Life on Limerent Lane

Here is what I thought about that "Silent Hill" movie - it was certainly no "Brick".

In other news, it's high time I got off my ass and became a proper stalker. It's the only logical course, really. For the vast majority of my life, I've pretty much sat on the side, admiring some girl or other from afar. When I was a little(r) boy, I was a fat, pretentious dweeb with puffy hair and few friends, but had lots of books and action figures to keep me company. Not much has changed, although back then, I seriously had a crush on every girl who would talk to me. I'm sure my social skills have improved, but confidence remains fleeting to this day. Perhaps it's residual trauma from the first time I ever asked someone out, which resulted in the young lady laughing and curtly declining. Even when I can gather the courage to talk to a lady I find magnetic, it usually remains at crush level. It doesn't happen anywhere near as often as it used to, but now it's far more, um, enduring.

My experience with actual relationships has not been helpful, to say the least; even that mythical amazing girlfriend I had a long time ago refused to be more than "friends" for almost a year before I wore her down. Since then, after the longest line of miserable romantic fumblings I ever care to endure, being designated as such by the wrong person now hurts more than it really should. It is a sad fact that any woman I recently tried to date very quickly started giving me the runaround, only booting me once I became so agitated by her excuses that I made the mistake of questioning them. I do not believe I was irrationally concerned in any of those cases, and at least one of those excuses was legit, but it was nonetheless a uniform course of events. Some well-meaning friends have opined - in jest or not - that this too-perfect trend should have made me angry and vengeful, or at least more superficial. I got a steady job and this bachelor pad! Screw moping and pining, I should be out getting laid, yo! Why should I prefer to pour my energies into, for example, an one-sided marathon admiration for a single resolutely distant woman, one who as far as I knew would never consent to exploring a proper relationship with me unless all other options seemed lost?

Well. Not that I would ever put myself in such a masochistic position... but you have to admit that would be a much safer existence than to be additionally hung up on another lady who dumped me at an emotionally crippling juncture, would it not? Knowing myself, that really could happen. I am a sap and a recovering Catholic. The concept of redemption irrationally moves me, and I am admittedly "too hopeful" to boot, however unrequited my affections typically turn out. At the moment, if presented with such alternatives, I would surely choose not to find out how many sputtering torches one seriously out-of-shape desk jockey can carry.

So, what I need to do is take all that I have learned from my lifetime of serial crushes and become a bona fide stalker. But some things have to be decided, like who I am going to stalk. I don't want to stalk a guy, because I think guys are pretty boring. So, a lady, then. Friends keep telling me to stop falling for flaky, immature girls. I shall consider this sound advice and go for someone older. But here's the first hurdle. While my most intense crushes have indeed made me feel like a stalker in the past, I've always been too mindful not to upset the crushee to do more than, say, Google her. I don't want her to think I'm a creep, even if she makes me feel so desperate as to consider really creepy actions. Now, if I was a stalker, that would not be a concern - in fact, as far as I can tell, stalking is one case where it would be much better if the object of my unacknowledged attention didn't know I existed. It would just be easier to prowl and spy and steal personal items to display in a personal shrine, and it would be way too kinky for me if she knew I was stalking her and she got off on it.

Because of this, I could not stalk anyone I already know (whew - you're safe, ladies!), nor someone famous whose public persona I actually admired - to better avoid the whole "oh, what would she think?" issue. Honestly, same goes for any woman I might find attractive in the slightest, as I'd surely fuck up the stalking by doing the same thing. (In this endeavor, it's best to be honest about limitations.) The idea of hanging out at the supermarket or whatever to find some random unattractive older woman to stalk is just too fucking terrible to consider, even for me. It needs to be a stable woman of experience who I'm already familiar with, do not know personally and for who I will surely not develop any genuine feelings. Okay, then...

I AM GOING TO STALK CHARLOTTE RAE.

Now, there's one saucy redhead. If I was stalking the former Mrs. Garrett, I would study her routines and surreptitiously quiz her friends and family to attain the most accurate portrait of her daily schedule. Each night, I would hide out in her bushes, smoking cigarettes, listening to warped fado tapes on a malfunctioning Sports Walkman and muttering until I saw her driver's headlights. Then I would collect the butts in a bag for later disposal in another location. Charlotte recently turned 80, so the time it would take for her to walk from her car to her house would provide plenty of opportunity to covertly observe her craggy features, her stooped gait, her sensible footwear. When she shuts the door, I can move to a window and watch her remove her coat, massage her aching feet and set a pot of water on the stove for a nice cup of tea. Whether she was sleeping, chatting on the phone, taking a dump or entertaining glamorous guests like Ernest Borgnine and Estelle Getty, I would be there to drink in her routines and doings. I would have to adopt a less distinctive mode of dress so as not to stick out in a public setting, maybe invest in some khakis and denim shirts. Charlotte Rae would never see the reams of bad poetry she would inspire, the maudlin tears that would stain those pages, the sedative-infused treats I would slip her pets, the vials of crystal meth that would keep me awake outside her window all night or the albums full of photos I would snap as she went about her mundane business. I would have a mission, a purpose in life. Great care would be taken to ensure that nothing would stand between me and my unwavering desire to follow the onetime sitcom queen's every movement. It would be me and her, forever and ever, or until one of us was in the grave, or maybe until one of her handlers spotted me and got a restraining order issued.

Ah, who am I kidding? That sounds like a lot of work. Maybe I'll just go bowling instead.

Jay Leno ain't got nothing on SoulReaper

Two hilarious things came my way at work recently, and I had to share them. First, this was at the top of a press release from a local library. Only one of these variations on the program title is a typo:


The other was a promotional image for an antique toy fair. The accompanying press release tried to piggyback an "Easter" theme, even though the event doesn't happen until this coming weekend. Either way, this picture is rude:

My advice to publicists? Always proofread and check for inappropriate phalluses. ZING!

There's a new Dismember record, and it has been bashing my head in for days. Listen to the soothing strains of "Shadows of the Mutilated" and understand that the Swedes, they are your masters.

Easter video smash-up

Welcome back, Jesus! It's been a wild weekend since you've been away. On Good Friday, I was driving over to yeti betty's to watch a movie she and Turbo had previously tried to view but both couldn't finish, when some crazy shit went down right behind me. There I was, tootling along I-90, listening to the new Katatonia for, like, the hundredth time. I was in front of a big pack of vehicles, cruise control set at 65, rocking out and minding my own beeswax. Somewhere in the middle of the somber, trudging "Soil's Song," it looked like someone's headlights behind me had gone out. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw one car, turned sideways, getting creamed by another. Then all hell appeared to break loose in slow motion. I'm not really sure what happened, but I know I saw a white van going sideways across several lanes which got hit as well, and there was some commotion in the other lanes, too. The whole pack behind me slowed down, and I kept glancing back to see if this was for real. But I kept cruising at 65, Katatonia drowning out all the crash sounds, feeling very removed from reality for a few moments. It was almost cinematic, like something out of a music video, a really surreal and terrifying experience. It was so freaky, I have not mentioned it to anyone until now. (Unfortunately, "Twilight of the Ice Nymphs" ended up putting my gracious hosts to sleep again, but I thought it was okay. I hope my meager gift of a dirty, scratched-up teen porn DVD found outside their apartment made up for it.)

I was bored the other night, and I ran out of "Six Feet Under" and "Big Love" episodes on the OnDemand, so I started drinking and watching music videos. Here's a look at some of the more entertaining stuff I found.


Pink: "Stupid Girls" - Forget Avril. Pink's the closest thing today's kids have to Cyndi Lauper, the first woman to sneak a song about masturbation to #3 on the Billboard charts (and the first celebrity crush I can remember having - I must have spent hours staring at the cover of She's So Unusual). Pink's image is just as manufactured as Britney's or Christina's, I realize this. But as far as pop R&B princesses go, her image is the only one I respond to without rancor. Yeah, she presents herself as this funky hot punk chick crooning club jams, but Pink also consistently promotes strength, self-awareness, personal identity and emotional integrity, a more convincing effort for "girl power" than the vapid sloganeering we got from The Spice Girls. I've read several interviews with her, and she honestly comes across as a real person - with strong opinions and inconsistencies and everything. A fine "return" single, this song pretty much sums up her philosophy and as such is way better than the dopey single I heard from her last album, where she tried to rock it up by writing songs with Rancid's Tim Armstrong. The video's pretty funny, too. If I had a daughter, I would prefer she absorb the message of "Stupid Girls" rather than that of "My Humps" or whatever other insulting fuck anthem is burning up the kids' iPods right now. Still wish Pink hadn't gone blonde, but, hey, so did Cyndi.
Verdict: I wish Pink was the best-selling pop artist in the world.


Grand Magus: "King Slayer" - I heard this song on a Candlelight Records sampler I got a while ago. It pretty much jams. I had thought these guys were more of a doom band, but this tune crams a lot of elements into a a single sound - power/biker metal with a thrash guitar tone, some mild growls and a cool sort of chug-core/black metal hybrid right before the wailin' solo. It's nothing super original, but it's catchy and well-arranged. The only thing that bugs me is I know they stole that main riff from somewhere, but I'll be damned if I can name the source. Now, the video. Whoo. This is just like an old Judas Priest video, with shots of the singer singing somewhere, the whole band walking around with torches somewhere else, the band standing around drinking wine out of fancy glasses, plus a bunch of bizarre footage of a sexpot assassin chick apparently committing regicide at various points in history. It's also got wolves sauntering through a forest with fire superimposed over them.
Verdict: Metal as fuck.


Busta Rhymes: "Touch It" - I've always admired Busta's ability to make commercial hits out of tunes with such off-kilter beats and bizarre flow. He's such a weird dude, I don't see how the mainstream hip-hop audience - which historically sticks to supporting hacks like Master P and Chingy - ever embraced him. After a few years away, this is his comeback single, which I guess came out a while ago. The album it's from is still not in stores, which is pretty shady considering that he made such a big deal out of signing with Aftermath two years ago. Whatever, this is prime Busta Rhymes, and that monotone chorus hook rules. In the video, the newly-shorn Busta proves he can do anything. He goes for an afternoon drive in the country with some girl. He dances at a club sporting a Rerun-red beret and toting a 40. He plays soccer for Jamaica. He sits in a suit and smokes a cigar. He goes for a nighttime drive in the city with a different girl. He gets fondled by classy hoochies while wearing enough gold chains to make Mr. T jealous. He wins a bunch of money playing cards. He puts the hurt on some wack gangsta chump. He yells at himself. He plays golf. He is the man.
Verdict: Still crazy after all these years.


Between the Buried and Me: "Alaska" - The best band on this year's disappointing Ozzfest line-up, BtBaM operate at such a higher level of ability and creativity than any of their tourmates, it's sick. Because they're on Victory Records, they often get lumped in with the gazillion other floridly-named metalcore bands out there, but again, although they have some 'core traits and that scene is where their audience is currently based, they stand far above the conformist norm. That said, this is an odd choice for a single. This band will never be a mainstream success, but the title track from last year's brilliant Alaska will probably scare away a few potential listeners. It doesn't have any of the peaceful clean singing or pretty, tranquil passages found in a number of their songs. It's full-on prog/death/grind/metalcore for its duration, with a show-stopping keyboard intro to boot. The twitchy video capably captures the song's abstract lyrics, which read like random, personal diary excerpts from an insomniac musician.
Verdict: Come summertime, Between the Buried and Me should be crushing System of a Down and The Red Chord into pixie dust.


Warren G: "Get U Down" - Face it, there are only two reasons the song "Regulate" was any good, and they are Dr. Dre and Nate Dogg. Warren G was the weak link in the G-Funk Era. But I said, "Hey, I wonder what weak-ass Warren G sounds like now?" So I put this on, and was immediately greeted with Warren's shout-out to the victims of Hurricane Katrina: "We ridin' witchall. You know what I'm sayin'? I feel your pain." Jesus. I have no problem with positive, socially-conscious hip-hop, and in many cases prefer it to your basic thuggery or capitalist fantasies. But I do not want it from Warren G. This track is flat, recycled G-funk, the chorus is not very memorable and the "message" aspect is just plain shambolic. The OnDemand menu did not tell me about the guest stars. First, Ice Cube, the guy who wrote the lyrics to "Fuck Tha Police", comes out and tells us to chill so we don't go to jail. Then B-Real from Cypress Hill bleats out some shit about how street violence harshes his buzz, I think, but most of the imagery while he's onscreen is just some party with people dancing. Finally, there's AOL pitchman Snoop Dogg, making his obligatory all-star appearance to tout his efforts to get kids playing football instead of gangbanging, and to lament that he is not more recognized for those efforts. Now, I like Snoop and B-Real, but the only one of these guys who has any business making a genuine social statement in his music is Cube. And he forever gave up the last vestiges of his mantle as "The Nigga Ya Love To Hate" when he took the lead role in "Are We There Yet?"
Verdict: Completely ridiculous, but watchable in a horrified, detached, car wreck sort of way.

Let me see those hands

Chicago Powerfest 2006 rocked ass - definitely the best one yet. They moved the show to a larger venue this time, from the cramped, awful-sounding Lansing sweatbox that is J.J. Kelley's to the cavernous, awful-sounding Chicago Heights sweatbox that is Mr. Kelley's Music Box. Yes, these are owned by the same dude. This was my first time at this semi-new joint, which is distressingly close to the shady, shuttered venue Oasis 160. During my only trip to that now-defunct craphole, Enforsaken almost got their gear stolen by some loathesome unsigned local Coal Chamber wannabes for whom they were insultingly forced to open. Needless to say, I hid my jacket in the trunk when we went inside. Fucking Southside heshers.

The big downside? Travel took me through the horrible hamlet of Hillside a whopping eight times in two days. For those unfamiliar with the area, there's a stretch of I-290 where it merges with I-88 which is derisively nicknamed the "Hillside Strangler". It creates a backup which happens at the worst point at which you should be forced to linger. In addition to harboring the most uncharmingly sleazy drinking establishment in which I've ever been unfortunate enough to have dodged several physical altercations, Hillside boasts a landfill whch permeates the town with a brain-melting stench, leaving a gloomy funk on everything it touches. But it was worth the discomfort, and here's why.

DAY ONE: APRIL 7

Gracepoint - We missed Withering Soul, a local keyboardy black metal band I saw on a date last year and who honestly didn't impress me much then. But knowing nothing about Minneapolis' Gracepoint, I was awed like I have not been by an American prog metal band since I first saw Zero Hour at ProgPower I. Plying a fussy sort of thrash, their musicianship was impeccable and unexpectedly heavy, a mix which suitably set the stage for the rest of the fest. Gracepoint's sort of metal is inherently not very catchy - just when you get into a groove, the rhythm shifts, and while the vocals are clean (not growling), they don't place much stock in sing-along choruses. The real attraction is in the complexity of playing, and, at such a loud volume, the dizzying sensation of having all those different parts barreling at you in quick succession. That was the case here. They claimed it was their first live appearance in four years. Shocking, considering how tight it was, especially since they apparently lost their drummer shortly before the show and had their ex-drummer filling in. Gracepoint were also the fest's only band "indie" enough to toss out copies of their demo from the stage, which is how I got the CD I'm listening to right now.

Agent Steel - In the mid-'90s, I got back into metal after some time away. I read a lot of zines to find out about what was out there, and I bought one called Sentinel Steel because it covered Gamma Ray and Blind Guardian. This dense, info-packed issue became a little Bible to me, giving me dozens of bands to check out which make up what is now known as the power/prog metal subgenre. While featuring then-breaking acts like Angra, Labyrinth and Stratovarius, there was a lot of stuff on then-forgotten old bands such as Helstar, Angel Dust, Scanner and particularly Agent Steel. All the writers seemed to revere them, and I vividly remember in the staff pictures, there was a sketch of a girl with a hot indie-chick bob and cat glasses wearing a tight Agent Steel T-shirt. I somehow knew that if that girl liked them, they had to be good. Agent Steel's old stuff is as '80s as it gets: super hyper speed metal with ridiculously high-pitched vocals. They re-formed in the late '90s with a new singer, a guy named Bruce Hall who reminded me of Jag Panzer's Harry "The Tyrant" Conklin, in that he looked like a suburban dad who just got off work at the office and slipped into leather jacket mode. The dude can hit the dog whistle shrieks, though. (Friday was his birthday.) This was my first time seeing them, and it was pretty rad. Their newer music is calmer, as befitting the turn-of-the-millennium times in which it was written, so I have to say I preferred the early material. Songs like "Unstoppable Force," "Agents of Steel" and "Mad Locust Rising" flailed away in a denim-swathed flurry that sent coke dust flying from every skullet in the room, vintage alcoholocaust blitz metal of the sort you just don't hear today.

Biomechanical - This is the band Scarecrow was most looking forward to, and the big draw of the first night for me as well. I was pretty surprised when I saw that Chris, Rob and John had booked these Brits, since they are pretty much unknown and a fairly young band to boot. They put out a stupefying assault of an album last year through Elitist Records, right before the progressive Earache sub-label unfortunately folded (Earache was smart enough to keep Biomechanical, along with the great Ephel Duath). These dudes are a rare high point in the largely undistinguished history of British thrash, creating a highly jacked-up racket with shiny cybertones and occasional Halford wails, a trad-friendly mix of Theory in Practice showmanship and Strapping Young Lad vitriol. Live, this was made somehow even more intense due to the raw din of the cubelike performance hall. The only flaw in the riveting performance was frontman John K's song introductions - he'd say "This is [name of song], come on!" and then the drums would start counting in, so he'd have to go "Come on!" again in a very awkward manner. I don't know why they chose to do two covers, but Priest's "Painkiller" and Slayer's "Raining Blood" always go over well. I hope this band really catches on in the States somehow, as they would not only fit on something like Ozzfest but also outclass the majority of acts they would appear with in such a setting.

Eldritch - Old prog metal goombahs from Italy, these guys were among the hot new acts that were in that Sentinel Steel I mentioned. I heard some mp3s a long time ago, and I remember them being one of the lighter, fluffier European outfits that didn't give me any goosebumps upon sonic investigation. But Chris from Ion Vein told me right before Eldritch played that they are "probably much thrashier" than I remember. I did remember reading that they had heavied up some along the way, so I was game. At any rate, we stuck around if for no other reason than this was their first show in America. I'm all about being at such inaugural performances to try and give those guys good impressions of the States, even if it's a band I don't particularly love. This way, they might go back and tell their friends in better bands, "Hey, Giuseppe, that's a nice-a time to play in USA! We bang-a da heads, drink-a da beers and make-a da love! There's-a no cats in America, and the streets are paved with-a da cheese!" Despite the relative distortion on the guitars, the music was basically the expected Royal Hunt/Fates Warning type of hard pomp rock. It wasn't terrible, but not really my favorite thing, and seemed somewhat lacking for energy after the formidable bludgeoning of Biomechanical. We left early, after they played a so-so song that at least seemed willing to submit to a standard peppy power metal format. Still, I give them respect for their longevity and for playing their hearts out to a room that was perpetually emptying its drunk, aged audience.

DAY TWO: APRIL 8

Mirror Black - With a name like that, I expected these Madison natives to be Nevermore clones. That wasn't the case, although it's obvious the best metal band in America has a great deal of influence on Mirror Black. Their version of heavy prog-thrash with dramatic clean vocals wasn't spectacular, reminding me of amiable locals Eden's Fall, but decent enough, and their bassist was humorously animated. There's another story to tell here, though. On Friday night, I almost spit out my Heineken when I noticed a hilarious presence in front of the stage. Shaking his mane and thrusting his begloved fist skyward was none other than the emcee from the Heathen Crusade. I couldn't fucking believe it. Furthermore, I was not prepared for him to reclaim his role as toastmaster on day two. I mean, when are you ever prepared for life's most surreal and fucked-up moments to return like cackling specters in the night? Like too many times over the past year, I got the gnawing feeling that history was repeating itself as this Rikki Rachtman/game show host (appropriately known as The SwordLord) sauntered onstage, eyed the mic, picked it up and began to ply his patented "This is awesome! Woo! Where are you guys from?" style of inanity. More on this clown later. Mirror Black was OK.

Twelfth Gate - I thought Ion Vein was going to play next, but was surprised with Twelfth Gate instead. More startling than their stage time, however, was the guy they had on the mic, who the band said in pre-show statements would be a guest stand-in for regular singer Scott Huffman. Whereas the veteran Huffman is a Bruce Dickinson type of leather-lunged wailer, this guy was all Pantera-style: gruff bellowing, deep singing, shaved head, "tribal" tattoos, headbanging from the waist... you know the type. When combining that approach with the band's downtuned prog-thrash, Twelfth Gate came off almost like a diverse, tech-y metalcore act. It was better than I would have expected having known this ahead of time, although the older songs with which I was familiar did seem a little lacking without the melodic angle (he said he'd blown his voice out the day before, so he stuck to rasping over singing). I think it really pissed a few people off, the sort of people who are just as conservative in their tastes as radio rock fans yet have the audacity to call their favored cult genre "progressive." There have been many, many different types of metal purveyed around the world over the past 40 or so years, and most kinds are agreeable in some way to me, so I tend to think of people who only like one type as ignorant schmoes. My sole complaint with genre-specific fests like this one is that they (perhaps unintentionally) cater to those who would prefer to segregate those styles. Is that some sort of reverse elitism? If so, I have no problem with that. Twelfth Gate's aggro performance added variety, and the band was absolutely lethal as always, although suffering a muddy mix. The bigger issue is that it turns out the Anselmo-ish guy was not really a "guest" but, as Twelfth Gate bassist and Powerfest co-organizer Rob Such told me afterward, he is their new vocalist. They just released their second album (their debut for Season of Mist) a few weeks ago. I picked it up at the fest. It's a quality disc with a way better mix than their solid debut, but to anyone who hears it and likes it, the material does sound significantly different with the new vocal style. So this may create a new type of uphill slog for the perpetually undervalued Twelfth Gate, just when they have a respected European label behind them... I will be anxious to see what happens.

Ion Vein - A major transformation has taken Ion Vein from a band that could handily be summed up as "early Queensrÿche meets Dream Theater" to something considerably heavier. Back in the '90s, Ion Vein was the only "power metal" band I knew of from the area, and I met guitarist Chris Lotesto a number of years back when Scarecrow and I went to check out a gig Ion Vein was doing at a bar in the burbs. They didn't actually play, as one of the members had a death in the family that day, but I was shocked to meet another person who really liked Angra and Gamma Ray, and we've stayed in touch over the years. The setbacks his band has suffered rival that of The Chasm's, and if anyone in this country has doggedly worked his ass off to rally an audience for this decidedly European subset of metal, it's Chris. Hell of a guitarist, too. Perhaps it was the result of that true metal spirit of perseverance in the face of frustration, or maybe just further signs of the mighty Nevermore nudging the genre toward a thicker, thrashier ideal, but Ion Vein's set of entirely unreleased songs showed a band that was ready to battle. Russ Klimczak, once one of the best Geoff Tate stylists I've ever heard, now sings in a gruffer manner which befits his voice, and in general the blast coming from that stage was something I've never witnessed from this band. They closed with a cover of... "Painkiller," the Judas Priest comeback hit that Biomechanical had torn the hell out of the night before. (Boy, I bet they were pissed when they heard the Brits plow into that drum intro!) Still, a real eye-opener of a set. If they can punch up those choruses in a catchier manner, they could have a truly bad-ass album on the way.

Nocturnal Rites - Five years ago, I would have been going absolutely apeshit for Nocturnal Rites' American debut. Their last couple of records haven't been as great to me as their earlier stuff was, especially Afterlife, which was very cutting edge when it came out. But as one of the few newer power metal acts I still respect, theirs was the weekend's most galvanizing set, projected as if the Swedes were playing to the vast mudfields of Wacken rather than a club in a depressingly dilapidated Chicago suburb. One thing I always enjoy about seeing genuine European power metal live is that it's one of the few corners of metal where the band is allowed to have fun on stage, rather than just stand there and look imposing or pissed or in concentration or whatever. These guys never stopped mugging or beaming at the crowd's fanatic reception. At one point, someone tossed un ugly pink bra on stage and singer Jonny Lindkvist made as if he were going to slip it on. He didn't, but it was a more engaging reaction than the bra-tosser would have gotten if her target was, say, Glen Benton. As for the actual music, I was a bit disappointed that some of the clunkier new ones made it into the set, but "Shadowland," "Never Trust" and especially "When Fire Comes To Ice" crackled like pure Scandinavian lightning. Fists and beers held aloft, a bunch of aging metal nerds banging their short-haired heads, no major guitar problems, an encore of "Wake Up Dead" and "Afterlife": Nocturnal Rites performed as good a fit for the term "power metal" as I've ever seen.

Morgana Lefay - Last year during Chicago Powerfest, I was going through some rough shit on the romantic tip. I had really hoped the girl I was dating would have come with me, since I had secured an extra free ticket for her and none of the bands were that extreme, but she was busy working, and coincidentally deep into the process of blowing me off, as ladies I like are wont to do. I drove out to the first night by myself, and as good as the bands were, I of course spent a lot of time zoning out and stewing about the situation. But by the end of the evening, a combination of good imported beer and the intensity of Sweden's Morgana Lefay effectively blew the girl troubles from my mind for a couple of hours. So bad-ass was that set, they were asked to return as the fest closers for 2006. However, this was a different year, with different girl troubles, at a different venue. I was much more tired this time, but we managed to stay for a good chunk of their set. Sound troubles aside, their array of chunky, thrashy riffs lent an appropriately dank and gothic (not in the black lipstick sense) tone to Powerfest's denouement. Vocalist Charles Rytkonen's stage antics were as endearingly goofy as before, all the more surreal since he's a real dour Klaus Kinski-looking bastard. Yet his voice - similar to Savatage's Jon Oliva's combination of howl, screech, croon, drama, pathos and hatred - is really something worth witnessing. I only have one of the band's many albums, and it's from the brief period where they were forced to shorten their name to Lefay due to some legal bullshit with their once and future label. Scarecrow and I headed home, but I believe we both made a mental note to buy some Morgana Lefay as soon as possible.

Oh, yes, the SwordLord. As it turns out, he's the individual responsible for setting up the single midwest date for Gamma Ray next month, as he correctly felt it was unfair that the coasts should get their only shows when the biggest American power metal fanbase is here in the middle states. I don't know how to feel now. The karma police have nabbed me again.

Shakes on a plane

I have absolutely nothing interesting to write about at the moment, but wanted to say, "Hi." Hi. Right now, I'm recovering from day one of the 4th annual Chicago Powerfest, where Scarecrow and I saw a number of extremely talented bands. Heading back down to Chicago Godforsaken Heights for the conclusion tonight. My interview with Nils Eriksson of Nocturnal Rites, one of tonight's headliners, ran yesterday and can be viewed here... expect a full run-down of the weekend's performers in the forseeable future.

Been a bit of a disappontment on the movie front lately, with "Eaten Alive", "The Mad Butcher" and the original "Fantastic Four" all coming up short. However, I've recently enjoyed some albums I got for free, which include but are not limited to: The Flaming Lips' At War With the Mystics, HORSE the band's The Mechanical Hand, Nanook of the North's The Täby Tapes, In Flames' Come Clarity, David Gilmour's On An Island, Maroon's When Worlds Collide, Stephin Merritt's Showtunes and Dysryhthmia's Barriers and Passages. Many thanks to those of you who floated me copies of some of these.

Ladies and germs, I am proud to leave you with "TV Funhouse" episode #107 in its entirety. If you never saw this sleazy parody of a children's program on Comedy Central, I am very sorry. It was brilliant, and way more distasteful than "Wonder Showzen." There were only eight episodes made. I continue to hope for a DVD.

UNSCATHED

Hey, March...
EAT A DICK!