The THIRD Worst Band of All Time

Two brothers.  Eight good friends.  Three ex-girlfriends.  The entire Steve's Pizza crew from 1995.  My entire graduating class of 1994.  My first boss.  My third boss.  My fourteen-thru-twenty-year-old self.  This is what I risk alienating by posting this.  But I can no longer remain silent: Nirvana, you fuckin lick it like you're afraid it's gonna melt.

Now before a bunch of you yahoos stuck in the 90s start posting your bullshit comments or sending me retarded emails accusing me of hating 90s bands, or grunge bands/Seattle bands - stop.  Just stop.  You couldn't be more wrong.  There are Seattle bands I still listen to today.  Further, I will reiterate an argument I've made since Kurt Cobain's head still consisted of a single piece: Nirvana is not a grunge band.  Absolutely NOT. 

Nirvana was a punk band that broke through at the same time grunge bands were breaking through.  To further complicate matters, they broke through at the absolute epicenter of Grunge Kingdom (Seattle).  Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam?  Five-star grunge acts, no doubt about it.  But Nirvana was something different.

Both the punk and the grunge movements came about at times when the pendulum that is the public tastes begin to change direction; think of it as a form of musical revolution.  We saw this in the 1970s and we saw it again in the early 90s: acts like Soundgarden were every bit a reaction against the 80s hair bands as the Ramones were a reaction against leftover hippies, prog rock, and disco.  Both types of music were reactions, in that sense, and thus similar.

But the music itself is dramatically different, and here's how I would explain it if I had to: grunge music in its purest form completely eschews pop sensibilities, whereas punk music maintains pop sensibilities at all costs.  In other words, nothing is off the table where grunge music is concerned: odd time signatures, chord progressions that don't make sense, off-putting harmonies, uncomfortable tempos, awkward-sounding key changes, and unusual song structures are the tip of the iceberg.  Are you noticing that grunge music has, at least on paper, the capacity to be very complicated?  Good.

Punk music, on the other hand, is dramatically different.  To say punk music is pop music played on loud, heavy guitars with a screaming vocalist would be an oversimplification, yes, but certainly not much of one. Traditional Western melodies are rigidly observed.  Traditional chord progressions - albeit short ones - observed.  Traditional song structure - observed.  It's meant to be loud, fast, and full of energy - but also to observe traditional rules of pop music.

Now, based on this knowledge I just dropped on yo' ass, how would you categorize, say, Soundgarden?  Grunge!  Good.  Now - Alice in Chains?  Grunge!  That's good.  Now - Nirvana?

That's right.  Nirvana is a punk band, through and through.  Sorry for the departure, but it's important to get that out of the way.  Anyone who calls Nirvana a grunge band doesn't know what the F they're talking about.

Now, why does this matter?  Because Nirvana was not a good grunge band, and - as it turns out - they were a pretty shitty punk band as well.  What's that?  Oh, I'm so glad you asked.

What are the elements we love in our punk acts? Recklessness. Attitude. Disregard for human safety. Lack of interest. Staying hidden. Does any of the sound like Nirvana to you?  No.  (Well, up until the point where what's-his-balls decided to see if he could fit his big toe into a trigger guard, anyway.)  Nirvana may have attempted to appear indifferent but to anyone alive and observing it all unfold...they were media whores.  Besides, Cobain named his baby Francis Bean.  You wanna know what Sid Vicious would have named his kid?  Middle Finger Vicious.  You know what I think of that?  So awesome I could puke, that's what.

How unfortunate for Great Britain - all they got was Sid & Nancy.

This half-talented bastard blew up so big, so fast, and then selfishly blew his worthless head off that he was propelled to sheer and utter stardom the likes of which the world has rarely seen; we certainly haven't seen it since.  We've seen our share of dead celebrities, sure, but nothing like Kurt.  This begs the question: why? 

Did anyone declare a national disaster when the Ramones started dying off? Did half the world stay grief-stricken for weeks when Joe Strummer or Sid Vicous died? Nope. So why did we care so much when Kurt rode forever out of town on the Double-Barrel Express? Simple - he forced us to care. He forced us to care and then ditched out on us. He showed up wearing ballroom gowns and quirky sunglasses and alternashirts and shoved his face in front of the camera at every given chance because he wanted us to love him. He's basically Barney from How I Met Your Mother.  Only instead of slipping out of the apartment while you're showering, he wrapped his lips around the barrel of a gun and turned his skull into a pretty clever impression of Humpty Dumpty.  So the Barney analogy completely works.

Here's a way you can convince yourself that I'm right - ask yourself this: was it Kurt we fell in love with, or was it his music? Wait - back up.  Could we even understand his lyrics, let alone any message that might have been in there? Think about POLLY. Is there ANY musical value there whatsoever?  What about IN BLOOM?  I was bored before that song even ended...the first time I heard it.  I would maintain that the world loved Kurt, and the music was secondary. And we loved him because he wanted us to.

Thanks asshole - hey I think I hear the sound of a gun barrel that needs tasting.

All this pales in comparison to my biggest complaint about this band of dirtbags: Nirvana did nearly-irreparable harm to the world of music, namely: musicianship.  Sure, some listeners simply prefer the simpler songs: verse, chorus, verse, chorus, hold the guitar solo please! ...maybe a bridge and an end or final chorus.  However, Kurt Cobain is singlehandedly responsible for the guitar solo - as we had come to know it - being completely outlawed.

Sure, he did his little doodlings once in a great while where he'd play the same two completely distorted notes over and over, or maybe he'd play the melody that he'd just finished singing when verse two ended, but I prefer to think of them as "sonic breaks" instead of guitar solos. 

And what happened?  What happened when he took a lead money shot and checked out forever?  As established, he was propelled to near-Elvis status.  This is a guy who couldn't play guitar if you held a gun to his head (ha ha, get it?  Kurt + gun jokes still aren't getting old, I'm kinda surprised, it being this late in the post) being hailed as a great musician upon his death.  As such, every single non-made player in the world had to doubt his entire arsenal of chops at this point.  Even worse, all those chumps who lacked the discipline to develop the chops required to become a professional musician were suddenly given not only a template for a writing style but also some coattails to ride and the confidence they'd need to pull it off! 

Subsequently, our local music stores were suddenly filled with idiots chugging away on drop-D guitars rather than a bunch of idiots trying to re-create "Spanish Fly" (and in most cases failing, but still).  I know guys - GOOD players - who were suddenly afraid to play any lead work!  All because one of one idiot!  This leads to some speculation: many of those players who truly loved the instrument for what it was were put into the position where they felt they needed to dumb down their playing.

To this day, the world of guitar playing has yet to fully recover from the damage done by Cobain. Sure, guitar solos are being revived, slowly but surely, but they're still not the same.  Are you the kind of discriminating idiot who requires supporting evidence for every point I make?  If so (if so, you probably shouldn't be reading my blog, it'll give you heartburn...go somewhere where the research comes from somewhere other than their own memory banks), luckily, I have an example for you.  Here we are, the Year of Our Lord 2012, about twenty years after the death of this yo-yo.  Go check out the "guitar solo" on "Slo-Mo-Tion" off the new Manson album (Born Villian).  I even wrote down what time it starts, in case you're like me and you hate that song: three minutes, fifteen seconds.  You're welcome.

Have we had any mainstream guitar gods borne unto us lately?  Any guys like Slash or Mick Mars who become household names due solely to their guitar work?  No?  That's too bad.  Well, you can thank this idiot for that.

I could further speculate on how the near-extinction of guitar leads in music left your typical rock-n-roll song structure with a gaping hole (for example - like the hole in Kurt's head) - a hole which the idiots that came in directly after Cobain tried to fill...with hip hop (Korn, Limp Bizkit, Papa Roach, Linkin Park), but nah.  I'm sure you guys made that connection already yourselves.

I'm outta here.  Hope you liked it, or more accurately - I honestly don't give a shit.  I had a rotten time writing it and thinking about all this bullshit.

Piss off forever,

D. Hayabusa

 

Meet the Homos

I'm pleased to announce that - since I was never contacted by a representative from the gay community at all in spite of my request from March of this year - I'm going to consider the word "homo" commandeered for safe, appropriate usage between me and my cats. 

With that in mind - I'd like to introduce the world to My Furry Homos.

Squirrel

aka "Squirellybob"

aka "Squirrel E. Bob"

aka "Bob"

aka "Bobert"

aka "Bobert Bobbington"

aka "Bobcat"

aka "Batman"

aka "Batcat"

aka "Weirdly McChat"

aka "Weirdo Machine"

aka "Darren Dinglethorpe"

This cat is - for lack of a better expression - a Titan of Industry (the industry I'm referring to is "being a cat"). When we first met, he was a young alley cat who routinely fought groups of raccoons and went from house to house saying what's up to people and whatnot. Now he's older, settled down, and much more refined; now he prefers to think of himself as a Cat Food Mogul rather than an alleycat beggar (though he'd certainly never turn his Cat Nose up at a treat from my garbage can...or your garbage can).

True story: at one point during his days as an alley cat, back when he would go from house to house, he disappeared. He quit coming around. After a day I started getting these visions of him in jail. Eventually I started calling our local animal control facilities. Sure enough: his "owner" (some horrible pig of a woman named Jillian Fitz-something) had gotten tired of caring for him and took him to the pound and asked them to put him down. Whore! Anyways, I adopted him and sprung him from the Cat Penitentiary. Unfortunately, they wouldn't release him without neutering him...which meant that my plan to use him to father an army of black and white cats would have to be revised.

Pros: One of two cats capable of displaying even an ounce of intelligence over instinct.

Cons: Excessively hairy. Constantly shedding. Won't shut the fuck up if you have food...or at any other time. Thinks he's too good for the litterbox and sometimes takes a dump just outside the box. Will sneak outside in a heartbeat. Won't stay off the goddamn kitchen counters even under threat of torture. Prefers toilet water over his water bowl. Born with a rare birth defect that's caused 90% of his teeth to come out. Rips furniture, blankets, and clothing to shreds. Terrible breath.

How to tell him apart from the others: facial coloring resembles Batman's mask after the Bane fight.

We made Weez wear his Bane mask, put on the Dark Knight Rises trailer, and tried to get them to fight.  Didn't work out.

Malvo

aka "Malvo the Wonder Kitty"

aka "Malverz"

aka "Vo"

aka "Dr. Vo"

aka "Malvobuns"

aka "Starfish Twinkletoes"

aka "John Malvo"

aka "Derek Dongenheimer"

This is the kind of cat that can make an instant dog lover out of a person. I picked him up so Squirrel would have a friend to play with during the day...ot at least that's what I tell people if they inquire as to whether or not I'm raising an army. I remember it well: the girl from the rescue organization told me she'd stop by my place around dinnertime, so I spent the whole day telling Squirrel about his big, bad brother who just got paroled...like trying to scare him (remember this is back when I thought he listened to me). When Little Malvo finally arrived, he was no bigger than a hamster. I held him out in the palm of my hand to Squirrel and said "Hey...meet your new little brother, Squi-" ...before I knew it, Squirrel had lifted his paw up and smacked Malvo out of my hand. Their relationship hasn't changed at all.

You could state the Malvo is pure instinct over intelligence, but after six years or so I would argue that comment implies there IS some sort of intelligence, and is thus incorrect. He's grown into a sweet cat, sure, but trust me: there is no one home upstairs if you get my drift. This cat is all about eating, chasing, and attacking. That's it. Well, that and damaging my property.

One good thing about Malvo - when I come across evidence that one of these Furry Idiots has been tightroping across the top of our wall-mounted television, I don't exactly have to set up a Nannycam to find out which one's been doing it.

Pros: Sheds less certain other Fur Idiots and has the most normal toilet habits. Takes the creepiest pictures.

Cons: Howls like a demon monkey at night. Smelliest bowel movements. Falls a lot. Constantly starts fights with his Fur Siblings. Scared of everything. Will often destroy the entire living room chasing a bug or shadow.

How to tell him apart from the others: facial coloring (if the Hitler moustache isn't a dead giveaway, he's the only cat sporting a goatee).

Inspector Tequila

 aka "Inspector T"

aka "Weasel"

aka "Weez"

aka "Weezer"

aka "Weazy-peazy"

aka "Weaselman"

aka "Denny Dickmouth"

Oh boy. Anybody wondering what could have possessed me at this point to want to adopt a THIRD furry idiot gets a ninja high five: you're absolutely correct to be critical, it was the shittiest decision I've ever made...and I once leased a car. This furry nightmare began his life in the custody of my veteranarian-esque cousin, Marydroid. Weighing in at just under twelve pounds, he's the runtiest cat I own, but an interesting factoid is that he's not actually the runt of his own litter. That distinction went to his brother, who was born so retarded they actually named him Forrest and ultimately had to put him down three weeks later. Basic Life would have defeated him.

I named him Inspector Tequila but, after a few weeks, I'd begun calling him Weasel pretty much exclusively. That's how much of a fuckin weasel this cat is: I have an opportunity to call him by the most badass name there is (thereby increasing my own badass stock a little every time the words came out of my mouth) and instead...well, let me put it to you this way: I could tiptoe up behind him right now and say INSPECTOR TEQUILA and he'd have no fuckin clue what I was saying. But WEASEL? Oh, he'd turn right around.

Behaviorally, he's probably the worst cat we have. Unfortunately, he's also the cuddliest, and he's learned the advantages of keeping Amydroid on his side. So, sure enough, every time I get pissed enough to start eyeing my pond and wondering how one goes about tying a rock around a cat's neck such that he couldn't wriggle free, this furry anus will be rubbing on Amydroid's leg until I hear the Phrase of Defeat: "Well...I guess we didn't really NEED that (broken object)." This cat is going to outlive them all...and probably me as well.

See that nice, peaceful lamp in the background of this nice, peaceful picture?

BOOM!  Y'all humans just got CATIFIED!

Pros: Not completely retarded like Malvo. Rarely sheds any fur at all.

Cons: Pure engine of dark destruction as fueled by Lucifer himself. No concept of boundaries or order. Hands-down worst, most goddamn fucking annoying toilet habits you can imagine (just broke a $200 automatic litterbox, thanks Weez!). Can somehow sharpen his claws far beyond the normal talons the rest of them develop and into something so deadly I'm not convinced I don't legally need to register them with authorities. Won't stay off the kitchen counters.

How to tell him apart from the others: facial coloring (L-shaped white spot across face).

Bizkit

 aka "Bizzy"

aka "Bizzy B"

aka "Bizzy Buns"

aka "the Biz"

aka "Captain"

aka "Miss Thang"

aka "Little Mama"

aka "Furtorious B.I.Z."

Finally we arrive at the gorgeous Bizzy B. Biz is far older than the rest of our army and the reasoning is simple: Amydroid made the worst choice of her life (to adopt a cat) years & years before I made the worst choice of my own. The Biz is easily the most well-behaved cat in the Fur Arsenal, though to be fair, I attribute this to the lower energy levels that come around when a person (or the equivalent) hits ninety (or the equivalent). That certainly isn't intended to imply she's some sort of angel, because she isn't - none of them are. But, she's very intelligent, she can be cuddly, and when it comes to destroying big-ticket items within my household, she's got a record that was completely spotless up until about six weeks ago when she participated in the complete destruction of the lamp that Amydroid grew up with. Furry whore!

Bizkit has a great sense of boundaries, and I know if she ever escaped from the Hayabusa Stronghold, she wouldn't wander far (whereas the others would end up in Canada). She's also the most adept at not getting caught sneaking into and out of areas in the house that are verboten to the furry.

Pros: Makes my wife happy.  Displays the most intelligence over instinct.  A sweet girl who is generally well-behaved...for the most part.  As far as I know.

Cons: Constantly leaking shit out of her left eye.  Exceptionally sneaky.  Thinks she's a fuckin martyr.  Fakes injuries.  Can't stop pacing prior to feeding time, to the point where the other cats attack her.  Constantly licks your hands and - if you have a fingernail at all - will use available fingernails to floss her teeth or clean her gumline.  Constantly vomits all over everything (and when she does?  Eighteen inch tiles all over our place and she ALWAYS manages to hit a fuckin grout line).  Too daintly to set foot in the litterbox (she does a balancing act on the rim that makes it sound like fuckin boulders are falling into the litter). 

Post a pic of a female cat taking a dump - CHECK!  One more item ticked off the Bucket List.

How to tell her apart from the others: Coloring; she's the only one who never resembles an anorexic panda bear.
 ___

Hope you've enjoyed today's journey through the menagerie that is our home.  Always remember - one cat is enough.

D.H.

Album Review (Five Words or Less) - BORN VILLAIN

Verdict: ONE-DIMENSIONAL

There was a time when this idiot was able to – somehow – transcend time and space and produce music with all the meaning and depth of vintage Pink Floyd. Somehow. Again, I don’t understand it in the least, but I still remember the first time I ever heard “The Speed of Pain” (Mechanical Animals); I think I listened to it twenty times that same night. I remember when the next album dropped (Holy Wood), I remember thinking: “There is no way this dude is going to top Mechanical Animals.” Guess what! I was wrong. Nineteen of some of the most rocking, energetic, well-produced tracks I’d heard up until then. Plus – he tapped into that same “Speed of Pain” vibe with “In the Shadow of the Valley of Death!” I remember watching many sunrises from the roof of my apartment listening to the end of that song: “Death here is policeman/death it is the priest/death it is the stereo/death it is the TV…” *chills*

If I were reviewing Holy Wood right now, the summary would be: “EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS.”

Unfortunately for everyone, I’m not: I’m reviewing Born Villain.

I can’t really draw you a line between the two albums because I have no idea how many Manson albums connect the two. You see, as much as I dug the guy at one time, we did eventually encounter some irreconcilable differences – namely, Golden Age of Grotesque, the follow-up album to Holy Wood. Good God in heaven, did Golden Age stink on ice or what? You know how you do that thing when you buy an album that should rule but you immediately recognize that it sucks donkey but you just refuse to believe it? You’re like “the problem must be ME…maybe if I keep listening to it. Maybe if I try it again tomorrow.” Nope. Just like Apollo Creed said to Rocky – there is no tomorrow. That album sucked so bad I quit listening to the guy or paying attention in general.

I don’t know what possessed me to buy Born Villain. Maybe I was trying to recapture my youth. Maybe I was simply curious. Maybe it was on sale for $5 in the Amazon MP3 store. In any event, for better or worse, I bought it.

First off – there is zero depth here. Remember when Metallica squatted over the Collective Ears of the World and squeezed out the black album when we were all expecting something dynamic and exciting, as we’d become accustomed to from them? Kind of the same thing here. These aging Gothsters (Manson, Reznor) have always been exceptionally talented at pushing the musical envelope from several perspectives; one of my favorite aspects about their music was their skill in manipulating the sounds themselves: working with layers, developing new sounds, etc.

You don’t get a lot of that here. For the majority of the album, you get a few varied drum sounds (heavy, electronic), a fairly heavy bass sound, and a heavy guitar. That’s it.

Absent also is Manson’s typical respect for the art of crafting lyrics. In the past, this guy could fill entire songs with dramatic, interesting, engaging imagery; he could write a song with four verses and never repeat himself if he chose. Not so much anymore. Here verses are crafted with a single line repeated ad nauseum (“I wanna have your ache/and beat ya too,” – “Pistolwhipped,” or “You don’t even wanna know what I’m going to do to you,” – “No Reflection”). Methinks Manson’s muse has been asleep on the job.

Another thing I miss? Manson not being intentionally stupid. Seriously, this is something that calls back to the aforementioned Grotesque turd salad; the whole “I am an artist” thing he started fisting down our ears back then. It’s one thing to try and challenge your listener; quite another to simply show up and do spoken word like how I imagine the gimp from Pulp Fiction or Machine from 8mm would sound. Check out “The Gardener” or the intro to “Overneath the Path of Misery.” Or, better still, don’t.

Ninja's Note: To all Aging Gothsters – no one likes it when you opt to talk over a track rather than sing. I know you’re getting older now and it’s nice to produce a song or two that will – if strategically positioned in your set list – will give your tired, old, worn-out vocal cords a break. But trying to talk over music? Dumb. We’d prefer instrumentals.

There are some interesting moments here. “Hey, Cruel World” is a passable song. “No Reflection” stands out as the album’s best track. “Born Villain” is interesting in a good way. I don’t immediately forward through the “You’re So Vain” cover, though it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the tracks or the overall vibe of the album. All in all, however, one would have to categorize this album as under-inspired at best. 

KISS BALLS, Manson.  You're not pushing yourself.  You know what happens then?  I'll let me readers fill in the blanks.  (...but it ain't good.)