29 August, 2011

Ain't nothin' like an August night . . .

Faithful supplicants, Dutch has heard your prayers, he has glutted on the black steer you've ceremoniously slain at his altar, and, now, in return - for do et des - he unleashes his latest pastiche of inverted hosannas and blackened babel . . .
Dirty Black Summer 

Thesaurusus vs. the Leotard


(I realize this mix would have been more poignant if I'd posted it on August 1st as opposed to August 29th, but who are you, what gives you the right to criticize the Timing of the Blogger?)

1. "Kneel to the Cross" by Agalloch. Never heard the Sol Invictus version, but this version is why God made drunky-trunk angels.

2. "Dirty Black Summer" by Danzig. Listen to this song with your dick in somethin'. 

3. "Black Seeds of Vengeance" by Nile. BLACK! SEEDS! UV VENGEANCE! That part is trance-inducing.

4. "The Summer Funeral" by Sigh. Holy shit, my girlfriend was right and I never realized. The singer of Sigh is a lady!

5. "Dedicated to Destruction" by Ride For Revenge. BLECH! BLECH! BLECH! BLECH!    

6. "Hellz Wind Staff" by Wu-Tang Clan. Watch "The Wire."

7. "Carnival Leftovers" by Entombed. Pretty sure this song was inspired by this scene. 

8. "Bring Me the Head of the Preacher Man" by Siouxsie and the Banshees. Would.

9. "Acrid Plains" by Saros. Sure-os.

10. "How Soon is Now?" by The Smiths. Also would.

11. "I Am the Earth" by Watain. You see what I did there? Get it? No? Then just look at this

12. "Old Glory" by Harvey Milk. One of their best songs. Sorry about the low kbps. It still sounds awesome, though.

13. "The Devil's Deadly Weapon" by Hell. You don't have to break new ground to rule.

14. "New Morning" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. It just felt right. Especially when you consider that Kent got me into Nick Cave so many years ago. He burned me "Murder Ballads" and the van I was borrowing off of him also had Greg's copy of Rain Dogs in it, so I got into both of those records on the same lonely drive.


Get ready for 4Kent Vol. 4 . . .

22 August, 2011

There is tons, there is one, there is not any.

Listenin to these guys right now, off Volume 4 of the 4Kent (M)BM mixes. It's comin' at ya like white hot semenlightning in the blacklight. Marge approved. Vol. 3 is cool, but it took me too long to make it. It's a summer album, and summer's over. But the frost is on the pumpkin. Plus being back in school makes me wanna keep my brains in my skull. And somewhat not too fucked up.

Speaking of . . .

Everyone's compiling bands, why can't I? Everyone's got a fucking acoustic guitar, why can't I? I didn't know, I didn't know. I thought I was the only one. Everyone's got a hot dinner gettin' cold on 'im, but so do I. Every dudes got a nice car, but - fuck. Wish I had a Volvo wagon, or a little magenta S-10. Wish I had my old Buick to ride around in. Give me this Almighty Whomever, give me another Buick and I swear I'll take my woman to every yoga class. I'll even put one of those bead seatcovers over the passenger seat for her. And a towel over that for when I pick her up and she's all sweet'n'spicy. God it feels good to have Quit, we'll sing. It feels good to Live in the Light of the King.

So look forward to that when I school has time.



 Peakin' at one of Margie's hallzines.






Good-bye, Old Paint.













Tar'Halla welcomes another spectral warrior.










"Boy dumb in the Biblical sense."








Be home in a minute.

18 August, 2011

Blessed are the Barren

3


Mickey is sitting on the front porch steps of the apartment, hunched over her bulbous gut, rapaciously chewing a piece of gum. Absently she is watching the sun hemorrhaging into the bruised empyrean visible through the apartment roofs and trees that line the opposite side of Friendship Avenue when her sister calls. She holds the phone in front of her, letting it ring in her hand. 

  Mickey’s senior by six years, six months and seven days, Ana has always been more of a demiparent to Mickey than an older sibling. By the time Mickey made it into the world most of the marital problems had been worked out between her parents, but too often it was on Ana that they had been “worked out.” Now being mature enough to understand what Ana went through before she was born, Mickey’s since forgiven her older sister for the way she’d treated her growing up, but nothing can ever change the fact that they’re completely separate people. It may have something to do with Mickey and Ana only sharing a mother, or it might be that Mickey actually knows her father, having been raised and loved and, unfortunately, spoiled by him. But that’s all behind the sisters now: the suspected favoritism, the hair-pulling rivalry; the gutless snitching. Now Ana has family of her own; her high school sweetheart, gave birth to twin boys not even a year ago. Mark Jr. and Matthew, she’d named the boys. Biblical names. Would’ve made Grammy happy, Ana had woozily explained to Mickey, cradling the youngest, Matthew, in her arms, looking like a truck had just backed out of her, while Mark Sr. stood holding his sequel in his massive arms, teary-eyed, smiling through his beard at his crusty progeny. 

  Looking at Ana’s picture on her touch screen, Mickey remembers standing outside the door to her hospital room – as the nurses had only allowed Mark Sr. and the sisters’ mother to enter – listening to her screams and curses, listening to her plead with the doctors for more drugs, laughing when she heard the doctor say: “Just shut up and push!” and relishing every minute of it; almost pissing her pants like she would when they’d play hide-n-seek at the farm house all those years ago.
  After five or six rings, Mickey finally answers . . .
  “Hey . . .” . . . a little phlegmatically.
  “Hey.” Ana sounds tired, Mickey thinks.
 “You sound tired,” her sister says.
  “You too.”
  “Well I am. I’ve been working all day.”
  “Well, I am, too, Ana, I’m pregnant.”
  “I know that.”
  “I know you know that, I’m just saying . . .”
  “Mark’s moved out.”
  “Huh?”
  “Mark’s staying at a hotel. I’m filing for divorce and primary custody. I know he won’t sign the papers, so that’ll give us at least two years to straighten things out one way or another.”
  “Jesus-”
  “Michelle, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Especially not when you’ve got a little one inside you.”
  “What’s Mom and Dad say?”
  “Mick, I don’t care what they say. He hasn’t slept with me in our bed in over two years. He sleeps on the couch. He comes home from work and he’s too damn tired to do anything but drink half a beer and pass out. We only ever do what he wants to do – which is nothing. At all. Ever.”
  “But, Ana . . . I mean - ”
  “No, Mick, you’re down in the city. You ran off – not that I blame you. You don’t know, though.”
  “I didn’t run off! I moved a couple hours away! That’s a perfectly normal thing to do when you’re an adult.”
  “They really fucked us up, didn’t they?”
  “Who?”
  “Mom’n’Dad.”
  “Uh . . .”
  “It sucks, though, don’t it? Living with the shit they couldn’t deal with, it coming back and haunting us like some - I don’t know - hereditary disease or something.”
  “Ana, you can’t blame your problems on Mom and Dad.”
  “I didn’t have a good family model. My therapist said that. She said it’s like I’m trying to ride a bike without ever having seen it done before.”
  “That’s kind of a lousy analogy, sis.”
  “Irregardless, it’s true. They fucked us up.”
  “What do Mom and Dad have to do with Mark and you?”
  “I mean - gosh - Mickey, look at you – no offense. But they fucked us up, right?”
  “Uh . . .”
  “I talked to my therapist about all this, and she understands everything. She’s the one suggested I threaten Mark with a divorce. A preemptive threat, she called it.”
  “First of all, when did you start seeing a therapist? Second of all, what’s wrong with me again?”
  “I started going about a month ago. I could hardly get outta bed I felt so bad all the time, but not, like, physically - in my heart, in my heart I felt bad, ya know? I’d pray for help, but it’s been so long since I went to Mass I don’t blame God for not answering me.”
  “And whose idea was it to go?”
  “It was Julie’s, one of the girls I work with. She said I might have post-partum and told me about the therapist her cousin went to after she had her little girl.”
  “Do Mom and Dad know?”
  “Why should they? You never visit, let alone call, and you expect me to run everything by them?”
  “Well, why not go see a marriage counselor or something? How do you just jump straight to seeing a therapist and making preemptive threats for divorce?”
  “What’s the big deal, Mickey? You’ve been seeing a therapist since you were like 13; ever since Mom caught you and DD Philips - ”
  “I know that, Ana. Thanks. But, still . . . you’re the well adjusted one.”
  “Bursts your bubble, huh? You thought me and Mark and the twins had the perfect life, huh? Picket fences ‘n’ all that.”
  “I guess I did.”
  “I was unhappy for a long time, even before the twins were born. I thought maybe they’d bring us closer together. They brought Mom’n’Dad closer together, but they only widened the gap between me and Mark.”
  “Damn . . .”
  Two young skateboarder-types pass, furtively swigging and passing a High Life pounder. The one closest to Mickey, with swooping hair sticking out from a backwards flatbrim stares at Mickey’s legs, nods at her. His friend is on his phone, shouting something about a wreck on Liberty, calls it “gnarly.” And then, as if summoned by the skater, an ambulance barrels westward down the street, appearing out of nowhere, its siren leaving everything else around Mickey momentarily nonexistent.
  “We’re fucked up. They fucked us up bad, Mick. I’m telling you. My therapist hears the shit we went through as kids and she literally, like, gasps sometimes, Mick. She can’t believe I turned out as well as I did. She kinda explained why you ended up how you did, too.”
  “Ana, not now. I’m tired. I can’t defend my -.”
  “I know. I’m sorry. You know I love Lauren, even though I only met her once. But I’m really excited for MJ and Matt to have a cousin to play with. I’m sorry I’m being a bitch. I’m just upset. I called you because I thought you could cheer me up, but I just brought you down instead.”
  “It’s okay. I was already down.”
  “Mom wanted me to ask if you’ve been going to Mass? She knows I haven’t been going and that’s what she blames all this stuff with me and Mark on. But she told me to ask you if you’ve been going still.”
  “Occasionally, but not really.”
  “Well, what should I tell Mom?”
  “I don’t know? The truth.”
  “Okay, I’ll tell her you go at least once a week. I gotta get the boys to bed, hun. I love you. Good night.”
  “Good night, Ana.”
  Now only the burning pate of the sun could be seen. The golden hour had passed without Mickey’s noticing it had ever arrived. Hoistin herself with the black railing, Mickey stands, keeping her other hand against her stomach, not to support it, but to apply pressure against the pain. The pain she’d all but stopped mentioning to anyone, including Ren, Mrs. Crowe, and the quack doctor Ren has her seeing.
  The neighbor’s cat, an orange tabby, runs up the stairs after her, starts weaving in-between her legs. The same cat Ren has tried to catch to pet many times, whereas Mickey’s only ever ignored it. So of course the cat always goes after Mickey.
  Funny how that works, Mickey thinks as she enters the dark corridor of the apartment, leaving the cat behind, looking hurt before something else catches its attention. She lightly knocks on the Crowes door before entering. Ren and the Crowes are gathered around the dining room table, drinking red wine, a spooky looking candelabrum sits at the other end of the long antique table holding six black candles, all of them lighted and giving the room an orange-ish Halloween aspect. A record’s playing, something weird, an old English man reading poetry. Mickey sits down abreast Ren, lays her face on the cool table. Absently, Ren puts her hand on Mickey’s inner thigh while she pours over her letters and then the Scrabble board. The room has the sudden silence of the recent topic of conversation having just arrived. Mr. Crowe looks at Mickey’s head lying on the dark wood of the dining room table, her almost-white hair closely cropped to her skull, the golden key tattooed below her left ear. Looking up from the table, having felt eyes on her, Mickey catches Mr. Crowe’s hungry gaze. 
  He winks at her.

17 August, 2011

DRWT a.d.

New Drought of Life track from our forthcoming cassette DRWT a.d. which is a demo for our forthcoming album Channels.



Expect more songs soon, plus some more chapters from "Blessed are the Barren" (formerly titled "Glass Crosses").

15 August, 2011

05 August, 2011

Because I've never been afraid to suck . . .

. . . and because the sun smiles on the tall, elegant oaks and the lowly weeds alike, and because I'm actually sober right now. I suppose this could easily make me the butt of many jokes, but what doesn't? How many times a day any given day am I the butt of my own jokes, without realizing I'm even telling the joke?

So, then, let this be my writ of self-mockery: I know this sucks, and yet I give it unto you, my friends, my few and loyal supplicants before whom I kneel so that I may wash your feet and rid your soles of the filth gathered there at your ankles from traversing the city alleyways. It took many takes, as you might guess. I used my phone, set it on my dresser on the other side of my empty room and played from my mattress. I used Margaret's guitar (thanks, babe). The song I wrote about a year ago. This is me exorcising Belphegor, sublimating Asmodeus, this is . . .


















"Fire Walk with Me" by Young Blasarius Yonder.

(I have found his letters hid beneath their dead cuticles, a buried dialect, the tongue of a land unfathomable. Fire walks with me. Through the night . . . A telling reflection held in the eyes of the prom queen; a journey through bedlam guided by a single headlight's beam. Washed up on the shingle, it was the fisherman who found her all wrapped in her plastic gown, her skin gone cold and alabaster. Fire walks with me. My baby's pretty eyes straring up at me through a veil of flies. Fly, fly away from here with me. [Whistle] So the sheriff went to the lodge alone to notify her father as the lake just indifferently ebbed and flowed and licked her with its slaver. Fire walk with me.)