29 September, 2011

Shackles are the only thing free for all . . .

"Man was born free, but he is everywhere in chains." JJR, The Social Contract.

Taking a break from writing one of two papers I have to write to blog to you all. No reason. Unlike Marge's, this blog has no point.

Didn't have internet for about a week. Listened to some records while it was down.

Can't believe how bad the new Mastodon is. In the full spectrum of their career, I guess an underwhelming record in which they make a halfhearted attempt at radio-friendly pop-rock was bound to eventually occur. They were due, I'm saying. I still consider them the Rush of our generation like some music journalist said they were in a review of Remission, but The Hunter is definitely a dud. Or maybe it's not. I do have this sick feeling, this sort of nausea that overcomes me whenever I think about - as I have been thinking about it a lot, a lot more than I've been actually listening to it since I, like, can't listen to it cuz it brings about this nausea that I was mentioning before - this nausea that The Hunter is actually good and Mastodon is way ahead of me and I just don't get it. I mean, the riffs are decent, but not after they've been riffed-on for as long as they are this time around. The vocals are well-sung and all, but it sounds like new Soilwork or In Flames type shit. It wouldn't be such a terrible record if it weren't Mastodon, but alongside the rest of their albums, it's embarrassing. It almost has to be the result of a total lack of inspiration in the face of an impending record release deadline.

Then again, maybe it's actually awesome. Don't be surprised when I post a link next week telling you all how much it actually rules. Until then, I ain't postin' it so if you wanna hear it just google it, it's out there. In 320, too.

The new Wolves In The Throne Room continues to grow on me. I didn't dislike it when I first heard it. Hell, you know what listening to their records is like: your attention drifts in and out and it takes several listens just to hear it all the way through. It's good, though. I wonder if I'd give it as much attention as I have if it wasn't a Wolves record, though. There's something to meditate on tonight, I suppose.

Incidentally, track 3[sic]* of The Hunter, poorly titled "Stargasm," does have me banging my head. Hmm . . . These vocals are pretty reminiscent of Crack the Skye, too. Maybe I don't like that record either cuz there's no way I like this one. No fucking way.

Started writing a new story for Mike's writing thing at the new Roboto that Wolf Eyes is playing. It's based on a little story from the Qur'an. Hope it don't get me fatwa'd. Timshel, my ass. Wait - wrong sacred text.

Been reading the newest translation of The Tin Drum. I strongly recommend this book to everyone.

Yes, the new Mastodon is decidedly pretty dumb. It's catchy, I guess. The songs are fairly well-written, too, as far as verse bridge chorus verse bridge chorus prog part chorus songs go, but it's just lacking something.

So I've just been spaced out, staring at the floor for some time, listening to The Hunter, and it was "Creature Lives" that kind of yanked me out of it. Maybe this record isn't that dumb afterall. Certainly I'll be listening to it again. - Ooh, this song is heavy and fast.

New Autopsy is filled with great riffs and fat, sausage vocals that keep my legs pumping on my way to and from class. Some dude raced me through the strip district today. It was awesome. Haven't tacitly raced in a while. How do I know we're racing you might ask? It's understood when you pass someone that you're henceforth also racing them if they have any balls whatsoever.

So maybe this new Mastodon really does pick up after the first couple tracks. It's reminiscent of Crack the Skye but more radio-friendly, more Deftones, if you will. Think I just heard a therimin. Tim let me know. Actually, dude, just let me know what you think of this bitch.

We're lucky to waste our time like this. Check out Marge's blog in my blog reel to the right; it's called Reading In Circles. It's about The Family Circus. I know I linked to it already, but I want to get people to check it out. Check out Jacob's and Ian's and Mike's blog, too. It's called Rubbernecking. Those duds take photos. Chelsea's blog is about knitting, it's called Figs and Things. A bunch of us post on My Idea of Fun 101, you should, too, if you're someone reading this who doesn't already. We're lucky to get to waste our time like this.

These things we write, these words in opposition to the lives we lead, we write them with the blood of our fathers. Remember that.


*Somehow shit got rearranged here. Track 3 is not actually "Stargasm." "Stargasm" is track 4. Track 3 is  "Blasteroid," which I thought was track 2, and "Curl of the Burl" is, thank God, not track 12, but track 2. Thought the record ended with "Curl of the Burl."

14 September, 2011

Oh yeah!

I almost forgot that this happened:

OH YEAH!! *mb8s 4yesly* MOKSHA MOKSHA MOKSHA!!!

. . . just blacker space.

Like lightning catching angels in lewd acts. Like gooey moksha at the supple hand of a braces-wearing virginess. Like prolonged eye contact across the smoky room. Like anything great that lasts only momentarily, Black Cassette by Wreck And Reference is a brief journey that leaves a lasting impression. Like taking acid and going to the lookinglass and staring into your own eyes, focusing on your pupils, and seeing your two pupils merge into one, one gaping blackhole pupil and falling into that blackhole as Kore fell into hers, and coming out through your mouth in the form of a sacred, long-forgotten mantra, like: "Om . . .  holy shit, dude." And what will you remember of your journey into and through yourself, guided by a sythesized Virgil; what will you recall of the naked glory with which you were confronted on your journey? Only awe. So what will you do? You'll go back. Like the boy who swears he saw a dragon slithering into a cave in the forest behind his grandfather's farmhouse, who rallied his friends and promised them deer jerky and the sight of a real, live dragon, but could only deliver on the deer jerky and an admittedly spooky, but empty cave. And, like the boy who fleetingly witnessed something beyond his immediate understanding, but begins to doubt even his own story, I'll tell my friends, all of you, to download Black Cassette by Wreck And Reference for free from their bandcamp page, but who knows how many of you actually will, and of those who do, how many will be so deeply affected as I was upon my first listen of it. I've listened to this record honestly countless times already and it's still really great, but so much of that greatness is the lingering astonishment of finding out that this lo-fi "doom metal" record - for that was the description on the blog where I first heard about it  - sounds like it does. By now, I know the riffs and the lyrics, the path to take and the shape of the cave's maw, but I still don't understand. Check it out for yourself. Even if you're not immediately bowled over as I was, I bet you'll come to really enjoy WAR's weird little EP.

File under: Experimental (bedroom) Doom that's closer to The Microphones/Mount Eerie than it is Wino, Candlemass, &c. Or: Weird lo-fi pop you won't find on Pitchfork.

13 September, 2011

Figure in black points at me . . .

Cobalt night in bas-relief. Starin' ahead and into this abyss before me, hours pass like glass deleted from their windowpanes, recounting my actions like a Catholic and his iniquities. Leveled, folks. Buffeted by the day. Rode out. Pretty sleepy. Shoveled out of bed, dumped into the pothole that was the day, spread even and smacked with the iron face of the shovel that was also the day. Between school and work and going to church I'm pretty beat. Sunday past was my first day off in a very long fortnight. Doug back in dish says I'm blessed, calls me Thor. He says I'm blessed to always have things work out just-so for me. Like how the insurance check for my totaled old Buick covered the cost of the new Buick, but only just. (Did pick up a few other back-to-school items, but I think the gods meddled in that too.) Or how the same day my unemployment checks stopped coming I got a job.

I try to keep all this shit in my mind. Try to stay positive. Try to remember that gratitude is like Pepto-Bismol for the fiery pit of sin that's down in everyone's stomach, fittingly placed between where your poop waits until you set it free and from where your genitals call, Sirens from the jagged bluffs . . .

Anyway, here's the best 4Kent yet:

Volume 4



or



I encourage you to use whichever cover you prefer. Must be listened to at high volume.

1. "And Then (the Hexx)" by Pavement
2. "Black Sabbath" by Throne of Ahaz
3. "Fang" by Spirit Caravan
4. "Desert Rose*" by Christian Mistress
5. "Feral Flame" by Deadbird
6. "Evil Seed" by Pentagram
7. "Ch-ch-ch-changes" by Bl-bl-bl-black Sabbath.
8. "Black Sabbath" by Venetian Snares
9. "Winter Shaker" by Wovenhand
10. "Besessenheit die Ich Brauche*" by Blackdeath
11. "Meditation is the Practice of Death" by Om
12. "Crippled Wizard" by Cough
13. "The Gate of Nanna" by Reverend Bizarre
14. "The Wizard" by Blizz Saberia

1st *: The title of this song, or the song itself, should not be prejudged based on your experiences with a certain former Vocal Youth.
2nd *: I think this translates to "I need that/this obsession," roughly.

11 September, 2011

Black on both sides.

I feel like everyone could tell this story, but I'm gonna tell it anyway cuz that's what this blog is for.

It's somewhat difficult - now, of course, I have no basis for comparison, but . . . - I do find it rather - *ahem* - difficult . . . being. I'm hoping other people maybe read that (pfft!) and set to nodding their heads in agreement. God, don't let me be some abberant, some backward-nobody who should've never been anyway, some damn fool who doesn't know his ass from a dumpster behind Panera bread, is what I hope everyone else is constantly thinking. Just like I hope everyone else has to play loud music in their ears all the time so as to better ignore that voice of self-derision that's always around, always in the way, like a low hanging chandelier, sometimes alight with blinding truth, casting prismatic honesty all over the white walls, other times a thing you bump your head on when you're not expecting it to be there, when you're too tired and it's too dark to remember that some asshole decided to hang a chandelier at eyebrow length in the middle of your tiny apartment. So what do you do? Well, I listen to music to help me ignore all that previously mentioned existential shit - or, at least, to assuage it.

That's where the internet and music blogs help. They keep my ears filled with heretical noise, and my head too filled with caustic sound to heed that infernal innercall, that call to disarm, that sonorous Metatron of ego mortido. Most of these blogs can be found to the right of this here post and all of my posts in my blog reel, but, just like trying to get into a band that's already got a huge discography, I'm sure that shit is overwhelming and you look at it and find yourself unsure of where to even begin. That's what this post is for . . .

Two great releases found on two great blogs. Black on both sides. Here we go:

First up, we got Funeral Spirit. I know nothing about the dude who runs it, except that he's Russian and he loves, loves, loves!! black metal. But there are a million blog metal blacks hosted by Russians, you're probably thinking. True, I'd respond, but this dude cares. You may've noticed I'm picky about my bitrate. I used to not be. I used to be an ignoramus just like the rest of you until my main man, Tim Beck, learned me that not all mp3s are ripped equal. In fact, the difference between 192 and 320 is fucking staggering. Try listening to Hvis lyset tar oss in 192. You'll wanna die. You'll wanna headbutt the nearest rusty railroad spike. But listen to it 320 and you'll wanna take enough pills to nap forever. You see what I'm gettin' at here? Bitrates matter, folks. And the dude at Funeral Spirit knows this. That's not to say he only posts in 320, but he does let you know what you're getting. (Except, I should note, he calls 320 "CBR," just a heads up.) And it was from Funeral Spirit that I got the first album we're discussing here: Subterranean Effulgence by Lantern.


What first attracted me to SE amongst the surfeit of metal I pirate was, like Negative Plane's Stained Glass Revelations and Mitochondrion's Parasignosis, the atmosphere, or, more precisely, the production. Subterranean Effulgence sounds like its title - and don't you just love that? It's give such poise and maturity to the band methinks. As if they're completely in control the whole time, like when Nabokov would finally sit down to write a story only after he'd spent months, sometimes years, ruminating it, getting it all figured out. No doubt Lantern - I mean they are Finnish - are similarly disciplined, and by the time they recorded Subterranean Effulgence, their debut full-length(ish) proceeding their demo, Virgin Taste of Damnation, they knew exactly how they wanted it to sound. And unlike Negative Plane's Stained Glass Revelations, but very much like Mitochondrion's Parasignosis, my enjoyment of Subterranean Effulgence has sustained, continues to grow even after the initial awe of how well it's produced. Without saying much about the music within - because I hate to give away too much, like when I saw No Country for Old Men in the theater, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever what it was about, only that the Coen Bros. were behind it, and I was totally blown away - I will promise that you will enjoy Lantern's Subterranean Effulgence and will continue to check Funeral Spirit for new and high quality uploads. 


Don't believe me? Fine. Here's a taste . . .







Up next we've got Equivoke, one of my favorite blogs out there.Dude is no bullshit, no gimmicks; just a fan of good tunes at high quality bitrates. He doesn't even specify the kbps, you can always trust that whatever he's posting is in the highest quality available on the open seas.

So I heard about this new USBM band through the grapevine, gettin' hype and shit, but I couldn't find their demo anywhere. Of course Equivoke had it, like, the next day. And since d/l'ing it, False's untitled two-song demo has been in my ears often, and every time, it's kept on, repeating several times before I'm sated, let alone full. Again, I don't wanna spoil the sound, but it's pretty trve stuff as far as USBM goes. Plus - and I didn't realize this until I read a piece on their live show at Invisible Oranges - but they got a chick singer. I thought they reminded me of another band before, but I couldn't figure out who, and then as soon as I saw they had a female vocalist, I realized who it was: fuckin' Undying. Remember them? Ex-members of Prayer for Cleansing, Swedish-wannabes playing vegan metalcore from NC. That's not to say there's any -core in False, not a drop actually, but besides the oft intrusive breakdowns, Undying wasn't too -core either. But Undying was also kind of boring, and only ever had like two or three decent songs. "This Day All Gods Die" being their best, hands down. Anyway, enough about Undying, they're dead. Whereas False is very much alive - damn that one lead in TDAGD is sick, though - and they rule. 2nd wave shit played by pretty young, very talented Minnesotans. Quality-made USBM you can get behind.

Never forget . . .

We got him!

These colors don't run.

Happy Patriot Day.

08 September, 2011

Jesus as a tattooed entitled-minded polemicist. Or Post Up means Stand Around..

Not my King, but back in my secular days I loved these guys. A lot of what I know about them is probably incorrect, so I'll spare you too much background, but it is essential to say Catharsis is a true - or orthodox, if you will - American metalcore band (think Integrity, Ringworm, Deadguy, early Every Time I Die, Racetraitor, Prayer For Cleansing, Converge, &c.) from Greensboro, North Carolina, and they're really heavy. Way back, like I said: back when I was a secular little twirp, who walked in the shadows of Wannabe Yoshuas like these guys, back when a band's obscurity meant something to me, this dude I knew from shows, Travis, gave me a burncopy of Samsara, and when I first listened to it it was one of those moments when you think a band has been created simply for you. Like your grandpa went out to that little shed outside the barn, beside the milk house with the spring water that's so cold it hurts your teeth, and he spent some time in there, in his little workshed, hammering away, sawing stuff, driving nails through objects, and after a few weeks he emerges from his little workshed with a killer metal album. That's exactly how Samsara made me feel. But Catharsis is not Alvin Cain, a beyond stolid lifelongfarmer from Salem, New Jersey. That would be crazy and I'd love to live in that world. I mean, what if even, like, Wardruna was that? Anyway, I had a burncopy for a while. But, alas, burncopies, where some of our fondest memories are anchored, they, like so many inventions of our generation, are flimsy and made-to-be-highly-ephemeral, and just like all your high school "mixtapes" from your budding-boobed sweetheart, probably every one of them featuring that Brand New song that tells people to put it at the beginning of [their] mixtape, Samsara was lost, kicked out of the car or scratched beyond play. Some time later, I ended up getting a copy of Passion from AJ's distro; how well I knew AJ before that I can't remember to say, but I have a feeling that's how our relationship was started. While great and Almighty-slaying in its own right, Passion is not Samsara. Like Songs to Fan the Flames of Discontent vs.  The Shape of Punk to Come. Unlike Shape . . ., though Samsara is long OOP, and considerably difficult to find in physical format . Then, somehow, can't remember exactly how, I procured another burncopy of Samsara. And that, too, was eventually lost or discarded due to playback error due to heavy scratching due to being treated with neglect a.k.a. being treated like a normal CD, even a normal piece of everyday inanimate matter for that matter, and not like some fragile pet animal that's born to die after a few years no matter how carefully you treat it, even if it's especially carefully since of how the last one died.

Then there were those years when I didn't care to hear music. Heard what I needed to in other people's cars or coming from Mike or Tim's room or in, like, movies I was watching. Didn't have an iPod, didn't have a stereo, listened to NPR in the old Buick. Must've been touring or something. Forget what exactly. That in itself is telling, I suppose.

And then I met Marge, and she made me a mixtape, but it was on cassette. Now cut from that cassette to the laptop,  and we're back to this masterpiece:



After having searched high and low,  I found only the low at The Living Doorway in 192 kbps. Seriously? Dude listens to great stuff, but rarely cares what the bit quality is. I know, I know, this record is OOP and super HTF, but you still gotta show some respect for it. Listening to it in that low sound quality is insulting to you, your ears and, most important of all, to the record itself. That's like drinking fine bourbon from some wimpy glass. What're you at your niece's teaparty or something? You pour that shit straight down your throat and fight the closest asshole to you; if you're alone, simply drop immediately and do as many push ups as you can before you collapse. 

So I found it, finally, in 320 kbps. Had to download it in two parts from a pretty sketchy Russian site. Made me feel like I was Nick from Season 2.  But beside putting my computer at risk of catching some Commie PC-clap, all of the details like the song titles, the artist's names, the album artist's names, the genre labeling, &c. were in this crazy babel, some lost pre-Indo-European language that my Japanese laptop didn't even recognize. But I sat here, where I still as sit as Marge eats my leftover spicy peanut and MF scratches his calves, erstwhile also while a revolving door of autumnal babes wearing summer skirts passed through my big expansive hardwood floor living room, my head down the whole time, completely oblivious to the fleshousel going merry around me, correcting all that info so as to bring you Catharsis' Samsara in 320. Unless you have this on vinyl (not sure that even exists) you need to get this - actually, even if you have this on vinyl, you still need it on your iPod, so check it out. Don't forget: Marge loves you.


(Edit: Track 5 is not eponymous, it's actually called "Every Man for Himself and God Against Them All." One of my favorite track titles ever, not sure what happened . . . )

06 September, 2011

Attn: ruddy dude . . .

Attention: Ruddy dude; you Chris Barleywine; you sweater in a red Ohio State University sweatshirt; you white-haired, ruddy faced, sweating (probably wannabe) licentiate of OSU; U occasionally, when-trying-to-read-despite-the-OxyMoron*-shouting-into-his-phone-to-his-mama, bespectacled Rosacean; you sigher of scoffs; you starer at young tan calves; you taker of two seats; you bulbous pantomiming reader; you drooling appreciator of jiggling flesh; you unsubtle glancer, you; you check 'er-outer, you; you sweaty-palmed (get to that part in a second), Henry the Apeth; you furtive farter (can't say for sure, but I bet!); you usurper of bus seats; you stupid, clumsy, eternally-blushing fool.

Guess what?
I have your book.

That's right: you left it on the bus seat. Or, more precisely, it slipped out of your plastic Rite-Aid bag as you heaved yourself to your gouty feet. Who're you, Chris Kibler? You're an adult, a college graduate, and you keep your things in a plastic Rite-Aid bag? Holy shit, thought I, that ruddy-faced, OSU poseur dropped his book on the bus seat. After I squinted to read it's blurry title; after I raised mine so he could see how highbrow I was; and for what? The Secret Source, covered in a thick layer of grease, as if the binding were made from recycled pizza boxes. Hutta fuck?, thought I. Mr. Barleywine, Mr. Biggut, weren't you wearing glasses, a red Ohio State University hoodie; weren't you just sitting here with an air, a mien, of intelligence and reading, despite the too-obvious-to-enumerate trappings of public transportation? Didn't you have a full head of wet white hair, and a slovenly style indicative of an absent-minded intellectual? Weren't you just at ease beside that handsome black man in modern-college-professor attire and red billed snapback Pirates cap? And you're reading this garbage? But, I guess, you guys don't realize why it's garbage. Let me reveal the book's content as it was revealed to me as I flipped it, and nearly dropped it it was so greasy, and read the back cover. "The Secret Source," its back cover says,"takes you behind and beyond the marketing phenomenon known as The Secret, revealing how believers and visionaries have improved their well-being and enhanced their wealth for centuries through the power of the mind."

So then, you rouged gawker, were those globules of sweat so big and crystalline they reflected/inverted the very ass you were gawking at, were those conjured by your mind, as you willed, and haptically masturbated the furry bus seat; and was it your sweaty, pizzagrease sweat that got in your eyes, blinding you as you scooped up your plastic Rite-Aid bag, causing your failure to realize you'd left behind your real ticket off the bus for good?

But not only did you read this tripe in public, when not giving out browbeating bleats of discontent or redsleeved wipes of your lacquered forehead or staring at me to tacitly commiserate our (you hoped) discomfiture, but instead seeing only my book - as if you've even heard of it, probably you just saw it was a thick buger and assumed I, what with my long hair and my stoner grin, had an Archie comic hidden inside; no, not only did you hold this pornography up before your rosy visage, presenting it for the bus to see, for the whole bus, at least those who would care to see and those who could see at all, accepting that a lot of myopic senior citizens were aboard, not only did you hold it up it front of you, as if you should be proud to be reading such waste, or as if it was some bastion safeguarding you in your own world of make believe and wishes-come-true, but you left it behind, sitting on your seat, where you had been only a moment ago, like a pillar of salt, or a pile of cigarette ashes you find on the ground right after you go to older sister swearing to God you've just seen the ghost of Aunt Anabelle. I'd lowered my head only a few seconds to read some more of Oskar's drum beats and - poof - you were gone, and only your white book remained.

And what is this, of the same color as the book therefor difficult to notice on first inspection as I scooped it up on my way off the bus and thanked the busdriver for having arrived me safely in the North Side, what is this gross little sticker in the right hand corner of this book? South Park Township Library. O you sanguine sod! You left a fucking library book on the bus? Have you no respect for borrowed property? Are you out to singlehandedly ruin all of this great city's public libraries and the honor system along with them? Sure, perhaps I should be have sympathy, should express empathy here, as I was excommunicated from the library for doing the same thing, except I lost a very old copy - perhaps even an original, but I hope not - of Steinbeck's Cannery Row. I couldn't show my face there for months. Couldn't hear my usually very silent footfalls echo through the marble vaults. Couldn't tread upon the steps that many before me had worn down in the middle like the stairs to a farmhouse of wooden planks warped by the rain.

So here I sit, with this slimy burden to my left, contemplating what to do. The nature of the book, with its promises of dreams made real by will alone, achievement without work, idle ambition, &c. almost compels me to throw it away, pitch it, dump it, maybe ceremoniously set it ablaze then piss on the ashes. But I won't, you lucky red-faced bastard. Instead I'll give it to Marge, carefully, holding it as one hold's a dead mouse or a soiled garment, ridding myself of the temptation to destroy it and the farce that is your life along with it.

You can thank me the next time I see you riding the evening 54D.

*OxyMoron is used here to refer to abusers of the prescription pain medicine Oxycontin.

Godom and Somorra

Fuckin' A, dudes. Check this record out. Avichi is a place that's worse than Hell. In Theosophy - whatever the fuck that means - you still got a chance for redemption if you end up in Hell, but if you in Avichi, you're proper fucked. You're just suspended in nothingness for all eternity. At least you can twirl your thumbs, or jerkoff, though, as some sects seem to believe that you're still, like, in your body. Can I grow my hair long? Can I airdrum and airsolo? Doesn't seem so bad.

Anyway, dude's new record, The Devil's Fractal, is definitely gonna end up near the top of my Top Records of the Year list. (Yeah, I'll probably do a list; why wouldn't I? I already got a fuckin' blog!) It reminds me - at times - of like a blackened Mastodon. It's groovy, it's catchy, it's midpaced and, here and there, techy, it's pretty psychedelic - of course it is, though, considering, according to EM, the Cloaked One behind these tunes spent some time in Nachtmystium, who are as you know, US' progenitors of psychedelic bm. Been jammin' it for a few weeks now, but today, while standing in the cold, crooked crooked rain, waiting for the bus, starin' down some premie semibabe who was smoking Marblebog Lights, it just clicked. This record rules. Profound Lore can do no wrong. Listen to it and hear for yourself.

Or don't. I mean . . . you wouldn't steal a car, would you?

05 September, 2011

I is not myself.

Got the new Wolves in my ears right now - pretty great so far. Reminds me a little of the new CTTS, which is also worth checking out if you haven't heard it yet. At least the vocals are reminiscent.

Tim, I'm making this post for you, dude. I want you to check out this sweet Dutch band I heard about from the dude at Stonerobixxx. They're called Radar Men from the Moon, which, I guess, is, like, a 50s B horror flick. Anyway, they play very fuzzy, very warm, wholly instrumental psychadelic stoner sludge. It's like if Man or Astroman? had Buzz and Packy (sic?) for roadies and let them play their instruments and open for 'em occasionally. No, seriously, it's good. I burnt it to a disc and have thus far read, worked out, took a dump and slept to it. And that was all at the same time! Check 'em out! I think you'll dig their style, dude. Also, Stonerobixxx is a great blog cuz dude always posts his shit in 320. Surf back and you'll find, like, complete discographies of, like, Buried Inside, Cult of Luna, ISIS, and tons of other cool stoney bands, all in 320.

Gettin' a new car. Another Century, this time a couple years newer, in a lot better condition, and golden. That's right, baby, a Gold fuckin' Century!