Rancid "let's go"

In 1994 I caught  #rancid perform at Mr.Goodbar on Elmwood avenue near Buffalo State College. The bar didn't host many shows but I remember the band playing on the floor upstairs and it was a wild show. Thing is, every time I hear this album I think of that show at that venue but it conjures a memory of that bar from a different night. In '94 I was twenty-two years old and still green at legal drinking. I don't remember why we used to haunt Goodbar, it definitely wasn't my favorite place. Sure, it was a scummy dive but it felt like a college scummy dive (I preferred dives that had an alcoholic in residency and less grunge girls). I had been drinking with the guys in my punk band one night at this bar and we had gotten pretty hammered so we spilled outside to the dollar-a-slice pizza place next door. After grabbing the food we were suprised to see a couch on the curb. While obviously set out for trash it made for a perfect pizza-scarfing people watching spot. One of us walked up to the We Never Close store (not me) a block away and bought a six-pack and we all got a second slice and lounged on our trash throne laughing and generally misbehaving. It was at this point some douchebag rolls up in a red convertible sports car with a dolled up woman riding shotgun. They parked in front of our discarded sofa. The two of them sneered and as they exited their vehicle remarked condescendingly that they could see it was "trash night". A little stunned we watched them stroll up the street to the jock-bar on that strip. The moment the door to that bar closed behind them we all simultaneously threw our pizza and poured our beer into the car. We roared with laughter and sat around for a while waiting for the couple to return to their soggy vehicle, but as I remember it we were pretty drunk and got bored and stumbled off talking about the Rancid show we saw there previously.

King Crimson "red"

The third compact disc that has really stuck with me is "red" by #kingcrimson . It's no secret I am a huge Rush fan, but now that their catalog is finite I have started wondering if there was music in that vein that would appeal to me in the same way. I've tried mining prog "essential records" lists and while I have always liked Yes and Pink Floyd those lists sent me down dead ends of minstrel sounding fluff. I even purchased king crimson's widely lauded debut. Didn't do a thing for me. So I resigned myself to my narrow progressive rock scope. Sometimes seeing a band live will alter the sound of their releases for me. I can gain new angles of reference and perspective on the music. Sometimes this happens when a song is in a movie soundtrack. The material's placement to augment a mood can in turn really change how I hear that song. The awesome psychedelic revenge/horror movie "Mandy" opens with the song "starless" from this album. The creepy artistic vibe of the scene/movie created a very cool music-video for the song. Had I heard the song before seeing the movie I'm not sure I would've picked up on the whole weird/menacing vibe of the whole album. I've been playing this disc daily on the morning drive to take my youngest son to school (until he had had enough and started demanding the "nightmare before christmas" soundtrack) and I started contemplating if I was imprinting a disposition favorable to complicated time signatures in music. When my interest in this cd starts to wane I will try to revisit the other prog discs I have amassed, maybe this release will shed new perspective on those. 

American Football "3"

I listen to alot of music. I listen to alot of kinds of music. My guilt is that I buy tons of music that I will never be intimately invested in (there isn't mathematically enough time for me to hear them all). CDs can be kind of like a drug. You are always hunting for the next fix that changes the landscape for you. It had been a couple of years since I bought music that I couldn't stop listening to; a CD that made me neglect all the other plastic treasures on my wall. In the past few weeks I have found three. It feels like a huge relief to have found some pivotal soundtracks to this time of my life. Typing that I guess it sounds kind of self-absorbed, and it makes me realize that my cd collection is me attempting to score the soundtrack of my life. And make it sound cool like a Wes Anderson movie. I've always liked #americanfootball  . Their first album is a midwestern emo benchmark but I hadnt really thought of them in years. I bought this disc after reading a review online and at first listen I was taken aback by the unassailable production of the album. Everything is in the sonic pocket it needs to be in. Then the songs started pulling me in and I became infatuated. I sat in my car in front of the tattoo shop with the lyric book open revisiting the songs. It is a perfect storm of content that appeals to me. I thought the relief I felt at finding a personally special album was remarkable. A hole was filled I didn't know was there. It's that sort of satiation that strings me along on my music collecting. The relief in finding an album I can live in for a while that stems the search. Thank you American Football!

Pedro the Lion "phoenix"

The second album that has really resonated with me is #pedrothelion  new disc "phoenix". I have been an avid fan of the band for twenty years and when I heard David Bazan was putting the band back together after a 15 year hiatus I was skeptical. I havent really loved his prolific solo output but I took a chance on the moniker and it's another cd that strikes a real chord with me. It's still sad stuff, but now it's steeped in the kind of nostalgic melancholy that someone in their late forties can really sink into. Every once in a while if I'm in the areas I grew up in I will drive past old homes and haunts from when i was a kid. Most of those neighborhoods have drastically changed but I still see ghosts of my life there: I helped plant a pine tree that now towers above the two story duplex we lived in, my childhood school bus stop looks it was cryogenically preserved (I got off my motorcycle and i swear the texture of the rust on the stop sign was the same, like ancient braille). I am amazed at the distances I traveled on my bmx bike. At the time I never thought of the journeys, only the destinations. I wish i could calculate the amount of miles i peddled. The yard line markers we spray painted on our street for touch football games are long paved over but I could still see the tree that landmarked the southern endzone.i remember when an errant pass or kick would touch a draped power line we would all pause before touching the ball because we were afraid of being electrocuted by the now charged pigskin. That these songs can conjure these memories are a true testament to the writing and the universal consensus that childhood is all too brief. Damn fine cd.

Sunny Day Real Estate "how it feels to be something on"

Music is the only thing that makes me contemplate spirituality in the face of my staunch atheism. It's not that a CD makes me ponder the existence of a god, they don't... but music does make me suspect there is a deeper level to the human condition. Music is not an essential element of survival. In fact, I could argue it has no real purpose in our existence, but that's precisely why it perplexes me. It is important to me; my life would be shallow without it. This disc by #sunnydayrealestate  is a pastoral influence on me and has worked it's way into my double-helixes. This disc was released while I was dealing with financial and identity crises in my mid-twenties. I was ripe to be absconded by a cult, and in a way music did just that: gave me attractive responses to big questions. This CD is as charismatic as any guru. It's honey-warm production and it's ascendant complicated musicianship coupled with Jeremy Enigk's nasal angelic croon sounded like a road map out of misery. It made the doldrums of my life suddenly seem like mystic conundrums. It also really made me think about the spirituality of music. I believe up until this point I had thought that gospel music cornered that niche, slowly i began to understand that all these abstract patterns of sound couldn't be appealing to me in a cognant rational way, there was some other elusive explanation. I've still never really come to any conclusion to this that nestles comfortably with my pragmatic atheism. I have, however, become more comfortable with the transcendent feeling music invokes. Giving myself up to how these songs can influence and guide my emotions and thoughts. I decided to just drink the kool-aid.

Suicidal Tendencies "join the army"

My sophomore year in high school I decided to take up skateboarding. My very first skateboard was a plastic blue "banana" board and I would do circles in my garage and driveway. Around and around clockwise and then counterclockwise until i felt ready to try the street. Having asked the guys at the pizzeria where i worked what kind if skateboard i should get they gifted me some giant no-name deck and invited me to tag along with them around town. I had seen photos of Metallica and Anthrax with boards and my newfound interest in crossover thrash was deeply steeped in skate culture so in hindsight skateboarding seemed inevitable. This #suicidaltendencies album came out that year and I had seen it's advertisements in both metal magazines I would shoplift and the Thrasher magazines the dudes would show up to work with. I was really excited about ST's aesthetic before I heard a note: the pentagram adorned skateboards and the bandanas worn low over their eyes. It was exotic and cool. I reappropriated some white dress shirts which were stashed in my dresser and drew skulls and goats on the backs of them with permanant marker emulating the photos in the ads I had seen. I took one of my baseball caps and painted "suicidal" under the brim. It totally freaked my mom out and I totally loved it. I played the crap out of this album and would sing "possessed to skate" to myself as I frantically pushed to keep up with my buddies. While I never got good at skateboarding. I was serviceable and could keep up and participate but never really excelled. My friends were awesome and didn't make fun of me, it was our culture not a competitive sport. I would make marker covered dress shirts for them as a token of my appreciation of acceptance. Though geography and time have seperated us we are all still friends today. Shared experiences and shared music are some pretty powerful bonds.

Drive Like Jehu "s/t"

Home of the Hits closing is one of the biggest losses in my life. That statement may sound absurd to anyone who is not a passionate, obsessive music fan. That record store was my church, it was my cultural hub. It was where the magical mysteries of music touched the earth. I miss it's smell, I miss the creaky floor, I miss the rows of incredibly provocative band t-shirts on the walls, I miss the layers of flyers on the bulletin board next to the door and I miss the pastors who worked there. To name them "pastors" is no stretch, they sold me salvation, they offered me guidance and mentoring and I felt really weird running into them in public away from the holy building. As I ebbed and flowed through my musical taste the guys working there paid attention to my purchases and often made suggestions to guide me to new CDs. Sometimes this guidance was fruitless and sometimes they were magical seers of binary sound. I can vividly remember holding this disc and Parasites "punch lines" and musing aloud that I could only afford one. The record store dude walked up and snatched the Parasites CD out of my hand and walked it back to the "P" section and muttered "you're welcome". So I went home with this #drivelikejehu  disc. It's a true watershed moment in music for me. Chaotic, percussive, melodic and interesting. It's a fantastic fucking album and one I believe is essential to anyone who has ventured into music beyond passive radio. My clergy had come through for me and had shown me the light. Fuck, I miss that place so much. Oh and I went back and bought that Parasites disc as soon as I had the money

Spectral Wound "infernal decadence "

In my car I have a handful of rotating CDs. These are mood specific and get swapped out every couple of weeks. During the transition period between these changes I tend to play music on my phone through bluetooth in my car. With a collection as large and ever expanding as mine I have found it incredibly convenient. I purchased 256gb memory card for my phone and have turned it into my media hub. Having this accessible hub has made me more likely to buy music digitally without purchasing an actual physical copy. I have certain rules to what I buy in this manner and given the finite space I have to store new CDs it is increasingly less likely I purchase actual discs. This #spectralwound  album got played during a shuffle session with my phone. It really sounded great driving around the grey city (raw, awesome black metal from Quebec, so it has that french je ne sais quoi I love so much) so I played the album as I finished driving my errands. When I got home I looked to see if it was one of the physical purchases and I was thrilled and to find it nestled in my black metal section of shelving. I pulled it off the rack and was even more excited to find the booklet contained lyrics so I did something I don't get a chance to do much anymore: i parked my butt in front of the stereo and read lyrics along to a CD. It felt comfortable and soothing (despite the hate emitting from my speakers) and reaffirmed what is obvious to everyone else: I freaking love compact discs!

Cyndi Lauper "she's so unusual"

Growing up one of my chores was washing dishes after dinner with my sister. After settling the endless debate of who would wash versus who would dry we would set to work. Next to the kitchen sink in our cramped little suburban house was a big grey boombox. It was typically tuned to the top-40 radio station and the variety of pop songs would radiate from the kitchen throughout our small home all day. I dont remember there being any moments without music in the house when we were young. Occasionally my sister or I would pop a cassette from our personal collections into the radio during this chore. This album was one we blasted often. On the nights we weren't trying to argue each other to death we would both sing along and it made the task almost enjoyable and brief. This is from a golden age of pop records when artists just seem to tap some magical muse and released albums jam packed with singles. There isn't a clunker on this whole album. I listened to it on headphones today while half-napping on the couch while my kids played and watched unwatchable television. I could smell dish soap and damp drying towels. I could see my sister's massive flipped wing hair. It turned out to be a definite time capsule.

Velvet Cacoon "genevieve"

Sometimes the lore surrounding an album makes it irresistible to me. #velvetcacoon  have polarized people due to the mythology they created about themselves. Almost all of the rumours they started turned out to be exaggerations or just plain falsehoods. These ranged from members being committed to asylums, acts of eco terrorism in their native Pacific northwest and claiming to have built guitar amplifiers that ran on vegetable oil. Caricature of black metal= flame; Joel =moth. This CD itself is a pretty awesome hypnotic version of black metal, the kind of stuff my ex-wife used to say sounded like someone vacuuming pennies. The vocals on this are more gurgling whispers than harsh screams and that adds a whole element that I like. It has been pointed out to me recently that I like repetitive music. And while on the surface that may seem apt, I think what I really enjoy is the hypnosis of riffs. The tension that gets created waiting for the change or shift in the song. It's a tendency that I think I've always had but never quantified or even realised until it was pointed out. After it was identified I seem to find it in all the music I choose. It definitely explains my love of funeral doom metal, and these hypnotic black metal albums and shoegaze/post-rock. Now I have an inner conflict of do I search this kind of stuff out and rodeo the tendency or do I try and listen to stuff that turns on a dime every fifteen seconds? Which then leads me to ponder: why do I think so much about this shit? Do I have to analyze all this stuff and strangle the last gasps of mystery out of the artform I love so much? Or am I just looking for a new sub-sub-genre to search out and collect (horde)? Sometimes I think I forget to just listen and enjoy without the extraneous pressure of being a music snob. The good thing is this album is bathing my kitchen in it's cold, fuzzy din while I'm writing this and it sounds awesome.

Samiam "soar"

While many of my CDs conjure up memories some of them inspire sensations. This #samiam  disc puts the taste of cheap home brewed coffee in my mouth. It also reminds me that feeling of laying in a warm bed near a frost covered window, feeling the chill radiate towards my face and hands as I study lyrics in this CD booklet. In fact it is this exact well worn booklet. I bought this exact compact disc in the fall of 1991 and it became my companion in my small, dingy college apartment in a small college town near the Pennsylvania border. At the time my collection of music was pretty small but well used. I couldn't afford much, and I would easily sacrifice food money for a new disc of music. So the discs I had I became intimately familiar with. Because being that broke also created a lot of alone down time. Time I spent memorizing and fantasizing about music and the mystical lives the bands must lead. A friend of mine who was really in touch with music turned me on to Samiam and it became a tandem with Nirvana's "nevermind" as two of the Most Important Things in the World. Over time I've grown weary of the overplayed and over analyzed king-of-grunge album, but I've never tired of the sincere and thoughtful downer punk of this album. Today is a dreary cool October day and a perfect day to revisit this album, it was a draining weekend of my youngest son falling ill and I'm welcoming the comfort of a grey autumn monday. I dont imagine this record was written in that spirit and I wonder how many artists would be suprised by the ghosts individual copies of their albums hold for different people. Many years after I absorbed this CD my wife and I caught them live while she was very pregnant with our middle son. The singer suggested that we name the baby after himself. I never told her but I actually mulled that over that night, I liked the romantic connection to my younger life and this discography. I decided to keep that selfish inclination to myself.

Violent Femmes "s/t"

There was a time in my life where I believed this album was standard issue to all women. Upon inspection it may have been more of a period piece (I swear I didn't intend that pun) since any female under the age of thirty looks back at me puzzled if I ask them about #theviolentfemmes  . For a solid decade of my life you could bet that any girl I found interesting had a beat up cassette of this album on the floor of their car. I imagine that for a lot of girls who hung out with arty skater boys that most of the testosterone fueled bands really didn't address their own personal angst. I'm not saying that they couldn't appreciate the anger as an energy, but let's face it: it gets pretty neanderthal at times. Then I imagine some college radio station played this record and the combination of super intelligent wordplay over frantic acoustic guitars struck a chord with them (another unintentional pun). But this is all conjecture. Every woman I found interesting loved this disc. So I bought a copy to try and infiltrate their headspace. It's a damn good album. I was at a place in my life where I was very open minded to music (especially if it was recommended by a collegiate siren) so the lack of electric guitars didn't faze me, neither the the nasal vocals but it's the lyrics that get one. Sophisticated and innocent sounding, clever and vulgar. This has turned out to be a lifelong favorite. It leads me to wonder though: what are the art school ladies listening to these days?

Rainer Maria "look now look again"

I was in an indie rock band for a few years in the late '90s- early '00s and our spirit animal was #rainermaria  . We were never nearly as good but we consciously and unconsciously emulated them. Listening to this CD even now gives me chills and fills me with nostalgic angst. They were a female fronted trio that played hyper emotional intelligent rock music that was lovingly elitist with rich, poetic lyrics and earnest delivery. Yeah, I love them. It is difficult for me to listen to this and not think of shows on the road with my old band because their discography was always in permanent rotation during the hours spent in that van. I have three favorite shows we got to play: 1) opening a sold-out show for Frank Black in Syracuse 2) playing with Helicopter Helicopter and Tugboat Annie at a sold-out show in Boston at the Middle East and 3) opening for Rainer Maria at our beloved Mohawk Place back home. The show was packed, we shared equipment and Caithlin wrote their contact info in one of my sketchbooks. They killed it that night. It was back when it was just the small stage and the place was packed from the cigarette vending machine to the vinyl jukebox. They say you always love the music from the best time of your life. I've led a charmed life and had quite a few of those eras and each one has a distinct soundtrack but this band owns the year 2000 for me. Salad days. (If you want a glimpse of the period at the start of this band google "palomar sky survey interview" it is cringeworthy in it's awkwardness and I have hardly any tattoos, or beard)

Carnivore "carnivore/retaliation"

In high school I loved anything that I thought would shock and freak my mom out. I was pretty naive. It never occurred to me that she had heard George Carlin or Richard Pryor. I had no idea she had smoked weed and had seen more gross shit as a nurse's aid than my beloved heavy metal bands could write about. Someone taped this #carnivore  s/t album for me and upon hearing Peter Steele howl "I love to eat pussy!" I was sold on them (though in all fairness I didn't know exactly what that meant, I still had yet you find my stepfather's porno VHS stash). Later in the album he chants "god is dead!" And i nearly passed out from the glory of this album's perfection. At fourteen I was of the disposition that if you told dirty jokes AND were a blasphemer you were the highest art obtainable. Relistening to this stuff (much like s.o.d.) I'm a little ashamed of how much it's ignorance and chauvinism probably influenced my behavior back then and it's not a record i will be blasting for my kids (they need to discover this kind of stuff organically on their own so I can pretend to be concerned and they get their rebellious kicks) I will say if this record was released today I would absolutely HATE it. It's full of blind American centralism and bigotry that mirrors alot of what I hate about our society so it confuses me why I give this record a pass. Nostalgia may be one of the strongest forces of the human condition. And it kind of shows me that there can be maturing and reasoning to lead you away from the sentiments exposed on this disc. I did it. And not to get too broad but this thought gives me a glimmer of hope for our present political climate.

Lemonheads "hate your friends"

#thelemonheads  released a trio of great punky pop (not pop-punk) albums to close out the '80s before releasing the suck-fest that is "it's a shame about ray". I could write a thesis about how much I hate that fucking album. Somehow the lemonheads later releases haven't ruined their once-great discography like other bands shit platters through the '90s and beyond (ahem... it should have been Lars.) I originally found this album my senior year of high school after my parents had relocated our family to rural hell. I had it on cassette and would listen to it on the long bumpy country school bus rides. I can vividly remember on those bus rides relishing the dichotomy of my personal soundtrack of bratty, punky vocals over short sharply catchy songs to the garth brooks/randy travis country twang soundtrack of dairy farms and corn fields. I clung to my music (and my mohawk) in defiance of the redneck culture I was thrust into. At the school I was actually relatively popular with the locals being a novel urban caricature, and I didn't hate that. I played the part well. I amplified all the "punk"ness I could muster. I dared people to call me out. At the time i believed i was presenting an alternative to their hick culture, but if I'm totally honest now there was a large chunk of attention seeking in my defiance. This album was a big part of that, the locals thought it was just loud screechy noise and I liked them marveling at how someone could enjoy this "music". Then the '90s alternative nation shit happened and made punk cool and made the lemonheads suck. My thunder stolen.

Propagandhi "how to clean everything"

Most of my political and social ideas come from punk rock. It would be mega proletariat of me to site the things i read in high school and college about the world's social injustices and assaults on the working class, but that's a romantic intellectual fairy tale. The ideas that spoke to me were from artists like: Jello Biafra, Dave Dictor and Justin Sullivan. The lyrics these guys put forth in their respective bands struck me like lighting and gave form to abstract thoughts lurking in mind. I was introduced to these artists in the 1980s and in the early '90s found myself pursuing more emotional music as opposed to the political stuff that previously got me wound up. This CD dropped in my lap and wound me up again upon it's release in 1993. A friend had put the extra-catchy track "showdown (g.e.p.)" on a mix tape for me and i was initially won over by the juxtaposition of the romantic and blunt political lyrics of the song. Like the id and ego of someone with turrets syndrome had learned to play guitar. When i finally tracked the disc down for myself I was stoked to see that most of the record was thoughtful and politically enlightening (sophomoric jokes litter the album and sometimes accentuate the heady high ground and sometimes mire the sentiments;"ska sucks" is a throwaway gag track). This cd got me back on course as far as being a thoughtful member of society and it's a damn fine punk album as well. It reminded me that there was suffering even when things were going ok for me. That there is still injustices on the other side of news special interest stories. And that a pun in a band name will still make me take interest. It's the kind of record i hope turns my kids onto the bigger picture stuff when they start discovering music.

Skinny Puppy -discography-

Much like my renewed Rush obsession (have come to really enjoy and appreciate their post "Signals" releases) i am currently neck deep in a rekindled affair with #skinnypuppy  . I've been pretty obsessively listening to them in my car and headphones at home (few co-workers or family members share my affinity for this stuff) i think I'm ready to tackle the newer stuff. I'm reluctant because i really really love the quality of the early stuff and the types of equipment used to make that music (in ironic contrast it's the same equipment that turned me off of Rush albums from that period of time). While newer technology has really increased the fidelity of the newer stuff that I've sampled it just doesn't "feel" right to me. Maybe it's the absence of the late Goettel and the part of the equation he produced, but there is a layer of opacity that is missing from the newer releases. Unearthing the nuances is what i really like about this music (much like Rush). With the crystalline new records everything is immediately audible, nothing feels obscured and thus to me: less "threatening". I've never loved the myriad of Skinny Puppy side projects, maybe it's time i revisit them as well. I will make time for Doubting Thomas, the Tear Garden, Download and OhGr, but for now i want to try and appreciate the tail end of the Puppy's discography. I think i am hooked on the nostalgic archeology of a band's oeuvre and this deep catalog should satiate me for a bit (i have been eyeing up my Iron Maiden CDs for a while because i have a similar abandoned narrative with them as well) before i track down one of their newer CDs I'm going to crank "assimilate" one more time to steel my nerves.

Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong "ella and louis"

For the life of me i cannot remember how i discovered this album. I have vivid memories of it throughout my life and if those memories are to be trusted this disc has been with me for a long, long time. I can remember blaring this CD on the in house sound system of the italian restaurant i worked at during my first couple years of college. I would go early in the morning to clean the dining room for extra money, and more importantly the lavish breakfasts that the old lady who prepped food in the morning would make me. I am pretty sure i would have starved to death were it not for her kindness and the heaping plates of meat, eggs and potatoes she would set out for me. I had never asked for them and every morning i was scheduled to come in she would have the glorious food set out and would stubbornly insist i was too skinny (something i have not heard in many years). While i scarfed the food at a stainless steel prep table she would go back to hand rolling meatballs and sprinkling seasoning in her giant cauldron of sauce. One of those mornings she asked about this album that i had been playing daily. She remarked: "not many people your age listen to good music anymore." And she asked if i would put the music in a tape for her. Anyone who collects music lives for these moments; the opportunity to share the music you've discovered and collected. It was a small way to show my appreciation but I was so glad to do it. I remember drawing a heart shaped egg on the cover of the cassette and writing "for Mary, breakfast for two" in my best script. I had driven through that college town not too long ago and that italian restaurant was gone. Not just a change of ownership but was demolished. It surprised me how sad it struck me. Listening to this album now I'm thinking of her, I'm sure she passed this mortal coil long ago but I'm feeling grateful listening to this disc this morning and remembering her. I'm going to make my youngest some eggs for breakfast and try to channel the kindness she showed me in her memory.

Slayer "haunting the chapel"

I have a sister who is a year younger than me. Our childhood (and frankly our adulthood) has been a balance of protectionism and assault. While we have bloodied each on many occasions i had zero tolerance for people bullying her. One day she came home from school crying and i eavesdropped her confiding to my mother that this boy at school had been saying some pretty vicious stuff towards her. I recognized his name and knew he was one of a pair of identical twins. I seethed with protective rage and on the following school day i looked for the kid before middle school homeroom. I walked up to him told him to leave my sister alone and smashed his head into his locker door. Turns out i was smashing his brother's head. News of the confrontation spread throughout the school and before i knew it an official fight had been set up for the following friday night at the playground behind the elementary school. I showed up for the fight with a group of my headbanger friends and the twins showed up with a group of their jock comrades. The two groups circled us and howled in gladiatorial delight. I squared off with the twin, we sized each other up and he roared and feigned a lunge to which i punched him loudly in the cheek. He reeled and fell backward. I pounced pummeling him with punches. His brother then tackled me off him and we rolled around the playground turf with me ending up on top of him. I rained fists on his face and hands as he tried to protect himself. I was eventually pulled off of him and hailed by my metal legion. We howled and stomped around the moonlit playground. The following week when i got to school i saw one of the twins had a shiner and taunted how at least now i could tell them apart. The other brother skulked by and had an identical black eye and my friends laughed with delight. You can't even make that shit up. During the fray my "haunting the chapel" t-shirt was ripped. My mom hated that shirt. But one day after school my shirt was on my bed mended with a sewn scar from the collar to the realigned bloody font. I walked out to thank her and she said she had heard what i had done and that she was grateful that i stuck up for my sister.

Judas Priest "screaming for vengeance "

In 1987 i had decided to try weed for the first time. It's not that i was a stranger to hesher partying, i had already at that point discovered an affinity for peach schnapps and on any given night could be found lurking around with stolen Gennese pounders stashed in the recesses of my leather jacket. By this point i had been close to alcohol poisoning my cheap scotch and had already developed a fondness for acid and cheap speed but to enjoy weed you actually had to smoke it. Bleecchh! My parents were chain smokers and heaping foul ashtrays littered our house, the grossest one sat on the kitchen table where i would try to construct a fortress of cereal boxes to avoid the teetering pile of butts and ash as i attempted to scarf down my Golden Grahams. For me smoking anything seemed about as enticing as sucking on a cat turd. A friend of mine was a small time pot peddler and we had been hanging out in his basement playing pool and listening to "screaming for vengeance" and probably ranking the "doability" of our female classmates. My buddy had proudly constructed a gravity bong out of 2 litre plastic soda bottles. He demonstrated it and it out of boredom (and probably egged on by the anthemic "(take these)chains") i decided to give it a go. It became an event, the handful of stoned longhairs high-fived me and jostled me as they packed the bong. The smoke was thrust into my mouth and lungs. I fucking hated it. The taste of burn had immediately flashed images of over filled car ashtrays and the smell of my stepfather's work jacket. I reeled, i coughed and gagged. The whole time Rob Halford's once welcome howl became a diaphragm cramping shriek. I threw up the pretzels we had absconded from my friend's mom's snack closet. Everyone paused and looked at the pile of up-chuck next to the washing machine then someone howled in celebration triggering a round of back pats, headbanging and air guitar. As we soaked in side b of this record i realised that weed wasn't for me.