The Halloween Mix tape

Halloween has always been just about my favorite holiday - be it the memories of trick or treating as a kid, college parties, or the years in my mid-20's when I realized that you could basically say anything you wanted to a young lady at a bar as long as you were in a costume - Halloween has always been represented a free pass to get a little silly.

But hand in hand with the excesses and the goofiness of Halloween are the wonderfully dark and creepy aspects of it: Horror. Terror. Ritualism. The occult.

What other holiday could better represent metal than the one that so effectively mixes together silliness and evil?

And, so, I offer you my Halloween 2009 Mix Tape. (Heh...."Mix Tape". The kids don't even know what that means).

(By the way, I'm totally copping this concept from Heavy Metal Time Machine and Noise Creep, and I admit that a handful of the same songs/artists appear on their lists. Sorry. Total coincidence).

Motley Crue: In the Beginning/Shout at the Devil:

The spoken word intro to "Shout at the Devil" is assuredly ridiculous, but it was also harrowing and confusing to my grade school ears.

First of all, WHO is that talking? He who breeds WHAT awaits me?? Am *I* one of those children of the beast?? WHAT did he just say about the dusts of hell?? WHY am I supposed to shouting AT the devil?

And do these guys really worship Satan?? I'm beginning to think they might be a bunch of pansies. (Except Mick Mars. What the fuck is up with that guy....?)

Whatever. There's little time for a 12 year old to discuss these matters, because that first chord kicks in, and Tommy Lee is caveman-banging on some gigantic drum, and everyone is starting the gang chants. Halloween has arrived.

SHOUT!

Danzig - Twist of Cain

Did someone say gang chants and caveman drums? Look out, Danzig just showed up!!!

This song is the sound of walking in on a ritual sacrifice in your best friend's dad's basement.

("Hey Marty's dad, what's u......oh, fuck. Nevermind. I'll be leaving now.......Please.")

Alice Cooper - Billion Dollar Babies

There are an awful lot of Alice's songs worth including, but this is hands down the creepiest one for my tastes. The lyrics are weird enough, but what the fuck is that bridge all about?

And who the hell let this guy on the Soupy Sales show?

Boris Picket and the Cryptkickers - The Moster Mash

Before you judge me, you remember this one thing: this is more or less the blueprint for every single Misfits song. Ever.

Samhain - Horror Biz

Ok, ok....Jesus, I'm sorry I made fun of the Misfits.

Here's some of the infinitely more frightening Samhain's take on "Horror Biz". (And if that's not good enough for you, here's "I am Misery". Or if you really want to punish yourself, here's the 7:00 minute version with the scary "Misery Tomb" intro).

Type O Negative - Black # 1

Halloween anthem.

And damned close to actually being a scary video, were it not for the midgets in the tree. And the vampire goofball who floats across the screen at the 3:23 mark. Seriously, who is responsible for that?

Black Sabbath - Black Sabbath

No explanation required.

Morbid Angel - God of Emptiness

Most terrifying video in history. God, this was a bad idea. I knew better than to watch the last 90 seconds of that shit. Those fucking Florida metalhead goofballs. I'm totally going to wet the bed tonight.

Motley Crue

In the modern history of questionable musical taste, I'm pretty sure that no one has ever spent their weekend seeing PJ Harvey on Friday night, and Motley Crue on Saturday. And even if they did, I bet they didn't cross two state lines in order to do it.

((Honestly, I don't even remember it happening in this sequence, but the ticket stubs speak for themselves.))

Ok, so Motley Crue:

It's just too easy to diss them, with the ridiculous lifestyle and the drugs and the hair and the girls and the bikes and the image that every other lousy faux-nasty hair band aspired to. And to top it all off, they were so, so, so stupid.

But still...That's the easy way out. It's the easy way out to say that they were just copping the Dolls. It's the easy way out to say that each of them are lousy human beings. It's the easy way out to say that they always cared more about coke and pussy than making music.

Because the fact is that the Crue released two absolutely stellar hard rock albums. And even when carnal pursuits officially overtook their priority on musicianship, the band still managed to string together a list of hits that must have left Don Dokken tearing his hair extensions out.

No matter how many ways you want to discredit Motley Crue, somehow those guys pulled off ten years' worth of nasty riffs and outstanding hooks.

And, of course, there was Tommy Lee - such an absolute moron of a person, and yet one of the very few rock and roll drummers who you can actually can a true musician.

Oddly enough, I wasn't a huge Crue fan when I teenager. I liked them just fine, but in one of those awkward manifestations of sibling rivalry, I somewhat shunned Motley Crue for no better reason than because they were my little brother's favorite band.

And because of that, I never got around to seeing them live when the Dr. Feelgood tour hit the Capital Centre my senior year if high school....even though a lot of my friends went and raved about it the next day.

I'd have opportunities in the future - that silly tour with John Corabi, and I think even on that tour behind the God-awful Generation Swine album - but I didn't bother with either. Over time, as I began to appreciate "Too Fast For Love" and "Shout at the Devil" all the more, I regretted missing out on them.

So, when the reunion/greatest hits tour was announced, my co-worker Scott and I rushed to check out the dates -- only to learn that the closest stop on their tour would be in Philly.

Undeterred, we teamed up with my boss, Jeff, and his then-wife, Joanna (North Jersey natives who were plucked straight out of a Bon Jovi video) and planned to caravan up together Saturday afternoon.

As we were all pulling out of the driveway to Scott's house, I jokingly told Joanna to try and keep up with me, as I was leading the way.

"I get a fucking speeding ticket and you're gonna eat it," she spat at me.

I'm pretty sure that was her way of showing affection.

+++++++

Well, we made it up to Philly with no speeding tickets (and, consequently, on an empty stomach). But, of course, things still went wrong.

The concert was at the Tower Theatre - a venue I'd been to at least twice before. I more or less knew where it was, but I asked Scott to print me some directions. And that was the last I thought of it, until we ended up in Center City, and Scott told me, "Ok, it should be just over this bridge."

I looked across the bridge at the Electric Factory - a different venue all together.

Somehow, we had printed directions to the wrong fucking club.

This was pre cell phone, so I has to find some way to get the message to Jeff and Joanna that we'd fucked up - a message I'm sure that they would greet with great frustration and ire.

So, we pulled over - of all places - in front of a bus on Broad Street. It seemed as though every horn in Philadelphia was honked at us over the course of the next two minutes, while I quickly brainstormed a plan.

"Jeff, please tell you wide to stop yelling at me," I pleaded, as Jeff gave me a blank, yet expectant, stare.

"Ok, the Tower Theatre is somewhere near Market and 69th Street," I stammered. "Market Street is right there. We're just going to have to go about 69 blocks West and we'll get there."

Since no one actually knew anything about the lay of Philadelphia, they all agreed that this was a logical plan. Gulping, I jumped in the car and led them through several very rough parts of Philly. I believe we stopped at every single red light along the way.

But no one actually gave us any trouble, and I didn't really think that they would. But I still knew I was going to catch hell from the New Jersey National Guard as soon as we arrived.

((Quick aside - at one point we crossed over a particular street and Scott immediately noticed that the potholes had cleared up, and the streetlamps were working, and that there was no more garbage piled up around us.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked.

"What happened? We just left Philadelphia, Scott, that's what happened."))

We arrived at Upper Darby and had about an hour to kill, so we went into a local mini-mall and decided to grab some absolutely nasty cheesesteaks. Noticing an overwhelming police presence, I asked a local cop what was going on.

The officer eyed, me - he was about my age, but a dead serious guy. One of those angry-looking Irish-Italians that Philly is full of.

"They've got their movie opening up tonight," he said, glaring at a bunch of amped-up African-American teenagers who were lined up to see "Belly" at the local theatre. He didn't really have to say any more than that. I remembered well how screwed up race relations were in the Philadelphia area.

+++++++

The show itself was a blast. Nikki Sixx's new "find" opened up for them - a band called Laidlaw that was comically lousy and who couldn't get off the stage fast enough.

The Crue was on soon enough after that. They opened with a very strong "Dr. Feelgood", and I watched in amazement as Tommy played high hat, cowbell and snare at the same time, all while doing a stick twirl that appeared almost second nature to him - as though he had so much spare time that he was compelled to do something else with his hands while playing three other parts.

((The guy is a god of a drummer. Seriously. If you don't get that, I probably can't convince you of it. But he is, and this is fact.))

Just about everything was greatest hits that night. "Shout at the Devil", "Girls Girls Girls", "Wild Side"...you know the set. They even threw in their last great single ("Primal Scream") and their last not-completely-terrible one ("Afriad"), and they both sounded fine.

It's funny the little things you remember....I vividly remember that Tommy asked for some extra time between songs. "What Tommy, did you break something again?" Vince asked.

"Yeah, hold on," Tommy could be hear saying away from the mic.

"Yoooooooou fuckin idiot," Vince grumbled, to which everyone laughed. It seemed familiar and friendly - like two old buddies messing around.

Of course, a read through "The Dirt" reveals that things between Tommy and Vince were at an all time low at this point, with fist fights being semi-regular occurrences. Weird to recall that moment, and how wrong I was in my interpretation of it.

Very long story short, I was glad I went to this show - they were complete professionals and kept the dumb ass rock and roll shit to a minimum. focusing instead on a catalog that's pretty damn fine. Even to a self-conscious snob like me.

+++++++++

After semi-trashing them for the past several hundred words, it's probably worth noting that I met Nikki Sixx two or three years ago, when he did a book signing at the Georgetown Barnes & Noble for "The Heroin Diaries". It was a long line, and it ate up my entire night, but I did want to get a book signed as a birthday present for my little brother.

Upon finally reaching the front of the line, I mentioned this to Mr. Sixx just after he'd finished signing the book.

"Give me the book back....can I write him a note?" he offered.

Between the words "Kevin" and "Nixxi Sixx", he scrawled a quick "Happy B-Day!"

It was a kind offer, and a completely unnecessary one that held up the line a few moments longer. And it was a completely cool thing for him to do. Completely fucking cool and classy and awesome.

So, I'm sorry if I in any way trashed him or his band in this blog post. Here's a lousy photo I took of him.

((For the record, my brother never even noticed the autograph or the message. Seriously.)).

P.J. Harvey

P.J. Harvey
Originally uploaded by tonbabydc

If you've been here before, than you know that I've got a weakness for writing too much and editing too little. And, so, there's a danger that I might try and get a little too cute with this entry.

I'll try and avoid that and get straight to the point: I had no fucking business being at this show.

Of all the shows I went to in the hopes of shedding my bad taste and becoming hip, this one stands out as particularly futile.

But in my defense, this wasn't my idea. It was the brainchild of my roommate and guitar player, Greg, who offered to buy my ticket if I would drive.

(Greg, you see, had driven his cargo van into a large tree one afternoon during a mysterious episode thought to be chalked up to low blood sugar and diabetes. In addition to smashed bones and burnt skin, the cargo van had been totaled and I had to sober up for a few weeks while I carted Greg's ass around in my then-new Nissan.....a car that somehow survived my stupidest years, including that one time when I drove it into a speed limit sign on the back woods roads of upper-Montgomery County while hopped up on asthma pills and Miller Lite.

This car will be joining Greg's cargo van up in car heaven very shortly, and I can't help but to look at her during these last days and think, "Damn it, God, take me instead").

Anyway, trust me, I know that P.J. Harvey is supposed to be awesome, and I'm not saying she isn't. But it wasn't my thing then, and I'm pretty sure it's not my thing now. I certainly went in with an open mind, but truth be told I was bored as hell all night.

Those NSFW photos of her vagina, however, still have my attention. Because, like I said, I have an open mind.

I know, she'll only make you cry

Just a quick shout out to the geniuses over at Clods of Sodom for helping to out those bastards in KISS.

It kills me to still have such affection for early KISS. I can't help loving almost everything about those early albums.....the muddy made-for-vinyl mixing, the comic book artwork, the contrived high school lyrics, the aura of suburban boredom, juvenile delinquency and cheap pot that oozed out of each of those first five or six records.

...And the hooks on songs like "Strutter" and "I Stole Your Love"....to say nothing of those fucking Ace Frehley solos on "100,000 Years" and "Black Diamond" and "Nothing to Lose" and about 16 other songs.

They all paint a very vivid picture of a moment in time that I was about seven or eight years too young to have lived for myself.

Of course, it's not exactly new news that KISS blows today. And it's not news that Gene Simmons basically sees his fans as the rubes who exist solely to support his whore habit.

I just never realized the level of the contempt with which they viewed their fans.

I admit that there's a part of me that wants to withhold my sympathies for all those folks in Manchester, New Hampshire silly enough to still give KISS their money. But that's not really the point.

The point is that KISS broke their word to their fans. KISS lied to them.

And they did it underneath the shittiest of pretenses.

Fuck those Flaming Youth motherfuckers. Fuck them and their wigs and their chest hair and their cosmetic surgery and their policy of contracting founding band members as their employees. (Look it up, kids....)

Sign the petition.

Fuck KISS.

I turned around, I read the writing on the wall...

As I sit here in my bedroom, the legendary Lemmy Kilmister is a brisk three mile walk away from me, somewhere in the Shaw neighborhood of Washington, D.C..

Perhaps he's in his tour bus. Or perhaps he's backstage at the 9:30 Club. Then again, maybe he's at the side of the stage watching Rev. Horton Heat warm up the crowd.

Maybe he's doing crank. Maybe he's doing a stripper. Maybe he's drinking vodka. Maybe he's telling people about the history of 1960s Manchester garage bands.

I'll never know, because I'm up here in Cleveland Park tonight, and I won't be making it down to the 9:30 Club.

It's a shame. There aren't many bands I'm dying to see anymore. But Motorhead gets a little more special to me with each and every gray hair that sprouts from my scalp.

With their near absence of chart presence, their career of financial insolvency and their refusal to give up, Motorhead just might be the most noble band in my world. As I grow older and weaker and more apt to live in a state of compromise, Motorhead reminds me that there is nothing more poetic in life than determining what it is that you love and excel at, and doing that until you can't do it any more.

...And, yet, I will not be joining Lemmy in Shaw this evening.

Because I have to be at work early tomorrow.

Lemmy would not approve. Lemmy would tell me to shake it off, be a man, and do something for myself tonight.....forget about tomorrow for a second and indulge in what makes me happy tonight.

I would have no answer for him, except that I somehow cast myself in the role of office villian over the course of the last several weeks, and tomorrow is a very high pressure occassion when that matter needs to be rectified, if only for the day. And arriving late, exhausted, and with a large blue stamp on my hand will not help that effort in the least.

If Lemmy were here, Lemmy would ask me if I cared what these coworkers of mine think, and I would tell them that I do not. He would aks me why I pain myself to conform to their system when I'm clearly not cut out for it. He would pressure me about my misplaced values, and the early grave that I'm driving myself into in this environment of politics and peer pressure.

He would tell me that tonight *he* will help make a few hundred people happy for two hours, and tomorrow, *I* will simply make myself a little bit more miserable.

And I would have no answer for him at all.

At the end of the day, it's my stupid decision to forego seeing Motorhead as some sort of perverted penance for being an asshole in the office lately. And it was a series of stupid decisions that got me to this point at work. But here I am and there they are, and that's just how it's going to have to be.

The fact is that there's something necessary and even healthy about being called out for being a fucking prick. Because if you emerge from the humiliation intact, you may yet learn humility. And its been made clear to me that I need a dose of that right now.

This does not matter to Lemmy. In all likelihood, Lemmy knows that I'm a fucking prick, and he accepts me as such. Which makes this whole gesture seem that much more pointless.

I ain't no nice guy afterall.

Working So Hard....Working for the Company

So, the rumor mill is reporting that Charlie Watts wants to pack it up and retire from the Rolling Stones.

(Or maybe he doesn't.)

If so, I say good for him. The guy entered the band semi-reluctantly, and with the exception of a few dark years in the early-to-mid 1980’s, he was a workhorse for the band from the start. He’s at retirement age, and who am I to begrudge him of that?

No doubt, he’s had his share of haters over the years; As a drummer and a fan, I’ve endured a never-ending litany of complaints about his style – always from those who tend to know the least about the role of the rhythm section in a rock and roll band.

The fact is that while Charlie was never a technician, he was no Ringo: He was the king of rock and roll backbeat. And after laying down the mid-tempo chug of “Honky Tonk Women”, the badass intro fill on “Monkey Man” and the frantic solos on “Paint it Black” (to say nothing of the rimshot samba on “Sympathy for the Devil” - Jesus Christ was I happy when I finally saw the Godard film and learned how to play that shit), he’s got nothing to prove to anyone.

Keith Richards may have always been the soul of the Stones, but Charlie was the only one with any integrity at all….particularly in the past 15 years when Keith has been doing silly movies, mugging for the camera, flubbing his guitar solos, and generally getting his ass handed to him by Buddy Guy.

And with all of Keith’s big talk in the mid-80’s, it was not he, but Charlie who finally lost it and famously cold-cocked Mick.

(Like I said: integrity.)

Keith Richards himself has often said that Charlie *is* the Rolling Stones, and that he wouldn’t go on without him. Yet rumors persist that Steve Jordan or Charlie Drayton have already been lined up. Quite bluntly, I don’t think that anything could possibly kill and bury my love for the Stones faster than if they actually did that. (See: The Who).

Of course, there’s a better than average chance that his decision won’t hold.

In fact, RollingStones, LLC, have already issued a denial. Besides, Charlie has quit the band a countless number of times, and Mick and Keith are nothing if not persuasive. I even admit that I fantasize about Charlie coming back, the Stones giving up the stage show and the backing band and simply performing stuff like “Play with Fire” or “Ventilator Blues” on bar stools until one of the guys finally stroked out for good. I can’t imagine a more honest or graceful way for the band to exit.

That, of course, will never happen. Honesty and grace have never been the Rolling Stones' areas of expertise…which is exactly why Charlie makes for such a lovely oddity of a rock star.

Good luck, Charlie. You’re free to do what you want, any old time.

Random Thoughts on 8 Hours of Metal

Eight fucking hours in the car yesterday. Went down to West Virginia and back for the boss, who was kind enough to splurge for a rental car with XM Satellite Radio.

Despite being something of a nerdbomb evangelist for this technology back in 2001, I've only had a handful of experiences with satellite radio. This road trip would be a chance to change all that.

I admit that I lost probably a good hour flipping around various sports, talk and news stations, but my arrival at the back-to-back bacchanal of Hair Nation and Liquid Metal somewhere east of Front Royal would prove to be exactly what I needed after absent-mindedly hovering over an all-Springsteen channel for the better part of 15 minutes.

The experience was sublime. The following are a series of thoughts that passed through my head on my journey, including observations on metal as well as other random music generes I took in on the drive:

- If there's a better metal band than In Flames, I'm not even sure I want to know about it.

- I have no explanation for why I keep telling myself that I like Pantara. I'm pretty sure I just like that one song.

- Did Little Steven just say that was Dolly Parton sounding all 1960's NYC girl band?!?!? Dammit, I already forgot how it went. Fuck.

- An all Greatful Dead channel????? Ooof. There but for the grace of God go I....

- "All Nightmare Long" is the first Metallica song that I haven't found overwhelingly disappointing since.....oh, jesus, this is depressing. ...Since "Fuel"??? [EPILOGUE: Good thing I missed the first two minutes of this song or I never would have made it to the good part. I take it all back. Metallica disappoints once again. Why do I have to love your band so much more than you do, James?].

- The Troggs might be the worst band to come out of the 60's. Period.

- I could have gone the rest of my life never hearing "You're Invited But Your Friend Can't Come" ever again, and that would have been just fine. (Actual thought process as the song came on: "Jesus, what the hell is this? This just might be the worst fucking Crue song ever. What album was thi.....oh, right, right. Now I remember. Jeez, Vince.")

- Those guys in Lamb of God sure sound tough.

- Ok, Bruce, we get it: you're awesome live. Wrap the damn song up already.

- "Up All Night (Sleep All Day)" might have the most tard-tastic verse and chorus this side of Aerosmith, but that pre-chorus at the 1:00 mark is everything anyone ever needed out of a hair band.

- Is someone actually requesting all this Whitesnake and Deep Purple?? Good grief...

- Corrosion of Conformity - Clean My Wounds: HOLYFUCKINGSHIT! I FORGOT ALL ABOUT THIS SONG!! I MAY HAVE TO PULL THIS CAR OVER AND RAGE ALL OVER ROUTE 81!!!! YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH!!!!!

- Maybe I never gave Papa Roach or Slipknot a fair shake. Ah, whatever. Fuck 'em.

- Those poor bastards in Cinderella were actually really talented. Whoever was dressing them probably deserves to be shot.

- Whatever happened to Grandmaster Flash, anyway?