THE WURST OF 2012 PT1
Pick Up Your Balls
By: Adam Ganderson
The enemy advances. A concussed C&B unit of heathens rebuilds the bridge every four months so Charlie can blow it up again and the generals can say the road’s open. Meanwhile, wimps, hired geeks, and careerists need official clearance to cover the war like it’s play-by-play commentary on casting calls for soft core porn shoots. An obscene game maybe, but it continues as long as supplies hold out: hot dogs, beer, cooze, reefer, Utz, bourbon, flying tits. Might as well swallow the last acid tab. Cold rat meat and rice will not get us upriver any sooner no matter what that snake eater Capt. Willard thinks.
Neither will adherence to protocol. Fuck protocol. The Brass train Kurtz to be a killing machine and then whine when he goes AWOL and starts his own army. Of course his methods were unsound, deranged even, but his recordings have been playing the whole time. Album of the year. Thumbs up. Inspired. So here we are. A long way to the top of the palace steps and they are littered with the heads of music writers. Fait accompli. Radio back to base and I want you to tell them to call off the air strike.
South of the Tropic of Capricorn, Land of Oz. Bilgola Beach was a little hairy for R&R with all the mortar fire. But hell, a six foot peak. Breaking both ways. At least until the napalm wind came off the tree line to blow everything out. Salt and gasoline in the air just before getting pulled under. The day before things had been more relaxed. A debriefing with the Wizard while he signed records. The food arrived. He cast an invisibility spell. We ordered more drinks. Finally, he said “That last chicken wing’s got your name on it,” and it was time to move out. But it was there. The gasoline smell. Refined black evil, thick and sweet. Stuck in traffic near D.C. for Maiden/Cooper summit, the team agreed with an assertion from Private Dickinson that this is the place from where we launch all U.S. wars. Every war that Dickinson’s own tea bagging country is too chickenshit to ride in on the first wave.
Sometime later Chevron crude began rising from the ground, to the surface, and beyond. A stink that drenched the bars and stages and seeped into the speakers at a club near the oil refinery in Long Island City where several members of the team tried to trade two barrels of diesel for a couple hours with Playmate of the Year. It didn’t go as planned so they ended up throwing dollar bills at red eyed courtesans who cursed at the men in some obscure version of Dracula speak.
But the real trouble started long before. Pearl Harbor. Gulf of Tonkin. A rock concert at a house just down the block. Amps and drums set up in front of a one car garage. Kids standing around on the sidewalk and front yard not knowing what to expect. The sky turned purple. Big entrance when a garage door slowly creaked up and they emerged: three long haired radical teenage grits. Sunlight going away and the drummer lit cherry bombs. A clumsy attempt at a thing like “Ladies Room” that to a nine-year-old brain was the ultimate terror train through magic mountain. Smoke bombs turned the driveway black and drifted up through yellow leaves. Everything stopped. Called off by a mom with arms crossed, wrapped in a sweater. Other parents and neighbors came over from dimly lit houses. It was a school night. They worried what would become of their children. But the crowd would not disperse. Night had come and the band launched into a dime store version of “Flaming Youth.”
Flashing rollers appeared. Mirror shades. Pointing. Fists thrown. More cherry bombs and one of the fuses ignited a pile of dry leaves. From there the fire was on a gas trail that had leaked out from the garage. In an instant the house was in flames. Kids ran, parents screamed, dogs barked, cats ran up trees, someone brought a horse and the MP’s kicked his teeth in. The pigs never had control. Pushing away on a banana board, the background exploded. Underground fuel lines at the Citgo station had caught, then the gas lines, then half the town was taken out in a ball of shimmering flame. Thoughtful moment; destroyed beach;
smell of victory; for those about to rock…
Degial – Death’s Striking Wings
Accept - Stalingrad
Sleepy Hollow – Skull 13
Superchrist – Holy Shit
Fingernails – Alles Verboten
Martire – Brutal Legions of The Apocalypse
AC/DC - Live at River Plate
REISSUES
Manilla Road - Metal
Mythra - Death and Destiny
Deep Switch - Nine Inches of God
Xinr - Xinr
![Maximum Overdrive (1986)AC/DC Everything ends as the survivors leave on a sailboat to an island with no motors or electricity. Which also means no amplifiers. Just bongos and ukuleles. With every machine possessed and/or controlled by a UFO, tough to say where human spark plug Angus Young would fit into this world. Would he shrivel up or can he alone communicate with the spaceship, speak their language, an ally to the invading electrical currents? When a wasted Stephen King asked Angus on MTV about how it went scoring the film he said: “Well it wus suhtanlay diff’runt.” King directed from his own short story, Trucks, and Who Made Who came out as the soundtrack that was really a clipped greatest hits comp featuring two new instrumentals “D.T.” and “Chase The Ace” which are featured as transition jams throughout the film, but there’s also a ton of short solo Angus stuff, bass plunk, and one effect that sounds like Brian Johnson’s screech being looped into the Psycho shower stab. Great stuff.
Nerds floated some “complete” bootlegs but don’t hold out for an official re-upped version anytime soon since neither band nor King like the film much. Has it’s moments: the truck explosions, the video arcade electrocuting that dude, the little league coach getting slayed by a projectile soda can. Also when Joey is on the shitter and Bill asks him: “Does Bubba really got a lot of firepower in the cellar?” And Joey replies in trepidation “Yeeah,” just as he drops a turd explosion: “Plllfffrrripp!” Later, a very mysterious moment comes when waitresses, truckers, and young lovers are all trapped in the diner at night, their driverless vehicles circling like lions and the beer running out. “Ride On” comes on as they drink and look out the window. But the song must be playing in their heads since the machines already cut the electricity and the jukebox wasn’t working. In fact the best scene might be that one when the jukebox explodes halfway through the chorus of “Sink The Pink” and this really bums everyone out, just as trucker #3 says “The whole world’s gone tits up.” Tell me bout it. [AG]
More soundtracks and horror inside Chips & Beer #4](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_md0waigpWt1rwq85xo1_500.jpg)
Maximum Overdrive (1986)
AC/DC
Everything ends as the survivors leave on a sailboat to an island with no motors or electricity. Which also means no amplifiers. Just bongos and ukuleles. With every machine possessed and/or controlled by a UFO, tough to say where human spark plug Angus Young would fit into this world. Would he shrivel up or can he alone communicate with the spaceship, speak their language, an ally to the invading electrical currents? When a wasted Stephen King asked Angus on MTV about how it went scoring the film he said: “Well it wus suhtanlay diff’runt.” King directed from his own short story, Trucks, and Who Made Who came out as the soundtrack that was really a clipped greatest hits comp featuring two new instrumentals “D.T.” and “Chase The Ace” which are featured as transition jams throughout the film, but there’s also a ton of short solo Angus stuff, bass plunk, and one effect that sounds like Brian Johnson’s screech being looped into the Psycho shower stab. Great stuff.
Nerds floated some “complete” bootlegs but don’t hold out for an official re-upped version anytime soon since neither band nor King like the film much. Has it’s moments: the truck explosions, the video arcade electrocuting that dude, the little league coach getting slayed by a projectile soda can. Also when Joey is on the shitter and Bill asks him: “Does Bubba really got a lot of firepower in the cellar?” And Joey replies in trepidation “Yeeah,” just as he drops a turd explosion: “Plllfffrrripp!” Later, a very mysterious moment comes when waitresses, truckers, and young lovers are all trapped in the diner at night, their driverless vehicles circling like lions and the beer running out. “Ride On” comes on as they drink and look out the window. But the song must be playing in their heads since the machines already cut the electricity and the jukebox wasn’t working. In fact the best scene might be that one when the jukebox explodes halfway through the chorus of “Sink The Pink” and this really bums everyone out, just as trucker #3 says “The whole world’s gone tits up.” Tell me bout it. [AG]
More soundtracks and horror inside Chips & Beer #4
![Primordial
Redemption At The Puritan’s Hand
Metal Blade
2011
Whether you consider it a disadvantage or not, the first thing that must be said about Primordial’s latest is that it is not To The Nameless Dead Pt. II. A record still so near and often returned to by this writer that another album, even more than three years later, seems too soon to confront. The Dublin-based group’s seventh record, Redemption at the Puritan’s Hand sounds the most traditionally Irish of all their records thus far, feeling at times almost more of a folk album by comparison. Not “Folk Metal,” which is really just a catchall term for chintzy European grandfather rock you can dance to while singing about trolls, but music with a story, communicated to you directly, bridging past and present and bringing you into a close correspondence with the performers. I don’t currently know of or could imagine many bands that could juggle the simultaneous grandiosity, the massiveness of such music and yet sound as intimate. With such qualities Primordial have often subverted any and all tags placed on them which would halt engagement by misunderstanding. That achievement again made possible here by the more explicit influence of THIN LIZZY throughout the galloping twin melodies of guitarists Ciáran MacUiliam and Micheál O’Floinn, and the more moderate pace of drummer Simon O’Laoghaire, returning to the group after a well-publicized drinksoaked incident in Athens.
Consider the performances here sobering in more ways than one as vocalist Alan Averill, here sounding all of the dramatic showman you would expect from Rob Halford (the resemblance in the lower range is uncanny, particularly in “Bloodied Yet Unbowed”), offers thoughts poetic and undisguised among the words of other writers and activists now departed; a talent for articulation that rewards more often than not. (There are moments where words merely stifle the prospect of a song – “The Black Hundred” – and then there are moments when all it takes is a word emphasized perfectly). Gazing on the refurbished Momento Mori adorning the cover, you might have already guessed the theme of this album has something to do with death, though as with much of Primordial’s work this is merely the star around which a host of other concerns – freedom, faith, reconciliation, salvation, damnation, determination, resignation – orbit. Opening track, “No Grave Deep Enough” is again the showcase for Averill’s magnificent phrasing, defiant before the claws and teeth of that which all men fear. To The Nameless Dead evoked the spirit of resistance while living amongst the ruins of a dying world. Now that strength is called upon again in preparation to leave the world behind and with profound resolve, suggests there still remains something even Death cannot steal. “So here’s to comrades near and far/Raised a glass, raised hell/Years have passed closer to the grave/But this is the song we chose to sing/To the bitter end.” [TD]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ma6ut8Zlwo1rwq85xo1_500.jpg)
Primordial
Redemption At The Puritan’s Hand
Metal Blade
2011
Whether you consider it a disadvantage or not, the first thing that must be said about Primordial’s latest is that it is not To The Nameless Dead Pt. II. A record still so near and often returned to by this writer that another album, even more than three years later, seems too soon to confront. The Dublin-based group’s seventh record, Redemption at the Puritan’s Hand sounds the most traditionally Irish of all their records thus far, feeling at times almost more of a folk album by comparison. Not “Folk Metal,” which is really just a catchall term for chintzy European grandfather rock you can dance to while singing about trolls, but music with a story, communicated to you directly, bridging past and present and bringing you into a close correspondence with the performers. I don’t currently know of or could imagine many bands that could juggle the simultaneous grandiosity, the massiveness of such music and yet sound as intimate. With such qualities Primordial have often subverted any and all tags placed on them which would halt engagement by misunderstanding. That achievement again made possible here by the more explicit influence of THIN LIZZY throughout the galloping twin melodies of guitarists Ciáran MacUiliam and Micheál O’Floinn, and the more moderate pace of drummer Simon O’Laoghaire, returning to the group after a well-publicized drinksoaked incident in Athens.
Consider the performances here sobering in more ways than one as vocalist Alan Averill, here sounding all of the dramatic showman you would expect from Rob Halford (the resemblance in the lower range is uncanny, particularly in “Bloodied Yet Unbowed”), offers thoughts poetic and undisguised among the words of other writers and activists now departed; a talent for articulation that rewards more often than not. (There are moments where words merely stifle the prospect of a song – “The Black Hundred” – and then there are moments when all it takes is a word emphasized perfectly). Gazing on the refurbished Momento Mori adorning the cover, you might have already guessed the theme of this album has something to do with death, though as with much of Primordial’s work this is merely the star around which a host of other concerns – freedom, faith, reconciliation, salvation, damnation, determination, resignation – orbit. Opening track, “No Grave Deep Enough” is again the showcase for Averill’s magnificent phrasing, defiant before the claws and teeth of that which all men fear. To The Nameless Dead evoked the spirit of resistance while living amongst the ruins of a dying world. Now that strength is called upon again in preparation to leave the world behind and with profound resolve, suggests there still remains something even Death cannot steal. “So here’s to comrades near and far/Raised a glass, raised hell/Years have passed closer to the grave/But this is the song we chose to sing/To the bitter end.” [TD]
![VarathronGenesis of Unaltered EvilNuclear War Now! Productions2012
Demos and other odds and ends dating back to ‘89 that serve as culmination of all other Greek Black Metal I’ve heard. Shit has an ancient, truly decrepit quality that’s wrongly attributed to nearly everything when so little actually embodies the overused adjectival sense. Undead voice wheezing from behind the veil of death to begin things with “Necranastatis,” is enough—maybe too much. Being genuinely haunted by Black Metal today seems totally impossible, or laughably forced, right? But this shit turns back the clock, especially with “The Tressrising of Nyarlathothep,” whose title alone sounds like servants carefully emptying their dead pharaoh’s organs into canopic jars. That this tune, and the rest of the fucking songs on this collection, stagger on to certain end is just what all of us, much less most other motherfuckers who think they are playing the genre (or “expanding it”), need to hear. [SV]
Review From Chips & Beer Magazine #3.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m86tisChm71rwq85xo1_500.jpg)
Varathron
Genesis of Unaltered Evil
Nuclear War Now! Productions
2012
Demos and other odds and ends dating back to ‘89 that serve as culmination of all other Greek Black Metal I’ve heard. Shit has an ancient, truly decrepit quality that’s wrongly attributed to nearly everything when so little actually embodies the overused adjectival sense. Undead voice wheezing from behind the veil of death to begin things with “Necranastatis,” is enough—maybe too much. Being genuinely haunted by Black Metal today seems totally impossible, or laughably forced, right? But this shit turns back the clock, especially with “The Tressrising of Nyarlathothep,” whose title alone sounds like servants carefully emptying their dead pharaoh’s organs into canopic jars. That this tune, and the rest of the fucking songs on this collection, stagger on to certain end is just what all of us, much less most other motherfuckers who think they are playing the genre (or “expanding it”), need to hear. [SV]
Review From Chips & Beer Magazine #3.
![SlingbladeThe Unpredicted Deeds of Molly BlackHigh Roller2011
Female-fronted trad Heavy Metal much more mannered than, say, CHRISTIAN MISTRESS, but infinitely more palatable than now defunct LUDICRA. Slingblade has more musically in common with Christian Mistress, but its songs don’t have the feverish, run-off-the-rails feeling to them and vocalist Kristina Karlsson isn’t overly aggressive or emotive, her range just stalled in storyteller vibe with a whiff of femmy toughness here and there (see “Reverend’s Daughter”). Band’s all over the place instrumentally, cliché here and there everywhere, “Off the Hook” sounding the most realized tune on the platter and it’s a straight by-the-numbers ape of AC/DC lock, stock, barrel. [SV]
Review from Chips & Beer Mag #2](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m86pb1V9oC1rwq85xo1_500.jpg)
Slingblade
The Unpredicted Deeds of Molly Black
High Roller
2011
Female-fronted trad Heavy Metal much more mannered than, say, CHRISTIAN MISTRESS, but infinitely more palatable than now defunct LUDICRA. Slingblade has more musically in common with Christian Mistress, but its songs don’t have the feverish, run-off-the-rails feeling to them and vocalist Kristina Karlsson isn’t overly aggressive or emotive, her range just stalled in storyteller vibe with a whiff of femmy toughness here and there (see “Reverend’s Daughter”). Band’s all over the place instrumentally, cliché here and there everywhere, “Off the Hook” sounding the most realized tune on the platter and it’s a straight by-the-numbers ape of AC/DC lock, stock, barrel. [SV]
Review from Chips & Beer Mag #2
![AnthraxFistful of MetalMegaforce1984
Got a baby’s brain and old man’s heart/took 18 years to get this far…
Musical friggin’ chairs before a “classic lineup” of this band emerged and only Mr. Treasure Troll Goatee would ultimately prevail. This one always sounded like Priest to me. All chop and snort rhythm picking, will to power vibrato, gattlin’ double bass as tachycardia’s metronome. A bunch of real players for sure. Benate pushing the beat so hard he’s almost playing for whoever they were opening for that night. Antsy through the slow parts double kicking while it’s down the tail end of mission statement Alice Cooper’s “I’m eighteen”. Turbin’s choruses (“subjugator” “death from above”) fidget with “mind of its own” 3am erection in payphone booth outside Halford’s house. Real all or nothing commitment here: either day-glo tumescent Defcon-4 fuck staff or boiled baby prawn hiding under burgeoning beer-gut. No matter, Ian and Sptiz easily match vocal and percussive histrionics with day-after-too much-hot-sauce flaming shit leads/solos and martially controlled down stroke. Lilker, well save the cover song, Lilker co wrote everything on this mother and then formed a cooler band. Still winning. Exuberance and spirit ejected palpably from speakers because band embodies those qualities on DNA level. Some there is no try Yoda shit. Anthrax would go on to have “better” singers and make“better” records but they’d never sound this wild-ass again. Turbin basically doesn’t know what to do with himself when not shrieking full beav. Homeboy just can’t wait to unleash the money maker and can you blame him? She likes it rough/with my strength/ with all my soul/ makin love I’m losing controooooooooooool! [HB]
Review from Chips & Beer Mag #3 - New York Metal Special
Illustration by Beaver](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7f5ms1Cfa1rwq85xo1_500.jpg)
Anthrax
Fistful of Metal
Megaforce
1984
Got a baby’s brain and old man’s heart/took 18 years to get this far…
Musical friggin’ chairs before a “classic lineup” of this band emerged and only Mr. Treasure Troll Goatee would ultimately prevail. This one always sounded like Priest to me. All chop and snort rhythm picking, will to power vibrato, gattlin’ double bass as tachycardia’s metronome. A bunch of real players for sure. Benate pushing the beat so hard he’s almost playing for whoever they were opening for that night. Antsy through the slow parts double kicking while it’s down the tail end of mission statement Alice Cooper’s “I’m eighteen”. Turbin’s choruses (“subjugator” “death from above”) fidget with “mind of its own” 3am erection in payphone booth outside Halford’s house. Real all or nothing commitment here: either day-glo tumescent Defcon-4 fuck staff or boiled baby prawn hiding under burgeoning beer-gut. No matter, Ian and Sptiz easily match vocal and percussive histrionics with day-after-too much-hot-sauce flaming shit leads/solos and martially controlled down stroke. Lilker, well save the cover song, Lilker co wrote everything on this mother and then formed a cooler band. Still winning. Exuberance and spirit ejected palpably from speakers because band embodies those qualities on DNA level. Some there is no try Yoda shit. Anthrax would go on to have “better” singers and make
“better” records but they’d never sound this wild-ass again. Turbin basically doesn’t know what to do with himself when not shrieking full beav. Homeboy just can’t wait to unleash the money maker and can you blame him? She likes it rough/with my strength/ with all my soul/ makin love I’m losing controooooooooooool! [HB]
Review from Chips & Beer Mag #3 - New York Metal Special
Illustration by Beaver
