After the towering success of 2007's "Witchcult Today," Electric Wizard's hotly-anticipated 2010 release "Black Masses" feels a little disappointing. It's not bad, and it's a lot better than most of the pseudometal that gets flogged to consumers these days, but it doesn't crush my psyche like "Witchcult" or their earlier classics. Let's examine it.
The first thing one notices upon spinning this record is that its overall feel doesn't have much to do with the sound that is generally associated with doom metal. Instead of monolithic, lumbering doom riffs, we get harsh shambling patterns that have much in common with sludge metal. Part of this comes from the tempos, which on average are a little faster than the usual dinosaur doom fare. The tones on this LP aren't immense or majestic, but instead rough, droney, and claustrophobic. Unlike their other releases, you pretty much have to listen to this disc at high speaker volumes, because only then will you hear the thundering fury of the sound. At office or crummy-headphone volume, it sounds pretty noisy and subdued. Also notable in the mix are a lot of spacey keyboard and guitar effects, which are present but not overbearing in their older records.
The other jarring thing about the sound is that singer Jus Oborn's vocals are mixed unusually loud in the mix and sheathed in a tinny David Bowie-style reverb effect. Oborn's not the virtuosic singer that, say, Pete Stahl is, and I think his voice sounds better when it's less prominent and treated as another instrument in the mix ("Dopethrone" is a great example of this approach). He seems to rely increasingly on a "sneering" vocal style that kind of takes away from whatever gravitas the songs have - the punningly-titled "Satyr IX" here is a case in point. I think he's going for an Ozzy feel here, but it doesn't quite work.
So what of the songs, you ask? The LP begins with the chugging sludge tune "Black Mass," which is a decent song that vaguely recalls "Dunwich" from the previous record, though it doesn't swing like that song. Oborn repeats the title often and sounds pretty excited about the fact that a black mass is happening. Next up is a cut called "Venus in Furs," which, to my immense disappointment, isn't a cover of the Velvet Underground song of the same name. I'm sure that my feelings about this track are colored by that disappointment, but I find the song to be mediocre at best. However, I'm quite sure that THE WIZARD were at least inspired by the Velvets song, because the overall sound of "Black Masses" with its noise and harsh drone is actually quite close to that of the Velvets' "White Light / White Heat."
These are followed by "The Nightchild," which sounds like a pretty good doomy tune but is dragged down a bit by whining vocals from Oborn, and "Patterns of Evil," which has one of the coolest titles ever but is completely forgettable. In all seriousness, I've listened to this tune three dozen times and it just doesn't stick with me. Then we get the aforementioned "Satyr IX," which again has good music but is hurt by trebly production.
Fortunately, the next track is "Turn Off Your Mind," another tune with a great title but one that actually delivers on all fronts. Great (bad) vibe, good riff, and listenable vocal execution. This is the catchiest song on the record by far, and furthermore, has a message that I can really get behind. An excellent dismissal of the world at large and an irresistable invitation to withdraw into the Void.
The following song "Scorpio Curse" is similarly well-done, with the dire atmosphere, brain-drilling guitars, and lyrical pessimism that we expect from THE WIZARD. "This world is dead," chants Oborn, and he's right, at least for the song's seven nihilistic minutes.
The LP closes with another worthless but innocuous ambient / instrumental piece, "Crypt of Drugula." I kind of wish Electric Wizard would stop using this classic Stooges trick to pad out their albums, but what indeed can one do?
I give THE WIZARD props for trying to shake things up with "Black Masses" instead of just churning out a followup record plump with enjoyable but generic doom metal, as they certainly could have. It seems, though, like more of their effort went into style innovations than songwriting. With only two killer tunes and a lot of missteps in production, "Black Masses" is only somewhat better than "We Live," falling far short of the cataclysmic brilliance of "Witchcult Today," "Come My Fanatics," or "Dopethrone." Even so, you should still buy it, to send the message that there's still a market for music that doen't suck, conform to trends, or appear in "Old Navy" commercials. (31,341)
I was talking last night with Chris Young from Integrum; the discussion turned to spirituality and Zen practice. Young has been doing Zen for a while and is a Buddhist. I became interested in Zen in college primarily because of Zen koans, which are short questions or dialogues whose apparently irrational answers are designed to make one conscious of one's own mind and the way our habits of perception influence, and indeed distort, our ability to experience truth. I mentioned to Chris that I was kind of thinking about experimenting with some other aspects of Zen even though I don't agree with much of what I thought Buddhism to assert.
I didn't have time to go into the real particulars of my viewpoint in our convo, and I think this is an interesting topic, so I'll give a brief rundown here.
Particular among the disagreements is that, whereas I thought Buddhism had as a tenet the assertion that time is cyclical and unending, I hold that time is static. That is to say, that change does not exist and that everything – 'past' and 'future' included – exists all at once. Since time is generally understood as a way to measure change, my assertion is essentially that time does not exist.
Furthermore, since I hold that all events and instants exist concurrently – right now – this also means that reality is deterministic. This may sound weird coming from me, a big physics buff and fan of quantum mechanics (which is a physics worldview stating that all things behave probabilistically). But in fact, just because each instant carries with it a specific set of probabilities (known to physics kids as “wave functions”), that doesn't mean that the outcomes of those probabilities are indeterminate. See, if instant “A” is the setup with probability wave function Q, and instant “B” is the observed outcome where the wave function of Q collapses and we see which of the probable results is realized, both instants “A” and “B” can exist at the same time without negating the probability function in “A.” Even from a traditional quantum-mechanical perspective, as long as we don't look at “B” before we look at “A,” nothing weird happens to Q. But what I'm saying is that there is no “before.” “A” and “B” simply are. This is a reality of predetermined probabilistic outcomes.
You can think of it like an animated movie. When we watch the movie “Aladdin” on a VCR, we perceive that we're seeing a sequence of events, a flow of images and words that is in constant motion, heading toward a conclusion. But the reality of “Aladdin” is that there is a big pile of animation cels sitting in a box over at Disney that includes every instant, from “start” to “finish,” that we perceive as we watch the movie. If we could go over to Disney's vault, we could open that box and pull out cels from any arbitrary point in the movie, without having to look at them in a sequence as we do when it's played on tape. That's because all of the cels, all the instants, exist already. We could even pick up the whole box and see them all at the very same time.
Clearly, there is some mechanism by which we perceive that change occurs, but whatever that is, it's like the VCR in my example above. It's some kind of intermediary between the objective reality (a big box of instants that are already configured and exist concurrently) and our perception (that there is a flow or series of changes which we experience in a sequence, suggesting time).
Boing! Sounds crazy, right? But in fact, it's strongly suggested by Einstein's ideas of relativity and especially by the Minkowski spacetime “loaf.” This is what first turned me on the fact that time is static. See, one can simplistically think about spacetime as a “loaf,” like a bread loaf. Each instant in “time,” each realized configuration of particles, is a slice of this loaf. Now, relativity says that an observer moving really fast relative to another observer can go look at a faraway slice and then 'return' to their original location. For the fast-moving observer, only X amount of time will have passed, but for the slow-moving observer, much more time – like maybe x^2 or thousands of years more, if the other guy was travelling at close to the speed of light – will have elapsed. Effectively, the fast-moving observer has travelled into the “future.” This shows that one's position in the spacetime loaf is arbitrary and that configurations existing in the “future” for some observers exist in the “present” for others. The clear implication is that time is static – the whole loaf exists at once, and any point within it can be accessed according to the speed of the observer. So, if we could somehow see the loaf from the outside (we're inside it now), we would see that it is whole and exists in its entirety right now. All the slices are already there, we just can't see them all at once when we're inside it.
[Note : under our current understanding of physics, the fast-travelling observer example applies only to movement into the 'future.' Nobody has been able to figure out how to access the “past,” even though math symmetry principles suggest that movement should be symmetrically possible in either direction. This problem is called the “arrow of time,” and is the major physics and philosophy issue that dogs the hypothesis that reality is completely static. Another problem is that it appears nothing can exceed the speed of light. If time does not exist, neither does speed.]
The English physicist Julian Barbour, whose book “The End of Time” is the most popular serious treatment of this subject from a scientific perspective, had the useful idea of conceptualizing each cel or 'instant' of reality as a “configuration space” – a mathematical concept that can be thought of as representing the positions of each particle in the universe at that 'instant.' This makes it a lot easier for me to think about – all these cels or instants are just lists of particle co-ordinates that exist concurrently on a big stack of cosmic flash cards.
So there it is. Time does not exist. Can you dig it?
End note : Young enlightened me that Buddhism does not really hold that time is cyclical. That concept is what they call 'expedient means' to help students grasp the true nature of reality – nirvana – which, says Young, is timeless, unlike the rock band of the same name. (43,653)
Needles of rain spiked down occluding the neon signs which were offering the gamut of wares; ranging from cheap anonymous sex to high cost fine dining. A trio of hunched bodies under a nearby stoop alternately retched spasmodically and tore at their gums with long yellowed clawlike fingernails. A tall thin shadowy figure drew on the strings of his hoodie in tight, paying the living dead little heed. Customers; in an indirect manner all the same but business is business. A quick inventory of pens, then our man continued on his way. You can’t get by on the streets without having at least a hint of the score and anyone in the game of dreck had spilled enough red and pink upon the pavement to ever worry for any trouble. A reputation for brutality is indeed the best offense. Faces passed by in the crowd and lips shaped silent words but null was heeded as the man moved upon his mission. A man on a mission is a nigh immobile object, hellbent on content; the man moved his way through the masses with the grace and finesse of a jungle feline on the stalk. The giggles and jeers of the whores were downstorted into a common drone along with the majority of the street traffic. A massively obese drag queen attempted to pitch a trick but immediately turned the other way once her distorted pupils focused on the face beneath the hood. (47,611)
Failures ring along my spine The haunts of endless fruitless time Love sought wrong life devoured Innocence lays torn bleeding deflowered
Holes form scars upon my hands Anything more to not have to stand However you do it wherever you go Get there whatever way you know
Defeating earths gravity by chemical means Reality guises those unmentionable unseens Lords of This World ruinous intent A Plague of Angels they have sent
On the nod again please not again GG Allin died from this sin One hand a needle the other a spoon That disfigured claw The Hand Of Doom
Tranquilized mind and frame contorted A blessing I say for those souls aborted Abolish my psyche make me feel The need to revel in something real
Feeds my impotence brings no releif Conception is the initial grief Push the Button begin the end After Forever begins again
Killed my time like killing a child Done ever in the VEIN style Seeking the unsought everything Always madness touching something (41,910)
OK, here we go, my soggy mopesters. In it to win it this time, so do your wurst! +10 oblivion points to anyone who correctly guesses th' inspiration for this one.
__
My feet are tired and my hands are sticky Don't think I'll ever make it home The name of forgiveness freezes in my throat So many nights with just the stars as my coat
Am I gone?
A wretched close to this benighted year I don't think I can do any more The soreness crawls like a spider up my back The remorse won't stop gnawing; don't think I'm intact
Am I gone?
Maybe they asked a favor And maybe I said "OK" And maybe now I'm feeling I'm in a place with no escape
This has been such a tough year This has been such a tough year [maybe you can't take any more] This has been such a tough year This has been such a tough year [you just can't take any more] This has been such a tough year [you just can't take any more] This has been such a tough year [you just can't take any more] This has been such a tough year I just can't take any more This has been such a tough year I just can't take any more This has been such a tough year I JUST CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE This has been such a tough year I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT
The pop-critic establishment is already busy disparaging th' new release from Massive Attack, the English group responsible for welding R+B, dub, and pure burning hopeless doom into a mesmeric sound that rips lives out of living humans. The previous release under the Massive Attack name, "100th Window" was a grody platter of hot sleep garbage, so my hopes weren't all that high for this record, th' geographically-named "Heligoland." However, after listening to this joint on repeat for the past week, I can say with confidence that the critics hating on it either haven't listened to it (I'm looking at you, Pitchfork) or have no idea what Massive Attack are supposed to be about (hey bloggers!). The raw fact is that this record is exactly what a Massive Attack record is supposed to be : adventurous, unpredictable, and capable of sending the listener into a melancholic reverie.
Pitchfork's review goon intones that Massive Attack fail to 'engage current music' with this release, rattling off a list of recent genres like 'dubstep' and 'UK funky' in an attempt to sound hip and asking why th' band doesn't do something in relation to those styles. This is silly. Massive Attack has never been interested in following or 'engaging' current music trends, they are in the business of creating fresh music styles. Suggesting that the band should have incorporated obvious dubstep references into this album is like saying that "Blue Lines" should have had acid house splashed all over it.
While it wouldn't be fair to say that this is a retro album, the 90s do creep up pretty big here. The vocal spots by Blur's Damon Albarn and Tricky's Martina Topley-Bird, th' recklessly unpolished beats, th' wild assemblage of genres. In fact, th' record that sounds most like "Heligoland" is Tricky's own "Nearly God," wherein th' mush-mouthed master of paranoia explored all kinds of new craggy musical forms in underproduced, rough, and totally enveloping tunes. That same kind of punchy excitement is here on "Heligoland" as well.
It kicks off with "Pray for Rain," a number sung by that guy from TV On The Radio. This tune is strongly reminiscent of "Remain in Light" era Talking Heads or classic Peter Gabriel. A vaguely witch-doctor midtempo loop prods Tunde Adebimpe along in his lyrics which evoke some kind of weird tribal ritual. The climax of this tune has a cache of lyrical gems like "Drops on rocks fall fast and fleeting… hidden laws unleash their meaning." The vibe is tense and anticipatory, rather than tense and paranoid. Some complain that this tune is overlong, but in fact, it's just right for sending you zoning into a harsh rude daydream.
Th' next cut, "Babel" is a little jarring with its fast straight drum-and-bass loop and more Talking Heads guitars, but then Topley-Bird's sly, streetworn voice floats in and recalls in tempo and knowing authority her performance of "Black Steel in The Hour of Chaos" from 1995. The skittering drums might be distracting for some (they're certainly quicker than anything else Massive Attack has done), but it's no cookie-cutter Metalheadz beat, and the twitchy speed creates an ill mood.
The sole vocal appearance by much-needed Daddy G follows, on posse mope "Splitting the Atom." This is a crypto-rocksteady tune that is just glum enough while also grooving steadily. Horace Andy thankfully reappears for the first time on this track.
No lead-in could prepare the listener for "Girl I Love You," a generically-titled song that is by any measure, the equal of any other Massive Attack tune. With Horace Andy's plaintive voice floating over an urgent-sounding rock bass and terrifying horn chart, this tune immediately ensnarls you like a barbed wire tumbleweed. Th' uncertianty and fear in Andy's voice is almost unbearable, and this tune has the kind of dynamics that are bound to blow an addled mind.
Next up is th' unfairly-maligned "Psyche," a tune so minimalist that it borders on Minimalism. Again, Topley-Bird mics it here, with good lyrics and her characteristic after-hours tone. Some folks find this jam overly simplistic or boring, but if you ask me, it's kind of fresh and has a deep structure that really sneaks up on you.
The "Flat of the Blade" is next, wherein some guy from a band called Elbow proceeds to maximally creep out over a very Bjorky percussion and drone track. I'm not a fan of this individual's singing, but the track gets gold (or is it grey?) stars for spooky atmosphere.
Two of th' remaining tracks, "Rush Minute" and "Atlas Air" are showcases for Robert "3D" Del Naja, who as on "100th Window" abandons rapping for a strange kind of flat-toned singing. The difference between these tracks and the mess that is "100th Window" is that the actual music here has a lot more ideas to offer and is not pandering. Both of these cuts are heavy on synth elements and have a kind of weary New Wave feel. The fact is that 3D sounds better rapping after all and is kind of stiff and unswinging in his production, but the tunes are still worth listening to.
The other two tracks, "Paradise Circus" and "Saturday Come Slow" are stone brilliant. The former is a ghostly exercise in chills featuring Goth poster girl Hope Sandoval. This jam has the kind of shifting, spare, slow beat that really gets those mope juices flowing. "Saturday Come Slow" is a love dirge right at the cusp of bleak sentiment like "Dissolved Girl." Damon Albarn lets loose some of the most sorrowful wails he's done since "Tender" dropped; this limey is hurting! People tend to associate Albarn with puckish Britpop pogoing and general punkitude, but anyone who's seen him do "This is a Low" or "No Distance Left to Run" will know that he can really tear up that sad mic thing. His ragged voice telegraphs profound heartbreak better than nearly anyone else.
I think that the bitter mistake all these reviewers make is in trying to compare this joint to "Mezzanine." "Mezzanine" isn't an album, it's a giant shard of volcanic glass that plunges straight into the soul of anyone who dares to listen to it. It's monolithic, oppressive, and non-reproducible. Comparing anything to "Mezzanine" is like saying "Oh well this roadside ditch isn't as cool as th' Marianas Trench." Stupid. "Mezzanine" is an artifact of its time that could not be any other way or from another time; any attempt to recreate or follow it now would result in abject self-parody. People tend to forget now, but Massive Attack's other two classic albums -- "Blue Lines" from 1991 and "Protection" from 1994 -- were totally different from each other and from "Mezzanine," and took a lot of getting used to. i remember how people would talk smack about "Protection" when they bought it after having loved and crumbled to th' narcobludgeon of "Mezzanine," only to come back two months later and crow about how brilliant it was when they finally 'got' it. So, like those other two classic albums, give this one some time and repeat listens late at night, and I think then that all th' irrelevant comparisons will drop away and you'll be able to soak in this record properly. It's funny, just today I was rapping with my pal and CERN inhabitant monster -- he said "I've listened to 'Mezzanine' hundreds of times, but can't really name a favorite song." It's just not possible to cleave up that LP -- it's a complete and matchless monument of psychedelia.
"Heligoland" is something different but equally needed : a collection of diverse fresh tunes, fearlessly chosen and correctly sung. Massive Attack have refused to try to replicate the hazy druglike syrup of of 1998 and instead are exploring a quicker-stepping, more raw style that demonstrates how unsettling sounds don't always come at plodding molasses tempos. I strongly recommend that all freaks, goths, and sad pandas obtain a copy of this; it's adventuresome, worth your brainspace, and an antidote to the stale. Wait until 2 or 3am, sit back with spooky lights on, and devolve to th' destructive sounds of this joint. Now, if only it came with a reason to get out of bed th' next day.. (54,519)
There's a thundering hailstorm in Phoenix today, sending drops of frozen hate clattering across the skylight and beating the life out of weak trees. On the outskirts of my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of something white and jagged -- the future.
Life as a human right now is akin to having woken up inside the chute of a woodchipper. We may not even recall how we got inside the woodchipper in the first place. The one thing that is clear : the inevitability of the blades.
A feeling like saws chewing into my neck. The sounds of weeping just outside my door. And a cold light knife into my pupil reminds me : This is a world divorced from hope.
When facing a suffocated reality of nonexistent future, what do you do? Here are some options :
1) Lie down and wait quietly for the ice weasels to come. 2) Cry until you're too tired to cry any longer, then die. 3) Fight until death. 4) Put on heavy metal records and rock out for as long as possible.
Now, I don't know which of these sounds most attractive, or which you, the reader, may already be doing. I choose option #4. Here's why :
* Metal music is brain floss. * Metal music improves blood flow to the face. * Metal music is not a norm. * Metal music has no sympathy for your suffering. * Metal music remembers when you were only an animal. * Metal music hasn't heard about your regrets, but it can drench them in molten @#$%^& * Metal music will survive long after the Universe is toast. * Metal music recognizes your true form and can restore it if lost. * Metal music connects you with that aspect of youself that you forgot about. * Metal music is truth erupting from a sea of lies.
There's no future. But with metal music, the present can be made to rock. In these bleak and doomed days, everybody looks for help. Some go to shrinks, some watch TV, and some try in futility to numb the pain with drugs. Well, you all are welcome to your 'cheese' heroin, 'lean,' and amphetamines. I'm an Earache man myself. (52,945)
They say we're done for Because of what's coming on the wind They're handing out death for free To anyone who asks for it
They say that their way Is rational and best And that we'd better hurry And eagerly fall to rest
But no matter if they're right or wrong, That's a deal I won't accept
Maybe the Lord will save us But probably not There's too much poison in the air
But even a last moment in anguish Is a moment that belongs to me And I won't let them put me down
We may hear our children Cry out in pain Yours may be the last remaining Human name
But that doesn't mean That I'll let them take the reins I'll stay here and and present with you While we wait for the final rain
Even all these aching thoughts They're thoughts that belong to me And I won't let them put me down
We always, always, always fought And I'll fight to the end I won't surrender my last hours On the advice of these wretches
Even at the end of hope for this life I still hold on to hope for pride And I won't let them put me down
I'm not saying that I'm OK with this being the total end I was one of those who dreamed of art's survival long after the Sun's death Now there's slight time left, and you're my ultimate friend
But that's the way of things - There are stones you can't roll back An even now I feel that weight So heavy on my neck
I won't trade time for comfort I won't give up this last thing I'm keeping every feeling that's Been allotted to me
When I feel the terrible change, That sensation belongs to me And I won't let them put me down (61,806)
On a brilliant, natural morning in the spring, Hape Shapley set down his enormous green coffee cup, languidly browsed his email, and checked his calendar. Today’s regimen of tasks, uncharacteristically, held one that promised a glimmer of amusement. The job at hand was to successfully woo the franchisee of three Sports Authority retail establishments; this sort of thing was totally usual. The spark of fun flickered behind the name of Hape’s quarry : Danny U. Dracula. Well, Hape thought, I’ve closed deals with bloodsuckers before. At least Danny’s upfront about it.
Hape pulled his Toyota into the parking lot and parked in the barely-crooked fashion that he had subconsciously perfected. The sky was a Martian azure as he stepped out to survey the terrain and push the button on his keyless lock device until it beeped. The Sports Authority location where he was to meet Dracula was in a cement vega of a high-falutin’ strip mall, and Hape could feel the heat that the structural columns radiated as he passed them. The cruelly-designed parking lot was brimful of Infinitis, Land Rovers, and other symbols of middle-class prosperity, though, so Hape felt that this meeting would not be a complete waste. Now, Hape thought, what sort of guy calls himself Danny U. Dracula? As he strode businesslike toward the gargantuan glass doors, he boiled the probabilities down to three, ranked by likelihood: 1) This man is some stripe of mutant jock-goth goofball with enough money, charisma, or brutality to maintain a business 2) This man is a normal and successful person of Eastern European extraction. Hape wondered what the accent would sound like –Romanian? Czech? He struggled to hear the sounds in his head. He chased away invading images of Gary Oldman in purple shades only to have them replaced by a shaveling Klaus Kinski. Presumably, such a fellow would be aware of the strangeness of his name and use some kind of alterative pronunciation to keep the chuckles at bay. 3) This man is called Dulraca, or Drakler, or perhaps Gacula, and Hape’s assistant Kim Deely had puckishly typoed the name.
It was ten-thirty-four by Hape’s Timex when he first grasped the hand of Danny U. Dracula. The walk across the store had given Hape just enough time to develop a wrenching curiosity regarding the man’s name. Had he thought it through, however, he would have realized that the instant camaraderie of modern business etiquette had made moot this question.
“Danny? Hape. Pleased to meet you; how you doing?” “Great to meet you, Hape –- wanna have a look around?”
No! First of all, Hape had been inside three dozen Sports Authorities within the past two years – he didn’t need to have a look around. Second, what about the name? The name! Now that the initial confrontation had been completed, would there even be another opportunity to speak Danny’s last name? Dracula, for his part, did not seem likely to volunteer. Now, so far, the evidence was pointing to possibility number 3), as Danny had zero sartorial matches for “goth” and no discernable accent, and features that looked more Gallic than anything. Hape had little hope now but to make Danny sign the contract compelling him to buy 670 total units from Head’s putatively-groundbreaking “FlexTelligence E” product line plus the full apparel complement. Then, he could at least see the name properly spelled out and, if he could muster the pluck, Hape would inquire about it should it turn out to be the real vampiric deal.
As Danny led Hape around the store, Hape noticed that as usual, most of the store’s patrons looked like they hadn’t played sports in quite a while. It seemed to be a nearly universal phenomenon : these big athletic chains attract dilettantes who will buy the most costly gear and have it gather dust in their closet, or, in the case of high-tech clothing, will wear it to any occasion save that for which it was designed. Folks who are serious about a sport, Hape found, would usually seek out a small specialty store like Runner’s Galaxy or Lacrosse Barn, where the employees tended to give something resembling a hoot about the sport in question, and the owner was often on premises. Hape himself looked to Advantage when he needed to get himself re-shod (which, for a notorious toe-dragger like him, was at least six times yearly). However, it was much better for Hape to sell to the bigger chains like Sports Authority, as the corporate buyers tended to be less discriminating (they only cared about the bottom line, not about a somewhat negative performance review they’d read online) and the customers at the stores were much more likely to buy high-end items with frequency – it was a known fact that Escalade-pushing neophytes buy the most expensive gear possible, with the hope that it’ll improve their play and give them something to talk about with their buddies (“What stick you got there, Bill?... Oh, the Frightanium 6? I heard that’s a real cannon – let me give it a whack?”). Hape wasn’t really listening to Danny as the latter prattled on about which lines had been moving for him, overall foot traffic versus sales volume, the primacy of his location, and other banal details. Hape was instead looking at the girls in the store, taking inventory of the local stock. Hape had decided a few days ago that he was going to seek for himself a steady girlfriend. Danny managed to snap Hape out of his lecherous reverie with a brisk “Hey! You hungry? Let’s go over to Hattie’s and get down to brass tacks.” Hape hated that expression, but he was indeed hungry. Hattie’s was a standard-issue 1950s-themed diner, awash in chrome and tufted vinyl. The two padded over there, sweating slightly in the morning sun. Settled into a cavernous booth, Hape perused the sticky menu. Standard fare : burgers, shakes…. He came across a club sandwich that sounded good, and decided to order it sans fries. The placed their order with the perky, tattooed waitron and descended to the alloy fasteners.
“Hape, I gotta be straight with you. The Head stuff just isn’t moving like it used to. Last cycle, the Wilson product was outselling you guys almost two to one.” “That’s interesting; nationally, we’re seeing the reverse trend,” Hape fibbed. “Think that display placement could be a factor?” Hape was already thrashing in the waves. Maybe this guy was in fact a vampire. “You’re joking, right? Your stuff is right in there with everybody else’s. I think that what we’re really looking at is that Wilson has better endorsements, better graphics, and better advertising. It seems to me that since Agassi retired, you guys have been , ah, scrambling to connect with the consumer.” “I don’t know if that’s true,” Hape hemmed (he’d had to filed this question before, but for some reason felt a lot of pressure now). “What about the Rotundi endorsement? Greaper? Sarkozi? These guys are huge with the kids. And the new stuff we’re gonna give you…” “And look at what’s happening with Babolat and Yonex – they’re both strong in the consumer market now, not like years ago. It’s not just between you, Wilson, and Prince anymore. The kids are seeing that big guys play these funny rackets, and they’ll pay for that. And there’s something else.” “What’s that?” Hape hated it when these goons did their homework. “You’re not supposed to know this, but Nike is going to make a big push into tennis hardware next quarter. I’ve seen the product. It’s good. And they’re going to get Greaper away from you guys.” This sounded like rubbish to Hape. “We’ll see about that. We’ve known about their goals for months – they haven’t got a candle to hold against our technology, racket-wise. Maybe in clothing, which is traditionally more their domain.” “Maybe. But if they do to tennis like they did to golf, some people are going to get squeezed out. They have R+D up the wazoo, and enough ad sense to really exploit the brand…” “Well, Head will worry about Nike when something really starts happening – right now, it’s all vapor, and like I said, our new stuff is going to blow everybody else away. Look at what we’ve got going on.” Hape cracked open his portfolio to reveal a sleek laptop, which he opened to Danny’s dismay and started the presentation. This was his ace in the hole. He’d helped put this thing together, and it not only briskly revealed the technological superiority of the FlexTelligence E line, but broke the news that Head had bought no less than three super-high-profile endorsers away from rivals : Gil Fisher, Ainsley Chong, and the apparently unbeatable Ricky Phil Stiller. Stiller was widely expected to sweep the Grand Slam this year on the strength of his terrifying serve and shrewdly evil baseline play. It was commonly speculated that his endorsement of the “Claymore” model racket had been the only thing keeping the Prince corporation alive.
The presentation video was fast-paced, well-produced, and hard-hitting, saving the Stiller endorsement for last and introducing a flashy new model co-designed with Stiller – the “Big Brain”. That epithet was one commonly applied to Stiller early in his career, when his primary method of winning matches was making fools out of aggressive opponents by exploiting their positions with his surgical shots from the baseline. Since, he had developed a high-velocity first service to match his better opponents, but the name stuck. Hape could never shake a vague unease with this title and Head’s adoption thereof, however – he felt that it was mildly anti-Jewish. There were plenty of cerebral players out there – wasn’t this sobriquet a way to shove Stiller into that old “Jews are smart but lack brawn” box?
Danny, who generally loathed presentations, found himself quite engaged by this one, and the news of new endorsements softened his heart a bit toward Head. Hape, who was watching Dracula’s face like a poker player throughout the presentation, began to notice the details of Danny’s appearance. His close-cropped blond hair amplified his ruddy complexion to an almost alarming degree, and his left ear had no lobe to speak of. The faint shininess of skin around his neck suggested corrected scarring and made Hape suspect that Danny had been in a bad auto or industrial accident. His white Ping golf shirt was pressed, but had a small red stain on the left shoulder blade that Hape surmised Danny had missed, given the meticulous condition of Danny’s Nikes and the impeccably creased pleated khakis he sported. Hape imagined how the stain might have gotten there unnoticed : did the offspring of Dracula sneak up with a Crayola marker? Unintentional dribble of Kool-Aid from a hoisted toddler’s lip? Shirt taken from irregular stock? Hape realized with a twinge of regret that he would never know the answer. In the end, Hape’s presentation won Danny over. After some price haggling (Hape, as was his wont, budged only two percent, saying that “cost is through the roof on carbon fiber”), it was agreed that Danny’s Sports Authorities would carry the presented Head product, minus most of the apparel, which Hape conceded after Danny showed him a spreadsheet indicating that 70% of the previous year’s line had been sold at clearance prices due to lack of demand. Hape printed out the contract that they had edited together on Hape’s computer, and Danny signed it. Danny had made no correction to his name before printing. Hape had to know : “Thanks, Danny; we really appreciate it. How’s your last name pronounced?” Danny fixed Hape with the look that women give to people who ask if they’re pregnant when they’re not : “It’s ‘Dracula.’ Like the vampire.” And that was that. Hape could tell that he had best ask no more.
Hape had teetered a little during his encounter with Dracula, and he knew it. That kind of psychological stutter is the kind that breaks deals. Danny had really clocked Hape with no problem, and here was Hape, driving down the road tormenting himself with the mysteries of Dracula. As Hape dwelled on the meeting, his thirst for details took a firmer hold. What was the deal with the earlobe? The stained shirt? How much of that -
-= = = = = = = = = = = = = =
When Hape was twenty-three, he quit his marketing internship at Scoop Systems to go explore the rough-cut northern towns of Arizona and see if there was any significant tennis-industry jobs out there. The hot buzz of Cake City had grown wearisome to Hape during his last few months of school and he wanted to know whether the vague romantic notions of the reduced-instruction West might be reflected in these parts of his home state. He checked his bank balance ($3,089.04), packed his rackets along several days’ worth of casual and athletic clothes along with his one good suit into his fairly beat-up Rav4, and motored on up the I-10 toward Flagstaff. He had scoped out a few likely targets and identified some worthless backwaters to be avoided. He’d start in Prescott and work his way up toward Payson until he either found something worth doing or gave up.
In Cottonwood, he found a small quasi-resort hotel with a tennis court on premises. He decided to check it out. It turned out that the hotel didn’t have a tennis pro and was considering bringing one on. Hape knew in his heart that he was far from pro material, but a deep geographical prejudice planted in his mind the idea that these faux-cowpokes might not be able to tell the difference. In a spurt of risk, he offered his services, and the recreation director, a trim blonde called Amy Grumman, agreed. The pay negotiated was meager, but this was a chance for Hape to see how far his knowledge and bravado could take him. Hape needed to find lodging. (51,749)
with drool-slathered chops, the jocks berate
criticizing my eye-shadow and pentagram necklace
and my man-boobs
they fear what they do not understand
and they fear me
with an eye for justice I cast my spells
a drop of cat's blood, which fluffy fought hard to keep
a piece of parchment seals their fate
a spaghetti-O's can serves as my cauldron
a spinning, naked dance around the hot-plate catalyzes my intention
mother speaks of bed time, mutters "freak" under her breath
they will all get their comeuppance, when satan heeds my call (41,619)
the darkness echoes the homes of my soul
where the ravenbeaked moonlight clips howled wolves
level 60 in world of warcraft and the new cure album fails
my miserable screaching banshee life wails
cruel harpies of living despair
i think i need to re-dye my hair
disembodied awful thing slithering crawl
i think i'll have mom drop me off at the mall
requiems twilite the shivering pale
wear proudly your tunics of chainmail
abysmal poem comes to a close
forgotten orgies of the winterpeak verbose insane asylum atrocities wash the bathroom floor...with blood
death (39,579)
I live for it.
There is nothing in the world like it.
It is the ultimate sensation of power.
I dream about it when I sleep at night.
I wake up and it is all I think about.
And I drive myself to campus, after drinking my five dollar cup of seventy-five cent coffee.
I pull into the parking lot, listening to the same song I've listened to for the past 3 months on absurdly high volume on a stereo system which my parents paid astronomical sums to purchase and I cannot properly configure.
I pull into the parking lot and I see my opportunity, this moment I have been longing for.
I see him.
I see him there.
He is walking, his head hooded and slowly nodding to a riff I will never hear by a band I do not know.
He is walking.
He is alone.
I see him.
And then, then it happens.
I drive right by him.
My pupils spastically fluctuate.
My anus clenches and unclenches, rapidly dilating. Pulsing in anticipation, expressing my excitation.
I see him.
He does not see me.
And I do it.
I turn off my stero.
And I do it.
I rev the engine of my truck which my parents bought for me.
I rev it hard.
I fucking rev the shit out of it.
And it makes the noise of a tiger dying after mistakenly jumping off of a very jagged cliff.
The sound is unleashed.
He hears it, I know he hears it.
But he does not respond.
He must have heard it.
He must.
I roll down my window.
I yell, "Fag!" as loud as I can.
I have won.
I am right.
He wants me.
He wants my truck.
He is envious.
He must be.
Who wouldn't be.
And I pick up my girlfriend after her Intro to College Reading class.
And I take her home and fuck her gaping and ragged axe wound, its labia replete with dentata and mucus.
I fuck her hard. I fuck her fast.
I ejaculate in minutes.
I make the sound of a rusty cabinet hinge while I ejaculate my inadequate seed from my tiny penis.
When I ejaculate inside her unfertile womb I do not fantasize about men.
I do not close my eyes and think about AberCrombie & Fitch models frolicking erotically on sandy beaches.
Because I am not gay.
I do not love men.
I do not lust for cock.
My truck tells me so.
My truck tells me I am not gay.
My truck makes me a man.
Every time I rev its engine I reaffirm my heterosexuality.
I am not gay.
I love my truck.
My parents bought it for me.
I sell enough low quality drugs to afford it but they bought it for me anyways.
Because they love me.
And I love my truck.
I am cool.
I am not gay.
I love my truck.
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM (44,299)
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