giannimaldonado

[giannimaldonado]

Album Of The Day: Satan Is Watching

When most people born after a certain period of time think of the genre that is “country”, and what it has morphed into in the context of this day and age, a lot of unpleasant images spring to mind. Pretty boy, clean cut, poser rednecks who’ve never seen a farm outside of their music videos, trying to pretend to be another “honest Joe” when they couldn’t be any further from such a thing, making trashy, twangy glam rock mixed with watered down trap music/EDM for white southerners who might have interesting views on those of different races, rolling around in million dollar sports cars while adopting the moniker of “working class”...is probably what your mind immediately begins to conjure up in that brain of yours.

I honestly can’t say that I blame you. Country, or, at least, MAINSTREAM country, has lost its way completely. Luke Bryan, Brad Paisley, Tim McGraw, and Blake Shelton polluted this once proud, grassroots, amazing genre with pandering, trite garbage aimed at making money off of dumb hicks in the bodies of frat boys whose trucks cost more than your own damn house.  Gone are the days when country music was filled to the brim talent, creativity, passion, and heart. Now, this “jock country” has taken its place, having thoroughly fucked country up the ass a few too many times that it has lost its way. For good, perhaps.

Underground country’s usually no better. There’s some exceptions (we’ll get to those soon), but for the most part, it, too, has gone off the rails and destroyed itself completely. It’s often just indie folk or what have you with even more acoustic guitars, though perhaps with more twang, whiny vocals that are trying (and failing) to recreate a stereotypical southern accent, a reliance on cheap gimmicks, sarcasm, and irony to carry their trash because the excrement can’t do that itself, and a musical quality that tries SO hard to imitate the great Mr. Cash, but is little more than a cheap, pale imitation that folks who wear WAY too much flannel and wire rimmed glasses will eat up like it’s the second coming of Joy Division.

No matter how you look at it, country has been thoroughly gentrified for the most part, just like many genres that were previously for a much different variety of people. Like trap music, or blues, or hardcore punk, or black metal. All of the original meaning is gone, driven out by money hungry label executives, clueless and ignorant listeners, and musicians hellbent on half-assing their way to fame and fortune.

It’s a crying shame, it really is.

But fret not, dear reader! There is still a soft, seedy underbelly of the country genre that has taken the long dead (yet forever revered and loved) sound of “outlaw shit”, as Mr. Jennings would put it so eloquently, to its most logical extreme. One that would make Nelson, Cash, Haggard, Coe, and others that might’ve been at the top of their “underground”, “anti-mainstream” game seem rather...accessible. These aforementioned artists and their peers are still greats who, in their primes, were powerhouses that made some of the greatest works the genre would ever produce. But when compared to this particular sound...they just don’t hold up as well. The rawness, the grassroots nature, the down-to-Earth (and sometimes below the Earth) attitude, the simplicity, the honesty, the bluntness, the intimacy, the melancholy...all of it gets turned way up to eleven. It’s dark, it’s mischievous, it’s harsh, it’s gritty, it’s angry, it’s bitter, it’s darkly humorous, it’s lonesome, it’s ornery, and it’s damn sure pretty fucking mean.

Call it whatever you want. “Southern gothic”, “dark country”, “death country”, “gothic country”. It doesn’t matter what name you apply to it. All that matters is that it’s country. Real fucking country. Country meant for the guttersnipes, punks, street urchins, hobos, peasants, and forlorn drifters. This ain’t pretty boy music. This isn’t nice, Christian contemporary that you can play at your local uptight establishment. These aren’t harmless tunes your the posers can get drunk and go mudding to. This is country as it was meant to be. The eptiome of the term “outlaw shit”.

There’s a plethora of wonderful bands in this scene. Sons Of Perdition, Sixteen Horsepower, whatever project Jay Munly’s got going on this time around, The Dead South, the early days of The Devil Makes Three, The Builders And The Butchers, Wovenhand, Ghoultown, Coffinshakers, The Pine Box Boys, and, of course, everyone’s favorite descendant of the Williams family tree. The third one, that is.

But all of those fall short of that truly, truly, TRULY horrific honky-tonk, old-time, folksy, backwoods atmosphere that this duo produces. One that hails from the isolated, empty thickets that lie out in rural Wisconsin. A mentally disturbed pair of “prophets of the country doom”, as they have decided to label themselves. A fine example of those who have gone completely mad, completely sad, and doing so makes them feel very glad. They revel in their craziness, and while no album sounds the same, each one is marred by a couple of recurring themes: humanity is worthy of being sent straight to the fiery depths, these boys are depressed beyond your wildest comprehension, a rebellion against both God and Satan, and a desire to document the lifestyle of society’s forgotten ones, hated ones, and feared ones.

Let me introduce you to Those Poor Bastards.

Fitting name for a couple of enigmatic, largely unknown, extremely obscure pair of men known simply as Lonesome Wyatt (impassioned orations and guitar-based melodies) and The Minister (everything else).

The Minister is completely anonymous, with no one having even seen his face, while all that’s known about Lonesome Wyatt is that he’s from Wisconsin, (probably) lives alone, and is likely of an unsound state of mind.

Why is that all important? Well, go listen to their albums, and then you’ll find out why these little intricacies are vital to the dynamic duo’s imagery, music, and cult status.

While all of their material is quite good in my opinion, today we’re going to look at my favorite album from them, and possibly my favorite album from any country artists EVER! Everyone, please proceed to throw on “Satan Is Watching.”

What you’ll first be met with Lonesome Wyatt letting out a loud, wild, manic screech that almost doesn’t sound...human. It’s not even a word. Just an unhinged howl like Lonesome Wyatt’s been possessed by some sort of demon from the pits of Hell, having taken over the “doomsday preacher boy” to spread the wicked gospel. A hell of a start to an album of any kind, let alone a country album. It’s bold, but it lets you know right off the bat that they aren’t fucking around. This is going to be a rough ride from start to finish, and you’ll be left quaking in your seat once Those Poor Bastards has pierced your mind, heart, and soul with their fiendishly unholy sound. A truly nihilistic piece of art about how this world is foul and wretched, and deserves to burn to a cinder.

But that’s just the first song.

Things only manage to get worse from there. Everything from songs about how Lonesome Wyatt’s a degenerate who revels in just how much filth and squalor he lives in, to songs (well, more like suspiciously suicidal rants) about how life is fucked and there’s just no point in living it anymore, to various “take that!” pieces towards lovers who have wronged him in times that have long since passed, presumably. Typical topics for country artists, but contorted and warped to the point where they sound like miniature horror stories being yelled and hollered by a crazy, top-hat wearing yokel than the struggles and strife that are endured by the common man/downtrodden fellow. Hell, there’s even a Johnny Cash cover! A twisted, perverted, scummy, bone-chilling, haunting, eerie take on the previously wholesome, innocent love song The Man In Black made for June. I can’t exactly look at it the same way, what with these mysterious hooligans having thoroughly butchered it.

Instrumentation is minimalist and simple. Nothing too fancy or technical here. It’s quite self-explanatory. Despite how evil it is, the rhythms are still toe-tappingly catchy. The drums, being pounded upon by the fiery hands of The Minister, provide anything from a nice, plodding beat you can stomp your feet to, all the way to a rowdy raucous of a banger that’ll have you doing some sort of line dance with the living dead. Lonesome Wyatt beats upon his acoustic guitar like it owes him money. Not even really playing it. Just smashing the strings until weird, disgruntled, odd noises come out of it. He also seems to thoroughly shatter his ability to talk without a sore throat, pushing his voice to its very limits. The bass compliments everything very well, providing a creepy, fuzzy, dirge-like texture in the background to keep the menacing tone alive and well.

All in all, while this may not “experimental”, ��avant-garde”, or even “progressive”, this is certainly an album that’ll give you the heebie-jeebies, and for a country album, it is most certainly “out there”. It takes the usual country tropes, and either turns them into something out of a David Lynch movie, or subverts/plays with them to fuck with the audience and make them contort their face with confusion...and excitement. A spooky bit of acoustic noise that’ll restore your faith in country music, and remind you that there is still a small resemblance of a spark left within the dying genre.

Please, I highly recommend you check this out.

This has been another installment of “Esoteric Warfare”, and remember...

NOISE, NOT MUSIC!

[giannimaldonado]

When someone asks someone who their favorite singer is, there’s often a relatively predictable group of people that pop up in the minds of the general public. Aretha Franklin, Amy Winehouse, Whitney Houston, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, all members of both The Supremes and The Temptations. A lot of soul, jazz, and pop artists that are well established and incredibly revered (for good reason, mind you) often dominate one’s thoughts when asked such a question. 

However, I think I’d like to take a bit of more...shall we say, unconventional, opinion on this topic.

Aside from the amazing voice of the one and only Stella Vander, French avant-garde/jazz singer and performer most associated with the magnifique powerhouse of zeuhl music that is Magma, there is one vocalist that stands out above the rest. One that, when I first heard her voice, instilled a plethora of emotions inside of me that ranged from being disturbed and even a little frightened to unabashedly excited and positively thrilled. 

Ladies, gentleman, and all who lie in between or outside such classifications, let me introduce you to industrial’s greatest woman! She’s worked with everyone from John Paul Jones to John Zorn, so she’s definitely the best of the very damn best. Feast your ears upon... Diamanda Galás.

Diamanda Galás is a Greek-American/Egyptian-American soprano sfogato singer who was born and raised in San Francisco, California. At an early age, Diamanda Galás was already being thrust into the world of music, as her father was a gospel choir director with a soft spot for classical music and New Orleans jazz. At the age of 3, she had already gained a knack for the piano (the instrument she’s most known for, besides her own vocal cords), and at the young age of 13, she was already playing gigs with her father’s band. Around this time, her influences came from the darker and more unsettling varieties of literature, such as that of Neitzsche and Poe. Given her hauntingly poetic works and gloomy, gothic aesthetic, it isn’t too hard to see where the influence is coming from.  By 14, she had made a hell of an orchestral debut with the San Diego Symphony, taking up the role of soloist for Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 1. 

Diamanda Galás’ art is known to be extremely provocative, incredibly eccentric, and highly political, with every piece, every performance...having a meaning behind it. A reason for why it exists. The overtly shocking imagery that she employed shows that this was not your typical brand of “noise for the sake of noise” industrial. AIDS and mental illness are the two most prevalent themes in her vast discography. Not surprising, given her past activism concerning AIDS, as well as gay rights. So-called “moralists”, as well as the apathetic heads of the Christian world, were her enemies, and her music makes this train of thought very clear, with her live album “Plague Mass” being the pinnacle of her bountiful frustration, particularly towards the Catholic church. 

Manic Street Preachers? Fuck out of here! Xiu Xiu? Child’s play! Suicide? Henry Rollins would surely turn into a blubbering mess if he heard a minute of this! SPK and Throbbing Gristle? About as tame as you can get.

Not even the apocalyptic sounds of “Black Earth” by Bohren & Der Club Of Gore, “Black One” by Sunn O))), “Stalker” by Lustmord, or “Dog Days Of The Holocaust” by Hollow Earth can compare to the sheer horror you will be met with when throwing in those earphones and pressing play on this...thing.

A fine example of the utterly fearsome records this visionary of a woman produced would be the one being pictured above. “The Litanies Of Satan”, named after a poem by  Charles Baudelaire. It’s only a mere 30 minutes long, and consists of two tracks, one 18 minutes and the other 12 minutes, respectively. But, let me stress this to you: you will FEEL every second of those 30 minutes. This isn’t something you can just listen to. No, no, this is a record you EXPERIENCE. Each and every second will make your spine tingle and tremble as if the air suddenly became as cold as the 9th circle itself. The hairs on your neck stand up straighter than the crosses that this work spits upon. Your soul will burst into flames as Pentecostal-esque energy reduces your essence to ash, and by the end of it, your sanity may very well be a thing of the past. Your mind will be thoroughly fried and you won’t know what to do with yourself afterwards. Where is there to go from here? You’re already neck deep in the pit by now.  This is terrifying stuff that’ll be guaranteed to make any unfortunate passerby to question your mental health, and advice you check yourself into the nearest psychiatric ward. 

Now would be the time to give this borderline schizophrenic construction of sweet, sweet, innovative ingeniousness a listen.

Immediately you are greeted by the wailing sounds of  Diamanda Galás making an array of almost inhuman sounds with her vocal cords that, when I first let this pulsing collection of industrialized chaos enter the gates that are my eardrums, I could not quite believe came from a human’s throat, or, at the very least, without the usage of effects. But no. The sounds you hear her make...all of the wailing, screeching, cackling, howling, shouting, screaming, yelling, groaning, grunting, growling, all with that spiritual feverishness that seems like a perfect parody of the people she mocks and ridicules so much in her work...it’s all totally real. This doesn’t like an impassioned woman who is, at the end of the day, a spawn of man. No, this sounds like the vile creatures depicted in Dante’s infamous Inferno making all manner of ear-shattering vocalizations. Her voice sounds like the entirety of Hell singing out in some sort of unholy, demented, deranged choir. One devoid of melody, reason, and sanity, and instead focused solely on perpetrating a noisy, overstimulating assault that shakes you to your very core. 

We’ve all heard the term “blood-curdling scream” before. It conjures up images of a shrill, shrieking blare that’ll strike dread into even the most stoic individuals. But the...sounds...being made here are probably the best examples I’ve ever heard this phrase be attached to, I would say. Especially in a real world context. If an auditory instance of “blood-curdling scream” was required to be provided in order to further explain the meaning, this whole album would be right by the definition. I’m very sure of it. 

If you’re looking for an album that could scare the absolute shit out of your friends, or even yourself, or you want something that’s REALLY challenging to listen to and completely devoid of any “accessibility”, then this is an album for you. Anyone with a weak, sensitive heart or pair of ears should stay far, far away, for this WILL challenge all of your notions concerning the term “music”. This is aural torture, both for you, the enraptured listener, and  Diamanda Galás, the performer who was tearing apart her throat in a cold, dark basement in the UK for more than 24 hours, hopped up on nothing but potent caffeine, all whilst her equipment (soundboards, mics, etc.) broke down during the recording process, just so this...thing...could achieve her vision. The vision that she had in mind for it.

Talk about dedication, and talk about a hell of a debut album (no pun intended)

This has been the second installment of “Esoteric Warfare”, and remember...

NOISE, NOT MUSIC!

[giannimaldonado]

Album Of The Day: War.Cult.Supremacy

Metalheads and punks are used to having their respective genres being labeled as “noise”. And to the average listener who may not have gone off the deep end and explored these genres for all that they have to offer, that may be true! Combined with how vast they are, and their relative inaccessibility outside of the mainstream, it’s no surprise many folks would cover their ears at these relatively abrasive genres.

But there’s a certain sect of metal that is bordering on being actually “noise”. A type of metal that stretches the musical genre that is “metal” and strips it down to its most primal, savage, unrelenting aspects, essentially throwing what you knew about this type of music out of the window, and then beating the broken, mangled corpse for hours and hours. A certain sound contained within the sphere of “metal” that is so violent, monstrous, and chaotic that even a seasoned metalhead would have trouble digesting it.

Be warned: there is no Metallica, Slayer, or even Cannibal Corpse or Mayhem to be found in this monstrosity of a record here. Don’t expect even something resembling something such as Dying Fetus, Devourment, Aura Noir, Sigh, or what have you.

This is a snarling beast that crawled straight out of Hell to unleash unholy fury upon the citizens of this wretched world. A deranged duo who only have one goal in mind: to bring about the end times through the use of a sonic nightmare meant to torment mortal ears.

It’s loud, it’s angry, it calls itself the “Antichrist Elite”, and its name is...Conqueror.

For those who are uninformed, Conqueror was a short-lived black/death/grind outfit from Victoria BC, in Canada. The two members of this lethal duo were Ryan Förster (Blasphemy, Death Worship, Domini Inferi) on both the 4-stringed and 6-stringed axes, and James Read (Revenge, Axis Of Advance, Blood Revolt, Cremation,  Kerasphorous) responsible for the guttural war commands that spew out pure hate for all life, in addition to the blistering, pounding hammers of glorious devastation that make up the drum kit.

Formed in 1994, these two headbanging misfits formed Conqueror for one purpose and one purpose alone: to assault the world with the most maddening combination of black metal, death metal, and grindcore anyone had ever heard in the history of music. Influenced by early Voivod, Witches Hammer, early Bathory, early Sodom, early Kreator, early Beherit, and the almighty Blasphemy, they put their musical chops together and created an absolute whirlwind of auditory terror that few bands have managed to come close to replicating, and none have ever managed to surpass.

In case you haven’t already given this masterpiece a listen, they succeeded. They succeeded 200%.

When first throwing on War.Cult.Supremacy, one is immediately met with the martial plodding of ridiculously downtuned guitars, massive-sounding drums, and deep, menacing bass, something that Conqueror makes frequent use of in their one and only album. A dirge for nuclear holocaust and complete eradication. A “calm”, if you could even call it that, before the eventual storm that awaits you. Already, Conqueror makes its message clear: this is not meant for human ears. This is an invocation to all things demoniac, all things that want nothing more than to wreak havoc upon our precious little world.

The marching of hellish, sharp, jerky rhythms doesn’t last long, and you’re met with a blazing storm of different sounds, all of which are merciless and unforgiving. A guitar that roars like a crazed Baphomet ordering infernal denizens to incinerate every church in the general vicinity. Drums that pound in your ears a thousand earthquakes, or artillery strikes forming crater after crater in the ground. A bass that shakes your cranium and makes your brain scream for some kind of reprieve as its knocked loose. Vocals that switch between a nightmarish shriek and an inhuman growl at the drop of a hat, making you wonder if James Read is, in fact, the devil himself. The speed will drive anyone with anxiety into a panic attack quite quickly, and the heaviness, coupled with the distortion, will make you feel every inch of it, in your body, and even in your sweet, untouched, innocent soul. It’s not an album, it’s not a piece of music; it’s a fucking WEAPON.

Lyrical themes are what you’d probably expect of an album that is this caliber of insanity: a barrage of messages concerning genocide of the human race, total extinction of all lifeforms on Earth, over-the-top worship of a mysterious occult figure called “Superion”, and a glorification of dirty, ugly, sadistic, evil warfare. Don’t expect your regular brand of Hollywood satanism here. These misanthropes are completely serious about their beliefs. The imagery being used here only further serves to drove home the incredibly nihilistic viewpoints being depicted.

Unlike most death metal, black metal, and grindcore tradition, the songs here are not short rampages that are quickly done almost as quickly as they had started. No, no, these are 2-5 minute cathedrals of horrific sensory overload that turns this into nothing short of an endurance contest. 46 minutes in total of pure, unbridled sonic annihilation. Occasionally there will be a break in which one can catch their breath and relax, often through the usage of a world-shattering breakdown that would turn any “civilized” human being into a caveman mosher on par with the most violent of beatdown fans, but for the most part, this album doesn’t let up. Not at all. It just keeps bludgeoning you until there is nothing left. The intensity offers hardly any breaks, nor should it.

By the end of it, you’ve already plunged into the abyss, and once you’re nestled nice and deep in there, there’s no coming out. Might as well make yourself at home, because light doesn’t shine in these parts.

In conclusion, if you’re a maniac for extreme, inaccessible music that is hard to listen to/hard to digest like I am, you will definitely need to add this to your collection.

This is Esoteric Warfare, with the very first installment of “Album Of The Day”, and remember...

NOISE, NOT MUSIC!