Here's a curious little chunk of metal history for you: the first ever demo from Egypt South Carolina's own bastard sons, NILE. I'm pretty sure I made passing reference to this 5-song cassette in some other post in the past, but I felt it deserved its own little sarcophagus chiseled out in the vast catacombs of IllCon lore, being as it is such a strange and goofy documentation in itself. Now, I'm not a huge Nile fan, my appreciation for them crested at about Black Seeds and has levelled off a little more every album since. But these dudes make some pretty cool, unique music, and their good recordings are indeed really good. That being said: man, this demo is some weird shit. Musically, all the Nile-isms are present--Karl Sanders' distinct, soaring guitar lines, the doomy, plodding, bass-heavy riffs, the occasional cacophonous ogre-roar--but Jesus, those vocals. I guess I would call them quasi-Hetfield-esque: Nile were definitely aiming for a more "commercial" sound at this early point in their career, and hearing them with these Southern-Baptist-preacher vocal lines over their music is quite a trip. The songs themselves even veer off into what might be called "nu-metal" territory once or twice during the course of this demo, inevitably causing the more ponderous metalhead to contemplate what might have become of Nile had they followed this odd path. Weird. Still pretty good, but weird.
Everybody needs to just chill the fuck out. Seriously. Let's take a step back and look at the world's problems. I know it's a tall order, but bear with me on this. All the bullshit, man: war, politics, pollution, murder, injustice, strife, genocide, blah blah blah... Why? Why are we stricken with these avatars of evil, these manifestations of man's hatred toward himself? I'll tell you why: because MOTHERFUCKERS DON'T KNOW HOW TO CHILL THE FUCK OUT. "The Guys in Charge" are full of stress and anger, and their mismanaged tensions are expressed through acts of aggression and wild grabs for the foolish concept of "power". They are unable to chill and just be Bros, so driven are they by lust for money and the urge to dictate the rights and thoughts of others. They need a bongload. They need a Ritalin. They need a fucking Quaalude. Imagine what a better place the world would be if The Guys in Charge figured that one out.
Seriously. CHILL THE FUCK OUT.
SPOOKY TOOTH - SPOOKY TWO (1969)
Speaking of chilling the fuck out, Spooky Tooth knew how to do just that, and display such knowledge accordingly on their second (and best) LP, Spooky Two. These hairy freaks are no stranger to the stray bongload, this much I can guarantee, and their crispy-ass tunes are bound to appeal to both the Bearded Hessian and the Flower Child. Sporting not one but two keyboard players, the Tooth's jams are darker and heavier than just about anything else that could be found at the time (see "Evil Woman" or "Hangman Hang My Shell On A Tree"), with lyrical content occasionally lapsing over into a style verging on "morbid". Now, I'm sure most of you are aware of Metallica's fondness for late 70's/early 80's NWOBHM, and the resulting attention that their obsession cast onto nearly-forgotten bands like Angel Witch, Budgie, or Blitzkreig in the late 80's. Well, Spooky Tooth experienced a similar resurgance in popularity via heavy metal, but in their case it was Judas Priest who cast the proverbial flashlight on their obscurity, covering the Tooth jam "Better By You, Better Than Me" on their 1978 album Stained Class. The fact that this song in particular was singled out in a trial in 1990, alleging that the Priest version contained subliminal messages urging suicide, guaranteed Spooky Tooth's inclusion in the ol' rock and roll history books--for better or worse.
Man, it just doesn't get much more chill than this sucker right here. Don't be fooled by the title, band name, or album cover--the Satanic evil present in the music of Salem Mass is minimal, present in more of a conceptual/aesthetic manner than any sort of real, LaVey-ish dedication to the Dark Prince. What you do get is a shitload of laid-back, proto-psych jams laden with almost ridiculous amounts of organ noodling, almost poppy at points but refreshingly dark once the ten-plus-minute title track rolls around. These dudes hailed from the frozen, hoary wastes of Sun Valley, Idaho, forming, recording this album, and breaking up all within the same year. Witch Burning is a testament to their almost-entirely uncelebrated genius, a trippy little treasure mired in a sea of mediocrity. May it guide you pure and true in your never-ending quest to CHILL THE FUCK OUT.
Nothing particularly unique or groundbreaking about Blood Reaping's blasphemous 2003 effort Ignis Penumbra, pretty much your standard 2-minute "atmospheric" intro followed by a full 50 minutes of chaotic, blasting hatred. But it is well executed, unrelenting, and exceedingly brutal, and if you're the type of Hessian that can hang with the monochromatic stylings of Immolation or Incantation then Blood Reaping just might be for you. I offered this band's first album in a convoluted post way back here, which was, along with Penumbra, the only other recorded material they managed to release before the death of their drummer, Saul. I think. Information on this band is actually kind of hazy. But either way, there is certainly a shitload of frenzied shredding going on with these guys, and as you already know, ESL song titles like "Witching Bloodreaping" go a long way for me. As is often the case with obscure Mexican death metal, the album cover here pretty much says it all. Not a lot of surprises, but solid as fuck.
First day of Summer. You know what that means... You got it: ILLCON MIXTAPE TIME!
It's miserably hot here in the Bay. So miserable, in fact, that I've been suddenly filled with the urge to punish myself with the worst metal humanly possible. Inspired by the recent shark-jumping of Vincent, Azagthoth, and company, I've decided that today's compilation will focus on the collective low points of certain common favorites in the "extreme metal" community--from the Big 4, Sabbath, and Motorhead, to some slightly more obscure death metal luminaries of the recent past. Exactly why I've chosen to explore the shared failure and shame of these beloved rock icons I can't really say... I guess now is just a time of extreme masochism and darkness for me, and the only way to express my angst is through bad art. Take THAT, Teenage Cobras! As always, your recommendations for other shameful chapters in the lives of our heroes are welcome--share them in the comments section!
1. SLAYER - Born To Be Wild (from the amazing album NASCAR on Fox Presents: Crank It Up) 2. METALLICA w/ DJ SPOOKY - For Whom The Bell Tolls (The Irony of It All) 3. MANOWAR - Silent Night 4. AMON AMARTH - Aerials 5. MORBID ANGEL - Radikult 6. CELTIC FROST - I Won't Dance 7. NAPALM DEATH - Twist The Knife (Slowly) (Not even really that bad of a song--but the fact that it appears on the Mortal Kombat OST warrants its inclusion here.) 8. JUDAS PRIEST - Turbo Lover (Included for bad 80's drum-reverb abuse only.) 9. SLAYER & ICE T - Disorder 10. BLACK SABBATH - It's Alright 11. CRYPTOPSY - Bemoan The Martyr 12. MEGADETH - Youthanasia 13. MOTORHEAD - Enter Sandman (Fuck Metallica) (from the amazing album ECW: Extreme Music--a pro wrestling based hard rock compilation) 14. ANTHRAX - Random Acts of Senseless Violence 15. CARCASS - I Told You So (Corporate Rock Really Does Suck) 16. SOULFLY - Jumpdafuckup (I've never been a fan of Soulfly, but I have been a fan of Max Cavalera. And this song is just tooo good.) 17. METALLICA - Turn The Page 18. SLAYER - Playing With Dolls (completion of today's Slayer triumverate)
Have I pounded the importance of obtaining Dawn's 1994 album Nær Sólen Gar Niþer For Evogher into your thick fucking skulls yet? Hopefully I have, but if not, here it goes again: FAILURE TO WORSHIP AT THE ALTAR OF DAWN WILL RESULT IN YOUR EXPULSION FROM FURTHER ILLCON LECTURES, AND ALSO HASTEN THE EXPOSURE OF YOUR POSE TO THE BROS. Got it? Good. That being said, the importance of Dawn's swan song Slaughtersun is roughly twice that of Nær Sólen, meaning that failure to recognize will result in no less than instant execution on grounds of pure, inexcusable poserhood. THIS is the closest that any other Swedish band came to the pure black/death perfection of Dissection. THIS is one of the few acts that can maintain my rapt attention throughout a long series of 8-to-12-minute songs. Shit, THIS is one of the few bands that can even play 8-to-12-minute songs of this caliber, speed, and intensity, without relenting, pussing out, or going all turgid. Fucking. Awesome. Fucking. Metal. Have I made myself clear?
Hot damn! Here's a steaming chunk of proto-tech-death that I dug up over at Death Metal Pornos And Beer recently, an absurdly off-kilter and morbidly curious little platter of Minnesotan brutality that seemed right at home here on IllCon. BRICK (who only managed this one release in the duration of their all-too-brief career) have plenty in common with other perennial 90's DM favorites like Obscura-era Gorguts, Disincarnate, Human Remains, and early Cryptopsy, tossing all sorts of musical curveballs through the relatively thin production of Secured In Darkness, from the atonal hammer-offs of the lead track "Forgotten" (see Gorguts' "Obscura", released a year later) to the ghostly, out-of-nowhere operatic vocals that invade the most technical sections of "Carrion". Yeah, the drumset sounds like it's covered in a wet blanket, and the vocals might be a bit too loud, and the guitars a little tinny, but SHIT!--this is how I want my metal: organic, raw, and batshit crazy. Thanks to DMPAB for the head's up!
Wikipedia: Louis Wain (5 August 1860 – 4 July 1939) was an English artist best known for his drawings, which consistently featured anthropomorphised large-eyed cats and kittens. In his later years he suffered from schizophrenia, which, according to some psychologists, can be seen in his works. At the age of 23, Wain married his sisters' governess, Emily Richardson, who was ten years his senior (which was considered quite scandalous at the time), and moved with her to Hampstead in north London. Emily soon began to suffer from cancer, and died only three years into their marriage. It was during this period that Wain discovered the subject that would define his career. During her illness, Emily was comforted by their pet cat Peter, and Wain taught him tricks such as wearing spectacles and pretending to read in order to amuse his wife. He began to draw extensive sketches of the large black and white cat. He later wrote of Peter, "To him properly belongs the foundation of my career, the developments of my initial efforts, and the establishing of my work." Peter can be recognized in many of Wain's early published works.
More Wiki-ness: In subsequent years, Wain's cats began to walk upright, smile broadly and use other exaggerated facial expressions, and wear sophisticated contemporary clothing. Wain's illustrations showed cats playing musical instruments, serving tea, playing cards, fishing, smoking, and enjoying a night at the opera. Such anthropomorphic portrayals of animals were very popular in Victorian England, and were often found in prints, on greeting cards and in satirical illustrations such as those of John Tenniel. Wain was a prolific artist over the next thirty years, sometimes producing as many as several hundred drawings a year. He illustrated about one hundred children's books, and his work appeared in papers, journals, and magazines, including the Louis Wain Annual, which ran from 1901 to 1915.
Yet more: From this point, Wain's popularity began to decline. He returned from New York broke, and his mother had died of Spanish influenza while he was abroad. His mental instability also began around this time, and increased gradually over the years. He had always been considered quite charming but odd, and often had difficulty in distinguishing between fact and fantasy. Others frequently found him incomprehensible, due to his way of speaking tangentially. His behavior and personality changed, and he began to suffer from delusions, with the onset of schizophrenia. Whereas he had been a mild-mannered and trusting man, he became hostile and suspicious, particularly towards his sisters. He claimed that the flickering of the cinema screen had robbed the electricity from their brains. He began wandering the streets at night, rearranging furniture within the house, and spent long periods locked in his room writing incoherently. Some speculate that the onset of Wain's schizophrenia was precipitated by toxoplasmosis, a parasitic infection that can be contracted from cats. The theory that toxoplasmosis can trigger schizophrenia is the subject of ongoing research, though the origins of the theory can be traced back as early as 1953.
During the onset of his disease at 57, Wain continued to paint, draw and sketch cats, but the focus changed from fanciful situations, to focus on the cats themselves. Characteristic changes in the art began to occur, changes common to schizophrenic artists. Jagged lines of bright color began emanating from his feline subjects. The outlines of the cats became severe and spiky, and their outlines persisted well throughout the sketches, as if they were throwing off energy. Soon the cats became abstracted, seeming now to be made up of hundreds of small repetitive shapes, coming together in a clashing jangles of color that transform the cat into something resembling an Eastern diety. The abstraction continued, the cats now being seen as made up by small repeating patterns, almost fractal in nature. Until finally they ceased to resemble cats at all, and became the ultimate abstraction, an indistinct form made up by near symmetrical repeating patterns.
The dramatically satisfying idea that these beautiful pieces reflect Wain's ongoing descent into schizophrenia is most likely untrue. In his biography of Wain, The Man Who Drew Cats (as far as I know this is the only biography of the artist), Rodney Dale shows that Dr Walter Maclay, a collector of art by mental patients, found the images and arranged them, arbitrarily (some are unsigned and all are undated), into an order that suggested the progression of Wain's madness... Says Dale: "Assembling what little factual knowledge we have on Dr Maclay's eight paintings, there is clearly no justification for regarding them as more than samples of Louis Wain's art at different times. Wain experimented with patterns and cats, and even quite late in life was still producing conventional cat pictures..." The kaleidoscopic cats, and other fine examples of art by sufferers from schizophrenia, depression and other mental illnesses, are on display at the Bethlehem hospital archive and gallery in Beckenhem, Kent (just south of London) which is well worth a visit.
Man, after that big, sexy MR. AWESOME post, you guys must really be hankerin' for some "alone time", eh? Well, to help nudge you all into the Tug Zone, I offer today the smooth-ass sexx rapps of Mr. Richard Walters aka SLICK RICK, via his first two releases: 1988's The Great Adventures Of... and 1991's The Ruler's Back. Rick was born to a Jamaican family in London in 1965, losing his right eye to an unfortunate run-in with broken glass as an infant. These two occurences supplied him with his two most recognizable traits as a rapper--a drawling, vaguely Cockney lilt and oddly "Queen's English"-esque cadence to his voice, and the ever-present "Slick Rick eyepatch" that constantly adorns his face. His family came to NYC when he was 10, and by the early 80's, Rick was deeply involved in the hip-hop scene there, eventually becoming part of Doug E. Fresh's Get Fresh Crew before his excursion into a solo career. Despite several run-ins with the law (he spent the years 1991-1996 in prison for attempted murder, recording his third album Behind Bars while still incarcerated at Riker's Island), Slick Rick still managed to have a highly successful career, releasing his magnum opus, The Art of Storytelling, just three years after his release. Oddly enough, he received a full and unconditional pardon from all charges in 2008 from (also vision-impaired) New York Governor David Paterson. Sounds like some shady blind-guy favoritism going on...
If, by any chance, you've already heard of Roy "Mr. Awesome" Shildt, it was most likely through the 2007 documentary The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters, a film I myself didn't get around to watching until just recently despite the cloud of positive acclaim and hype surrounding it. Shildt is portrayed in something of a negative light in the film, shown as sort of a bad influence on protagonist Steve Weibe and introduced as a comic foil--amongst a cast full of potential comic foils. But "Mr. Awesome" is nothing short of an American Hero, an inspirational figure worthy of a documentary film all to himself. Join me, won't you, in an exploration of the life and times of MISTER AWESOME--champion of the people, avenging angel, and proof that the only limits to your own personal potential are the proportions in which you dare to dream!
Roy Shildt first rose to a modicum of minor local celebrity-hood in the mid-80's by setting the world record for high score on the arcade classic Missile Command--a game, he points out, which is far superior to "candy-ass" games like Pac Man or Donkey Kong, fraught with allusions to virility and manliness (the phallic appearance of the "missiles" should be a major clue) and technically challenging due to the 'track ball' prevalent in gameplay. Shildt's mastery of Missile Command indeed became a parallel to his mastery of life itself in coming years, and as his accolades grew, so too did his biceps, quads, pecs, and lats...
Yes, Mr. Awesome's addiction to the gym was almost as powerful as his addiction to Missile Command, and a more stout and powerful video-game nerd you were highly unlikely to find in Awesome's local Los Angeles haunts in the late 80's. Adopting a new uniform, persona, and Camaro replete with lightning-bolt decals and personalized license plate, Mr. Awesome took to the streets to spread his message of empowerment, strength, self-respect, and boning hot chicks. Awesome's path was a righteous one.
Prepare to be inspired:
My own introduction to the Mr. Awesome legacy was not, in fact, via King of Kong: rather it came from Adam Parfrey's excellent 2000 compendium Apocalypse Culture II, the book which hipped me to so many other arcane subjects--such as (among other things) unconvicted Japanese cannibal Issei Sagawa, the heinously surreal films of Crispin Glover, and the horrifying birth and psychological implications of RealDoll. If memory serves, Mr. Awesome's section was the final chapter in the book, a fitting end to the biggest mindfuck since The Illuminatus! Trilogy.
From Apocalypse Culture II:
Roy Shildt believes that his awesome potetential is based on three major factors:
1. Roy Shildt is listed in the 1986 edition of The Guinness Book of World Records as having had the highest score for the video game, “Missile Command”. Almost 100 “computer athletes” are listed in the Guinness Book, but Mr. Shildt was inducted as the first member of “Video Hall of Fame” (location unknown). The individual who achieved the highest score for Donkey Kong cannot make the same claim.
2. Roy Shildt took out a one-third-page ad in the May 1989 issue of Playgirl magazine, which includes a picture of his disturbingly naked musclebound body standing next to a six-foot-aluminium ladder. Listed in this ad are Mr. Awesome’s sperm count statistics, his availability for “bachelorette parties, character roles in motion pictures, Swedish massage, tour guiding an dpersonal fitness training”, and his actual phone number.
3. After mailing a letter and issue of Playgirl magazine to the media personality Madonna, the woman – according to Mr. Shildt – actually called him up. Material mailed to this writer by Mr. Shildt included a lengthy, obsessive fixation in the form of the Playboy column “20 Questions” speculating on Madonna’s desperate need for Mr. Awesome’s sperm.
DON'T GET CHUMPATIZED
Knowing that his American Success Story could serve to inspire millions, Mr. Awesome quickly rose to an unprecedented level of international prominence and respect, destroying his enemies, boning all the hot chicks, assisting the downtrodden, and then boning more hot chicks.
More from Parfrey's interview with Shildt in ACII:
Mr. Shildt tells me that the prime vehicle for establishing his coming celebrity will be a comic called, “The Comic Book Life of Roy Shildt”, which would include a “mini-story” called “The Mr. Awesome Training Manual” that informs “comic book nerds over the age of 18 how to ‘get all the babes you ever dreamed of.’”
“We can sell millions,” rants Mr. Shildt/Awesome to this author by phone. “Millions. All you have to do is help me write it, and print the thing. If you fuck me over like the scumbags of Hollywood and everyone else, you’ll get yours. If you do me well, I won’t forget you. Mr. Awesome is the avenging angel of all the fucked-over people who tried to make it in Hollywood. My name is going to be worth a lot of money.”
The chapter about Mr. Awesome in ACII also contains a couple unnecessarily graphic photos of a nude Awesome engaged in faux copulation with a siliconed-out porn star on the hood of his Camaro. I know you guys are dying to see them, and I would have scanned them and included them here, but Peter has had my copy of that book for like 2 years now. WHAT'S UP WITH THAT, BRO?
Karl Sanders: Extreme Metal Lolfest.
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