrey Dahmer to the outside observer. Seriously, my girlfriend must dredge up patience from a vast and bottomless well. Love ya, baby!)

Listening to Morgen, it’s hard not to taste a little Cream in the mix. The way the bass thumps and the drums roll, there’s a certain familiarity about it all when you first drop the needle on this one, but it’s such a comfortable and inviting sound, it’s hard not to get sucked in. By the time opener “Welcome to the Void” gets to the chorus, you realize you’ve found a crushed velvet suit jacket in the back of the thrift store, but goddam it looks cool and feels great. Not exactly revolutionary, but classic. If they threw some shit like this in the mix on “classic rock” radio instead of the same 40 songs ad nauseum it’d actually be worth tuning in.

To be fair, it doesn’t actually sound like Cream. The songs are more psychedelic than bluesy, and band leader Steve Morgen’s guitar has a different kind of sting. The way the Stooges get tagged “proto-punk” you could probably call a tune like “Of Dreams” proto-shoegaze (if you’re a special kind of ass like me), the way it floats and la-la-las along in a light fuzzy haze. No idea what kinda shit these boys were diggin’ on in 1969, but it sounds like the right stuff.

From there we’ll head down the pike to one of the boners sitting in this stack o’ wax in front of me. It actually hurts a little to put this on after the Morgen LP. I got suckered into this Crippled Black Phoenix 10” (Invada Records) by three things: pretty snazzy name, the pedigree of the folks involved (members of Electric Wizard and Mogwai?), and the fact the announcement of its arrival screamed “limited to 500 copies!” Well, crap, I better jump on that before it’s gone! If I don’t act now, I’ll probably never be able to find it for less than 50 bucks someday!

Yeah. I can be a royal dumbass sometimes. This little record, and the $11.99 or so that I could’ve turned into a case of PBR are reminders.

The sleeve’s a nifty cardboard job reminiscent of those ones Bruce Licher designs for his Independent Project press. Much more interesting than the snooze you’ll find within. The description made it sound like it’s some kind of loose experiment for these musicians normally associated with the heavier end of things. Of course, the website I “scored” it from didn’t review it like they usually do the stuff they carry. I’m reasonably sure the description came straight from the record label, cut and paste, ‘cause I trust the folks at All That’s Heavy. They’ve been good to me, these purveyors of sludge from Stonerrock.com. What I expected was some weirdo Current 93-style industrialfolkdrone, the kind of music that’s usually made by social outcasts in a room barely lit by candles dripping wax everywhere while they’re on a mission to put the sounds in their heads on tape before they float into the ether, lost forever. On a mission…and mushrooms. What I got isn’t terrible per se, but it sure brings the Boring. I’m holding this pretty unique-looking package with two long songs, one of which is titled “Shark & Storms/Blizzard of horned cats” in my hot little hands, fully expecting something that’ll beat the snot out of wussy piano-rock like Coldplay. But my grandmother could do that blindfolded. And she’s dead. Acoustic guitar picking, some piano, some strings, and I’m pretty sure I heard the dude say something about “some analogy of my disposition”, then “you go in light, you fall in love and you drown.” Then a bunch of “oohhhhh” as the song builds a little to what’s supposed to be some kind of crescendo. Maybe I’m not giving it a fair shake due to my high hopes, but I’ve listened to it about four times now. Still don’t give a fuck.

For the real deal, you’re gonna have to get ahold of Altar (Southern Lord), the sunnO)))/Boris collaboration. (And then bust out the candles and mushrooms.) A pretty unique experience that blends elements of both bands while not really sounding like either, it’s most definitely not for everyone. Tones and sounds shift and phase and rumble, creating an atmosphere of dread like few things I’ve heard before. It’s sure as hell not catchy, you won’t hear “hooks”...a lot of people probably wouldn’t even call it music. Those people can kiss my ass. The open-minded, those open to the sheer possibility of sound, will get it. Now…the track that stands out for me in this creepy sonic nightmare (a good thing, don’t misunderstand) goes by the name of “The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)”. Unexpectedly, it’s sung by Jesse Sykes, a fine artist in her own right, but leaning more towards the country side of things, kinda surprised to find her here. The song’s a melancholy dirge, and beautiful and haunting in a way I can’t even really begin to describe. The first time I heard it, it captured me in a way few things have recently. Maybe I just can’t resist the Boris folks’ quietly controlled electric guitar strumming, maybe it’s the way Stephen O’Malley taps the piano keys at the end less and less until there’s finally silence, or maybe I’m still thinking about a recent death that was due to truly shitty circumstances, I don’t know. Fuck. All I know is I’m borderline obsessed with this song and I’ve listened to it almost every night since I got Altar.

Make your own decision. You owe it to yourself to hear it at least once.

I’m turning this short bus around now, 180 degrees, headed straight back to Disappointmentville. It’s my own fault for never hearing Place of Skulls before ordering the Love Through Blood EP (Blood and Iron Records). The first album, the one with Scott “Wino” Weinrich in the band…didn’t hear it. Nothing ‘til this one, but with Victor Griffin behind the wheel, it’s gotta be OK, right? I mean, when he played guitar for Pentagram in the 70s, even ‘though nobody paid much attention to a bunch of Black Sabbath/Blue Cheer worshiping misfits from D.C., they mined some damn fine hard rock. Damn fine, I says.
At some point since then he became a big ol’ born again Christian. Which, according to common knowledge, usually means if you’re a musician your recorded work is about to become the equivalent of aural feces. I’ve seen that Jebus-rock infomercial that says millions of young folks actually want that in their ears. I’d rather have a sharp dagger in mine, thanks. But wait…I mean, I have that Victor Griffin solo album that’s not bad at all, especially for a bunch of demos. Well, hell, I’ll check out Love Through Blood.

Take it out of the box, hey, it looks cool. Maybe it’s…..huh. All these lyrics printed on the back, they sure seem to mention “lord” and how great said guy is an awful lot. But I think I can handle that. Really…I mean, I can listen to tunes about orc attacks or trips to the dentist if they’re good, if there’s something worthwhile there. Some of my favorite stuff is dumb-as-a-sack-of-doorknobs bang bang thud thud rock ‘n roll, so I give it a shot. And, uh, it certainly sounds better than, say, Nickelback or Creed. Yeah, definitely a better sound than those chumps get. But, um…not so much better. Couple that with Mr. Griffin intoning shtick like “the holy spirit convicted my mind” and “you correct this evil man” and this one’s screaming for me to melt it into an ashtray. Last time I buy anything with a song called “The Blood of Jesus” on it unless it’s about throwing a bucket of it into Ann Coulter’s face. Ugh.

Oh, but speaking of blood and religion…the mighty Slayer recently got Dave Lombardo back on the drum kit, and the results are out there for all to hear in the form of Christ Illusion (American Recordings). Whether you’ve found them silly or scary, too extreme or just flat-out powerful, Slayer has always been a ballsy band, and they must be carting them bad boys around in wheelbarrows these days. If you’re putting out 10 songs and most of them point the finger at religion as pointless mythology that starts wars, not to mention possibly dragging the human race kicking and screaming right to the doorstep of the apocalypse, you’d better be prepared to catch some shit from a few people. Tack on the front of it a painting of a banged-up armless Jesus with an eye patch knee deep in blood, and you’ve got a product that would probably bunch up Tipper Gore’s panties more than anything Slayer did 20 years ago, when the general public thought a band like this was coming straight to eat your babies. Don’t worry that Slayer are concentrating on Christianity, though, as all faiths make it into their crosshairs. From “Cult”: Religion is hate / religion is fear / religion is war / Religion is rape / religion’s obscene / religion’s a whore.” Who else would make an anti-war album (and that is the big picture here, make no mistake) that so single-mindedly identifies one of the causes and then hunts it down so relentlessly, regardless of who’s offended? U2, in-between ipod commercials?

The music doesn’t tread any new ground, but that’s never been a bad thing with this group. Of all their peers who started thrashing away with them in the early 80s, nobody else’s output has been as consistently good. Sure, it’s not all Reign in Blood quality, but after 20+ years, pretty impressive they’ve stayed true to the path they themselves helped to blaze. Allmusic.com called it “brilliant, stomping, scorched-earth thrash metal at it’s best.” And hallelujah for that!

Join me next time as I chronicle my adventures in a week of confession because I listen to Slayer, and we’ll examine the value of writing “shit” 400 times in an article that’s only a few pages long.

Maxwell Custer is the new kid. Picking Through The Wreckage With A Stick will appear weekly on Thursdays.

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