In repeated yet-still-unlikely fashion I was out all night last night. The french death metal band Gojira was in town and I caught the set at Webster Hall (basement) while they brought the house down. It was the most violent show I’ve been to in NYC. No injuries, as is always the case, but the lighting was knocked out of place and the moshing was furious. The sound was accurate and the usual catharsis that follows an evening with other-worldly and extreme heavy metal music was swift, pure and perfect. Ahhhhh. Real music! No pretty paintings here. Nothing created for “the market”. Just pure expression for hours, and for the sake of anger and invincibility. You either like it or you don’t and there’s no certain answer why it’s either way for anyone. For me, that’s part of its appeal. The rest is just that I completely love the sound and have from the first static recording of Angel of Death coming through the radio in the All Night Room in New Hampshire. When that song came out I was probably six. I first heard it at maybe 11.
Anyone interested in the truth should be angry. The only people who express majority happiness are the deluded– those who ignore how things actually are in the world, and those are the same people usually contributing to its fuckedness. (They also like to download “Top Club Hits! 2012”)
Enter the incinerators.
Swift recovery from that insanity:
After the show we walked to a rock venue on Bowery and smoked and joked until 4am and then I crashed for a couple hours down there. I woke up in the Confucius building in Chinatown in sweaty black clothes and I pounced off the couch at 8a, grabbed a coffee on my way to the NR at Canal, and raced back up and home to rinse off, change clothes, and get back to it.
Some of you expressed concern after my story of Saturday night, especially because of my history of ranting about that “scene” and the people who make it what it is and “after all your ranting, how could you possibly have enjoyed that?” There’s no reason for concern, little monkeys.
My hatred for mediocrity and self-congratulatory fuckheaded- do- nothing-zombie-sheep has never been stronger. What made it fun was confirming my biases. I practiced the formula. You know the recipe. If any of you don’t, just keep your eyes open the next time you “go out” to “socialize.” The formula works– and it’s pitiful and fucked and deserves our hatred. So join me. Welcome.
When you use it, it uses you. You need to prove to yourself it’s real, so go on and try it out– join in. But don’t cross over or you’re a dead zombie fuck too.
Sometimes it’s important to remind myself that the vileness and pitifulness of that whole world is just as true in reality as it is in my mind. Fake people… on the outside and in. Dumb chicks and shallow douchbags doing what they can to pretend they matter in some way– to make up for how little they really do, in the scheme of things. They’re like the children you hate, only permanently so, and the group (yes, the group) reinforces itself. “Come on, come out! We missed you!”
Brothers and sisters, piss in their face and be free. It’s never too late to restate your existence as a thing that matters and is above sheepish, fako-fucko toy-enamored hazy mediocrity. Pay attention to what you see! Describe what you really see and don’t pretend you don’t! You’re right!
You. Are. Right.
I fantasize about dropping extreme metal bands right down into the center of the fuckface show, right in the middle of the “party”, smashing all the Grey Goose bottles and destroying everyone’s identity with high voltage awesomeness.
If that doesn’t work, guitars make great weapons.
Holy crap it’s late. Jam tonight in Hollow Way and Project 2.3 beforehand. I’m getting a bit behind, damnit.
I feel good today.
