Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Union: The Business Behind Getting High
Monday, November 15, 2010
Listen To The Entire New Agalloch Album! Without Breaking The Law!!!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Quick Thing
Thursday, November 11, 2010
New Animals As Leaders Video
Monday, November 8, 2010
Band of the Day - The Ocean Collective
Track pick: All of the album Precambrian...yes...all of it.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Finally, PVP from SWTOR
I have been super excited about this game for a long time and now that actual gameplay details are starting to emerge, I am only getting more excited. We will be covering this game pretty extensively as time goes on, so keep checking back for more info
chapter 1
Matrim
Somehow fall in this land had no vibrancy to it; the wind carried with it the scent of rotting leaves and a chill that cut straight to the bone. Matrim Urthwride longed for home, a fire; crackling merrily in the hearth; casting a bubble of warmth throughout the small room. Scents of fresh bread and long roasting meats, marinated days before in baths of rosemary, olive oil, cilantro and other spices and seasonings Matrim would rather have not recalled. He huddled his shoulders closer under his heavy cloak, tugging with his free hand, at the cloak that flapped and waved in the wind; snapping and popping under the strength of a particularly strong gust. His other hand clutched the worn leather of his mare’s reigns.
“Even walls would be a relief,” He complained aloud, “Uncle!” He raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the wind, “How much farther until you decide this is folly and turn back!?”
His uncle was a thin, austere fellow; more inclined to grimaces than to smiles. His cloak, a thick black sable lined with what could have been a packs worth of winter fox fur. He turned to face Matrim, his cold blue-grey eyes always made him feel uncertain, “Wha?! What in saving my brothers ungrateful bastard is folly?” He reined his horse in, halting the six mounts progression up the narrow mountain road, “Pray tell, dear nephew.”
Matrims’ cheeks flushed, there was something in the way his uncle said the word nephew that built an anger in him, “Uncle, have you forgotten your own blood? Is it not just as tainted as mine? Or are you no longer an Urthwride!” It was true; his uncle shared his tragic fate, being a child of a father’s lust and the old word for fatherless hung heavy in the air. It was the bastards’ way, taking the name Urthwride to forever announce, at least in his father’s lands, as a creature of deceit, distrusts and sin.
This time it was his uncles turn to redden, “Have you forgotten?!” His uncle was renowned for his temper and his roaring voice echoed off the close walls of the canyon to surround Matrim, “It was I who plucked you from that small cottage you called a home. I, who, when learning of your father’s new wife’s plans; found you with all haste to hide you! If it were not for me, you’d be in chains in her dungeon, either headed for an execution, the deep mines or a slavers oar deck! And you dare ask me if I am Urthwride?! You dishonor the brave and true Knights around you; who threw aside lands and honors far greater than riding with a bastard prince!”
For a long while the only sounds were the whistle of the wind, the crunch of shifting hoof, and the cling and rattle of arms and armor. “Uncle Daevon,” Matrim’s voice broke the uneasy stillness, “I… I… I umm…. Well, I’m sorry.” He looked away from his uncle and those cold eyes, feeling his gaze despite his best efforts to ignore it.
He thought again of home, but this time of the mother he’d left behind. She’d been kind and warm to everyone. Never bitter that her son, born from the seed of one of the twelve kings and the womb of a peasant would never rise above the lowliest. She wasn’t much like her son; she was short, diminutive and soft spoken; and that made Matrim miss her all the more.
He had her hair, that much could be said, a coal black that shone under direct light that was a stark contrast to his father’s pale blond ringlets that curled and bobbed in humid weather. Matrim had always been glad of his own hair, although now the wispy, thin strands flew and tangled in the rushing wind.
“That’s a fine start, boy,” He uncle smiled and started his mount back up the winding road with a kick of his heels, “But you’ll have to do better than that if you’re hoping to win an ally here.”
Two of the knights chuckled as they passed him, their arms and armor still made Matrim giddy, like he had been whisked away into one of the stories, filled with heroes and grand adventures in the company of fierce warriors and courageous men as well as his noble uncle. Yet, however excited he was, he couldn’t quite get any of the men to speak with him. He knew all four by name now; Baearn, Muuldrich, Ferrion and Thed; even so as of as of yet they had referred to him only as, if they spoke at all, bastard or Urthwride, neither of which made Matrim feel welcome among them at the evening cook fire.
Each night a different knight would tell a tail from his past to help pass the time between cooking, eating and sleeping. Matrim was shocked when Baearn, a short stocky man more knotted with sinew and muscle than anyone of his stature had any right to be, laid out a raucous tail of debauchery and gore. Seemingly blending sin and honor, lust and gore; in a single story about a night spent in Ein’ Ur’ Lain the largest city this side of the Aelemon deserts.
“So, I pulled me axe free with a savage effort, spraying the common room with Ser Andrehw Talbaryl’s life blood and virtually soaking the Eurinsi carpet he’d stood on before I slew him,” Baearn’s barking heavy laughter echoed in the narrowness of the gorge before he quaffed that last of his ale, “The whores all begged me to drop trousers right then and there to accept their gratitude.,” this time the short knight didn’t laugh alone, as most of the knights congratulated him on his gallantry at his uncle chuckled at the bluntness that was Baearn’s charm. Matrim felt alone in his silence, murder wasn’t funny and begging whores he found to be too easy of game to include in a real jest. He decided the knights in the tails were much better than any of the real ones, at least the few he’d met.
Morning of the next day brought with it a thin layer of frost that clung to the blades of high mountain grass as well as the scraggle on the knights and in his uncles close trimmed beard. The night before had been too cold for Matrim’s liking, and this morning was little better. The sun brought with it little warmth this high in the peaks, Ferrion told him as he worked to pack away the camp.
“Something about the thinness of the air, warmth just slides right out of it.” Ferrion had a habit about talking about everything like he knew it, and more often than not; no one argued with him. Matrim hadn’t yet decided if this was because of the man’s size, or the size and suddenness with which his anger took him; but he had decided it was better to wonder than to find out.
They ate little each morning; Daevon woke them early and pushed them hard for the pass. No one asked and it seemed no one was certain but it felt to Matrim like they raced, but whether it was the snow or pursuers they hoped to outrun he didn’t know. He knew the look in his Uncle’s eyes that meant no questions, not now, not until we reach Castle Ulmarr and make it though the pass, so Matrim held his tongue in cheek and kept quite.
By the morning of the fourth day Matrim was saddle sore and tired. Even his mare, Pearl, an old plow horse seemed to put her hooves down faster and pick them up slower. The day’s journeys grew more and more silent; sometimes the only sound Matrim would hear all day was the whicker of the horses and the steady clip clop of their hooves on the hard packed earth. By night of the sixth day, it was all he could to stay alert and mounted. More than once he felt his eyes drifting closed and had to shake his head to keep from sleeps ever beckoning embrace.
His mind wandered, retelling old stories, marveling at the road; a track barley wide enough for Pearl; carved from the granite of the mountain. How the ancient Ulmarr family had managed to reach the pass, much less build the castle that now stood watch there, was still a closely guarded secret. Matrim could’ve cared less. The grey lifelessness that surrounded him weighed on his soul; a soul used to the rolling green hills and farms far below on the banks of the Great Vuldrate River. He urned for his mother, who’s voice he heard on the wind, for an embrace to warm him, or for a dozen of her biscuits fresh from the oven drowning amid honey’s and jams. He wanted to turn Pearl around, put his heels to horseflesh and fly down the winding road to his mothers farm, but something in the way his uncle looked at him each morning and evening made him regret thinking so.
The day his uncle had come for him, Matrim had been at work in the fields, plowing with Pearl to break up the earth and soften the field before winter. When five men had ridden past the windmill, four of which were armed, Matrim had left Pearl lashed to the plow and rushed back to the cottage he and his mother shared. He arrived as the men did, and rushed passed them into the house as they dismounted. Having never met his uncle before, Matrim was wary, warning his mother of the strangers as he fought to regain his breath.
When she smiled at him, placing a hand on his shoulder, he knew something was amiss. She’d never smiled like THAT for a stranger. She walked past him, leaving behind a bubbling and hissing stew pot, her fingers lingering on his shoulder longer than was normal. He realized that he was trembling when she removed her hand to open the door.
“Murriam?” The voice was hesitant in the assumption, but firm and deep in sound.
“Daevon?”
“Hurry, send your boy for a horse!”
“Bu-“ His mother began before catching and holding his uncles cool gaze. “Mat!” she was shouting even though he stood at her side, “Saddle Pearl, and be quick about it!” He squeezed past her and through the door, mouth open and eyes staring at the armored behemoths that stood outside.
One, he would latter learn to be Muuldrich snorted back laughter, “So this is the prince…looks more like a country lout.” Matrim shot him a glance and descended the short hill to the field at a brusque pace straining to hear the whispered conversation between his mother and uncle; “We must away. The scribe, if he truly had the gift, wrote it so. The new lady Axthelm will hunt him to the ends of the earth to prevent it.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes. You’re son will be-“
Pearls impatient whicker drowned out the conversation and Matrim set to work freeing her from the plow with cold and clumsy hands. Finally, he led her to the tack shed for a saddle. By the time he’d saddled the mare a silence had fallen over the farm, even the Great Vuldrate was becalmed for once. His mother avoided meeting his eye as he pulled Pearl up the hillock to join the circle.
“Mat. This man is your uncle, and…well, he’s come for you and that’s that.” He could see tear streaked cheeks hidden behind coal black hair, and he hated his uncle for it.
“There’s no time to explain, boy, asides from saying sit your horse well and do try to keep up.” The blonde man with piercing eyes and few gestures he assumed was his uncle, pulled his horse around in a tight circle, putting his heels to its flank as he did so. The four knights followed suit, razing a tail of dust as they raced down the lonely farm road.
Matrim put a food in the stirrup, searching his mothers face for a clue, or even her eyes. Pearl was following the other horses before Matrim was fully ahorse. The wind whistled in his hair and ears, carrying away with it whatever his mother had said as her farewell.
It was well past sun down when Matrim gave up on looking back.
His uncle explained to him the jist of everything after they had resumed their riding the next morn. “So, you are a bastard, yes. But you have a kings blood in your veins, and that worries the new lady Axthelm. You have a line to the Axthelm throne, and could threaten her children’s claims, if that frigid woman has enough warmth in her to carry one into this world alive,” his uncle concluded with a bark of laughter that startled Pearl into a canter.
It had been a full week since that first meeting, and still Daemon pushed them. Snow had come with the evening, laying a thin blanket across the land around them and sticking to the few crags of rock that rose above them. Every breath filled Matrim’s chest with ice, and the air around them was thick with the steam of exhaled vapor.
“We must make Castle Ulmarr by nightfall. Should another storm bring snow with it we’re likely to be trapped, with no way forward or back,” His uncles eyes had lost a little of the energy that made them piercing, and his voice was thick with worry and strain.
So, the small party pushed hard. The horses glistened with perspiration despite the mountains chilly air. Clouds, dark and angry hung low over head, draped across the high peaks, whisps tearing off every now and again to obscure the narrow road ahead and behind. By mid day fine flacks of snow drifted lazily down on them, catching in their hair and sticking to their horses manes before losing shape and slowly, melting and dripping down.
They moved as fast as they dare, the granite was slick with snow and the ever present wind ripped and tore at the exposed flesh cutting away any warmth movement provided. Matrim had seen the effects of the mountain blizzards from the farm in the valley, the mountains would stand one day, grey and ominous, and then the clouds would cover them, hide them, and when they finally drifted away the grey mounds were gone, replaced instead by towering pristine white peaks that would last through the year until spring. He’d never have guessed how cold and supremely loud it was to travel through.
By mid afternoon, or as near as he could guess in the swirling white, his hair was frozen and his face burned. He held the reigns in one aching, frozen hand, and held his cloak closed and across his face with the other. The knights, having removed their armor; now too cold to even touch, trudged on beside him silently, looking like ghastly abominations of snow and man in their frozen leathers and furs. Even Thed, whose face was often lit with a smile none could explain frowned under his frozen mass of strawberry colored hair, his cheeks red, his large, hooked and crooked nose bedecked in frozen snot and melted snow.
His uncle seemed to be the only man unaffected by the cold. He rode head down, at the front of the pack; his cloak swirling and dancing in the heavy and constant wind, always a head of them. When he did raise his head his eyes matched the cold air, and he would smile, and Matrim found relief in that.
Suddenly his Uncle put his heels into his horse, vaulting ahead on the road, stopping just as he reached the crest of another switchback. He turned his horse to face them, eyes lightly falling on all in the party before resting firmly on Matrim. As Matrim crested the hill his jaw fell slowly open, before him rose twin peaks, one to either side, forming a head mountain vale, floored by an open spaced meadow now feet deep in snow. Nestled against the northern most peak stood a stone structure larger than anything he’d seen before. The walls facing them were plastered with snow, thrown at them by powerful winds, but the flickering of torches on the battlements and the winking yellow lights in the keep radiated warmth and safety.
His uncle raised his hand in a wind and grand gesture that didn’t fit his person, “The High Pass and Castle Ulmarr. We may not be out of the cold yet, but you can taste the heat from here.”
Matrim came to the conclusion that, despite himself, he liked his uncle a lot more than he had dared to hope. He just hoped Castle Ulmarr was as warm as promised.
The travelers put heel to horseflesh and trudged through the deep snow of the meadow towards the front gate, calling to the men on the wall to open up.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Mourning The Failure In California
We go to work everyday.
We've thought about life more than you can understand.
We've values that you overlook.
We are the ones who hold your hair while your poison ejects itself.
We are the ones who can talk to the cop, since you can't even stand.
We are prosecuted by those who are jealous of our zeal.
We don't need help or your opinion, or that new fancy liver.
We are understanding, compassionate and forgiving. If the laws changed tomorrow, we would not hold spite for all the years or harassment.
We are joyous, happy and outgoing. Not only do we love the greatness we have found in life, but feel compelled to share it with you as well.
We are dependable, chivalrous and loyal. We don't smoke to much pot and accidentally screw our best friends girlfriend.
We are accepting, trusting and doubtless. Ethnicity? Race? Social status? Don't worry about all that, sit down and have a toke with us.
W will not give up. We will survive your trials. We will endure your lies. And sooner or later, we will win.
We are all together. We all accept each other. We are all one.
We are Stoner."
Amen.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Prologue
No man alive that day had ever before witnessed a rain so complete and earth drenching. The sky had been dark and brooding throughout the siege, forcing the already grim faces of the defenders on the wall into grimaces of hopelessness. Veterans knew what it meant; when, on the third day, the sky opened and let loose a torrential down poor; today would be the day.
Uurrusk had fought long and hard for his pay. A simple soldier since his twentieth birthday, Uurrusk had seen his fair share of death; the quite lifeless faces almost serene in their final rest and those who hadn’t been so lucky; their faces wide, eyes opened as if unwilling to accept that death had come for them so swiftly and unannounced.
Warhorns sounded in the attackers’ camp, and, as if of a single mind, the hulking wooden towers groaned as they started forward towards the wall. Uurrusk checked his sword, a rusted battered piece of steel with more than a few nicks and notches in its blade. It had seen him through situations far more dire, through the White Sand of Aealemon, a battle so hard fought by the enemy it was said the Aealmen were more demon than man. That day, he had suffered his first real wound, an Aealmans’ wicked curved sword had bitten through his chainmail coat, through the leathers underneath and deep into his life hip. It sill pained him considerably on cold, damp days. He pressed his right hand against the pain absentmindedly.
“This Rain…Ne’er seen the lies of it meself,” The voice startled Uurrussk back to the present. He knew it well enough to put a face to it, but he was surprised to hear it here.
“These walls are no place for a priest, father.”
“Every man has a right to be blessed by his gods before he dies for them,” The priest was an old crumpled man not to dissimilar from the old leather bound book he was seldom seen without; was the only true religious man in the castle, but soldiers could find their zeal when arrows fell amongst them and prayers were as good as shield and mail.
“Then get on with it,” Uurrusk had no need for gods or blessings. More often than not he found the men who had been blessed starting with open eyes and sprawled out, missing limbs or befouled by an enemy in some way or another. The priest muttered his words and moved down the line of defenders, clutching his book to his chest like a plate of steel meant to protect him.
Horns sounded again, an echoing mournful call that sent shivers up Uurrusk’s spine. He scanned the rows of men to his right and left, each gleamed in the rising sun as wet steel caught and reflected its light. Had this been any other day Uurrusk might have called it beautiful, but with death a prospect and battle a certainty the rain and sun held little in the way of captivating his attentions. Uurrusk let his eyes slide unto the ranks of the enemy. They outnumbered the defenders, that much was sure, but they looked green and unbloodied, young boys given a chance at glory in their fathers and grandfathers armor. The rains came down in heavy wet sheets, battering the armors of all the men gathered to create a cacophony of hollow drumming and pounding.
A brace of horns sounded from behind him in the courtyard and he turned just as a flight of arrows rushed over his head with a sound like a thousand angry hornets. Each arrow was a comet in the storm, a tail of fire as long as most men’s forearm trailing after them. A smile spread across Uurrusk weathered and wrinkled face, So, the boy had decided to waste ‘is tar, arrows and bowstrings in the rain. The boy sat atop a great white stallion, clad in a suit of armor the color of thick cream, he commanded the castle garrison in his father’s absence. Barley sixteen, the young lord stood a head taller than Uurrusk, and at least as twice as wide in the shoulders, a legacy of his father, a giant of a man who, in his haste to please one of the twelve kings, had started a war with his neighbors.
“I hear the Crowsblade commands them…,” Whispered a grizzled man to his left, whose face would have been fully bearded if not for the mass of scars that marred his left cheek.
“Aye, but no man, not even the Crowsblade, can block an arrow with a great sword.” Uurrussk had tired of this rumor, which had spread though the defenders like a plague or a pox, “Much better to have a shield at your side,” Uurrusk hefted his own shield, a large triangle of hardened dry oak and burnished steel, “That swords big enough to run three men through with steel to spare, he can’t be as quick as it’s said.”
The men around him muttered their agreements or arguments, a few chuckling nervously. Uurrusk turned his attention forward. The enemy seemed to all but ignore the arrows that fell in around them, although a few screams and wails did rise from their ranks. The siege towers, prickling with arrows, a few still burning, had closed the gap with the wall, and now stood a mere eight or ten feet from the wall, each thrummed with the sound of men rushing to their tops, steel on wood sounded like a rolling, crushing thunder. Uurrusk placed his helm over his head and drew his sword. The weight of it calmed him, as if by holding the weapon his life was insured. He set his feet, staring at the nearest tower, clenched his teeth, and resigned himself to give his life, if he must, at a cost much greater than his worth.
The ramp came crashing down a mere four feet to his right breaking and chipping the wall where the hooks on the ends dug deep scars into the stone. The enemy rushed them, each calling out a battle cry.
“Whitehall!”
“Earren! Earren and honor!”
“For those who have fallen!” Uurrusk always used those words as his cry. He belonged to no noble family that would give him words, but to the men, the simple soldiers, and he honored his fallen brothers whenever he too might fall.
Within seconds everything was chaos, men screamed, steel clashed and shone and the rain pelted them all drowning out all but the loudest outburst. The enemy were young and inexperienced, it became evident up close with them, but what they lacked they made up for in numbers and with courage. Uurrusk moved down the line to his right, replacing a man who had taken a thrown spear through his midriff and fallen backwards over the wall into the courtyard, eyes alive with pain and fear. Uurrusks’ sword clashed with a boy who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. They traded blows for a few seconds, one clash, two, and three and then Uurrusk had him. He lowered his left shoulder, crouched behind his shield and lashed out with all his might. The shields edge caught the boy just under the chin, cracking his jaw and throwing him backwards over the rampart with a howl and a desperate scramble for a handhold. Uurrusk watched him, hanging in the void between wall and earth before he plummeted out of his sight and his attention was drawn to the siege towers ramp and the man standing on it above him. He was a large man, in a chain shirt that hung to his mid-thigh, with a war hammer raised held above his head with both hands. Uurrusk’s shield barley made it up in time to save his skull from being pulped like an overripe orange. The shock of the first blow shook his left arm to the shoulder, rattling his chainmail with soft clinks muted by the rain. The second blow cracked the heavy oak planks and left a dent the size of a melon in the shining steel sheet above them.
His shield still held high, Uurrusk thrust his sword underneath it, aiming for the man’s legs or stomach, and when the tip met a soft resistance before plunging onwards into a softness he knew well; he threw his wrecked shield aside and caught a glimpse of the hammerer rolling atop the ramp, bright red spurts occasionally bursting from the inside of his right thigh before a hulking shadow stepped over him.
Uurrusk had never seen the Crowsblade, but he’s heard of him from the mouths of men who said they had, none had done him justice. His plate mail shown white as new snow but for the few drops of the hammerer’s blood that shone like fire before being washed away in the down poor. A heavy black cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened in place by two fist sized obsidian crows, one on either collar bone. His helm, a great helm that matched his armor in color, was adorned with a beautifully wrought black steel crow, who’s wing were spread as if attempting to take flight and who’s beak jutted down and forward nearly blocking the thin slit that was the Crowsblade’s visor.
Uurrusk had never seen a man look half as beautiful or deadly as Aearn Crowsblade did standing above him. He raised his two-handed great sword, his namesake, a sword forged, as legend would have it, with spells the world no longer knew or had need to know, the blade, a black that matched his cloak pins, shone with deadly intent. There was nothing in the word, just Uurrusk and that sword coming down at him in an arc aimed to hit him at his left shoulder and cleave; he had no doubt; downward through his chest and into his gut. It was a death blow, and Uurrusk cursed his own stupidity at having thrown away his shield that may have stopped that blow in its tracks. Uurrusk brought his on sword around, placing it’s chipped and rusted blade into the path of the Crowsblade. There was a clash as steel hit steel and then his sword was lighter somehow, and the spellforged blade came onward accompanied by a pathetic clanging at his feet. Biting into and through the steel plate the protected his shoulder, through the chainmail underneath, through the leathers and then there was a flash of pain and Uurrusk slipped backwards, an involuntary scream ripping from deep inside him, rattling his bones and surprising himself.
He felt the warm slickness of his own blood clawing its way out of the wound and wondered how he still drew breath, by all right that blow could’ve cut him asunder and probably should have. He let his head fall back against the cool stone of the wall, his strength ebbing way with each pulse of blood that clamored to be free of him. The rain dripped through his visor onto his face, refreshing him, cleaning away the years of hardship that had been his life. He was tired, very tired, but he couldn’t allow himself to sleep just yet. The Crowsblade jumped from the platform onto the wall, standing over Uurrusk. Two soldiers came at him from both sides, and Uurrusk watched.
The Crowsblade lazily swept the first soldiers sword aside, side stepped the seconds spear thrust, and then with a practiced flick removed the broad steel tip from it. The first soldier came at him again, bellowing and raising his blade. The Crowsblade seemed to dance, as his blade flashed against the first soldiers’, he spun, leveling his sword and driving its point through the first soldiers’ visor. He yanked the blade free, dripping viscera as the soldier clawed at his helm, blood gushing out its thin slit accompanied by a desperate gurgling. The Crowsblade turned to face the second soldier just as he finished drawing his sword in favor over his now useless spear.
Uurrusk swore Aearn the Crowsblade moved like lightning, and he took it back, he could be that fast, first cutting the soldiers sword hand from his arm and then, with a savage blow, laying waste to the man just below the rips. Entrails poured from the jagged flesh, and the second soldier fell to his knees, silent, as blood coursed down his legs to pool under him. His eyes were locked on the blade that Aearn was bringing up with both hands, point aimed downwards and at his chest, and then it flashed and Aearn grunted as the blade punched through the soldier, entering just under his throat, and exciting in the small of his back before the Crowsblade, placing a foot on the man’s shoulder, slid the blade free and moved on to his next victim, sodden black cloak trailing behind him. The second soldier fell backwards; his now lifeless eyes looking at Uurrusk, and Uurrusk recognized a scarred left cheek that marred an otherwise magnificent beard.
He could feel it, all around him, the stickiness of death and the rankness that seemed to accompany defeat. The fighting continued, he could hear the clashes and screams as men fought and died, cursing or yelling encouragement, but the fight itself was lost…
Uurrusk knew it, and finally he closed his eyes. “Twelve Kings…” he whispered, “But I am tired…”
Guest Blog By Kyl-Fuckin-Beller: My Thoughts Regarding the Need for Musical Evolution
Everyone’s pissed off that some band or genre is either a clone or just downright uninspired. But the reality of it is the amount of “new” music we’ve seen in our lifetime could fit on a DVD. Pop, rock, electronic, metal- it’s all slowing down. For every one original endeavor represented by talented and driven individuals, there are twenty garage bands that somehow broke into the industry on power chords and spirit. These kids, I don’t care in what genre, basically pick up an instrument and learn the basic principles of music, then stylize it with hollow lyrics and ship it out on demos. Most pop songs are built on progressions so generic they’re used as exercises in beginner’s music books. And don’t even get me started on the beaten dead horse that is the “emo” scene, where it’s borderline taboo to write anything outside the constraints of sticking to the image. Ironic for a subculture so bent on breaking away from anything that could be correlated with any sort of “norm.”
My point is, no one’s doing anything new anymore. The masses are being sold the same record over and over again dressed up to look like different genres and experiences, but everyone’s making the same songs they have been for decades and it’s slowing further still. Personally, I’m worried we’ll never recover from grunge, which taught us that a cultural phenomenon can be created from apathy (Wiggidy wiggidy whaaaat?). People have lost sight of two of the most important parts of making thoughtful music- the jam and the process of experimentation. What do I mean by these? Well, for the former, I mean no one fully appreciates the joy found in seriously digging into a groove anymore. It’s all about the performance and the packaging; so many bobbing heads are insincere these days. As for the latter, it should speak for itself. When was the last time you saw a talented and creative individual hop onstage and try new things, move outside his comfort zone, and arrive at something new and surprising? Not recently enough, I submit, because audiences have come to hold lax standards, to expect too little from artists. I say, it’s time for a crackdown across the board. In every genre, from every studio, we need to demand more. More thought, more feeling, more meaning, because with a powerful enough to create the unity that music can and currently isn’t, we could already be changing the world.
“We just need to throw some new ideas in. We will eventually get out of this closed off circle we are part of.”
-Between the Buried and Me
Monday, November 1, 2010
Commie Zombies
ZOMG New Music Overload
First off, one of my favorite websites Metalsucks.Net is streaming the new Ocean album in it's entirety. The Ocean is one of the most creative and awesome metal bands out there, and if you don't listen to them you are wrong. Straight up.
Also, another of my favorites, folk metal heros Agalloch, have a new album coming out called Marrow of the Spirit, which I am super stoked for. And stereogum is streaming one of the songs off there called "The Watcher's Monolith" and it's pretty much amazing. Love this band. Check that song out here.
And, last but far from least, Between the Buried and Me have a video of studio footage that came out a few days ago. It just gives a few glimpses into the new album, but I have absolutely loved everything these guys have done. (Save for the covers album, which was still pretty good I guess.) Video is below.
So, in conclusion, hooray for new metals.