You're so out of the band it's sick. I mean, it's literally sickening how badly you're out of this band and how deeply we've wanted you out for the past three weeks. I'll never forget when you floundered onto the scene with your nappy-wearing starter guitar and that hamster cage of an amplifier, the shit dribbling down your chin and crusting on your Smash Mouth t-shirt. You're nothing but a dirty mongo, Samuel, a dirty fucking mongo.
The only reason you were ever allowed to jam with us, Christ, the only reason we kept you in the same room with us, was because we knew your ma had a 7-seater that could hold my savage new Marshall amp. Also cool was the fact that she was grand with us drinking cans and said she wouldn't tell our parents, your ma is actually quare sound for one of the holistic therapy types, too bad you're a little prick dangling off the placenta.
Sam, we're a real fucking metal band, right? We don't need the likes of you, a fucking casual, slobbering all over our invention like a brainless infant. I'll gladly do myself in if I ever have to hear Seven Nation Army thwacking from that poxy little amplifier like a series of contrived farts.We're going places, even more so now that you won't be stinking up the place with your novice wankery. Since dropping you, we've already opened up negotiations with a record label that really want to sign us. Yeah, that's right you fucking innocent little dweeb, we're getting signed by a major label and you won't be eating tits and smoking fags on the tour bus with us!
We've already got ourselves a new guitarist too. Paul, from second year. He can play Roots Bloody Roots without stopping and without looking at his guitar neck and it's fucking class. You couldn't even shite with your eyes closed you newbie mongo arsehole. His brother smokes grass and we expect to be smoking it soon ourselves too. Suck on that, creep. Check out or new setlist:
1. Roots Blood Roots (Cover)
2. Deep Within (Original)
3. Flower On Your Grave In Hell (Original)
4. Boulevard Of Broken Dreams (Cover)
5. Cut Myself With The Shards Of Your Picture Frame (Original)
Seeing as you've probably wrecked your keyboard with tears and vomit by now, I'll sign off by letting you know that none of the lads want to sit beside you in honours Irish anymore and they're going to go back to calling you "Gammy Sam", "Samburger" and "Sam with the shite holistic therapy treatment yolk for a ma". Better bring a rope with you to class, faggot, just in case you need to climb into your own arse for protection from our mammoth glory and golden fists.
Fuck off.
Signed,
Tony (Vocals), Paul (Guitar), Rory (Bass), Dan (Bass too, for a little while),
Otherwise known as The Demagogues of Girl Arse (DGA)
Jim is reunited with his father (Miami Connection)
I'm not an easily aggravated person. I'm not upset by the things that most people are upset by, like newspaper headlines, the opinions of others, or girls in baja hoodies. I'm pretty laid back, but that doesn't mean there aren't trivial things that really piss me off, they're just few and far between in my old age. People who stand still on escalators should be sent to the salt mines where they can toil endlessly alongside the subhuman filth that obstruct your path to the bar as well as the "social justice bloggers" that just completed first year sociology and are mad about everything. I get mad when my heater stops working, I get mad when I'm too hot in bed, I get pissed when I can't sleep, I get pissed off when I sleep too much. Like I said, the small things are the ones that get to me. I am also not a fan, whatsoever, of screenplay afterbirth.
Screenplay afterbirth? What's that hipster nonsense, Liam? Well, screenplay afterbirth is what you get when your writers have decided to add an arc to a movie's plot that is so cheap and underhanded in its attempts to get you hooked on the main story that it's cringe-inducing. This waste of ink is most commonly presented as a sob story weaved to make you care about whether or not a character lives or dies. Sometimes this works, but usually it doesn't, and you just find yourself rubbing your chin and wondering why this subplot was even included in the story at all. Now, no one ever had Miami Connection down as Shakespearean genius, but even with its charming idiocy; Jim's subplot revolving around his estranged father is more afterbirth than Alicia Silverstone could fit in her mouth.
So, amid all the action, musical montages and motorcycle ninjas, we're suddenly presented with a scenario that is supposed to make us feel feelings with our feelers. Dragon Sound, the kung-nu-wave heroes of our story, are all orphans who grew up together, learning how to perform high-kicks and synthesizer solos. While we don't go into the history of most of our heroes, toward the end of the film we learn that good ol' Jim, the only black guy in the ensemble, was actually abandoned by his drunk father. Having spent most of the film being a hard ass, Jim, in one of the most awkward scenes I've ever had the nerve to recall, breaks down in tears as he reads a letter from his father in front of the gang. The most shameless thing about this scene isn't even the terrible acting or the man-child tears, it's just how obvious the writers are trying to make it to you that something terrible is about to happen to poor Jim.
If it's not clear enough how afterbirth this subplot is by my brief description, as soon as the scene ends, we see the whole gang rolling around the beach in their car, wolf-whistling at the ladies and smiling widely. That shot of inner turmoil didn't last too long.
Now, I'm not going to go into the fine detail of what comes next, because I think you can guess that for yourself. Yes, something terrible happens to Jim, and no, you don't care anything for him just because he's supposed to be reunited with his drunk asshole dad. In fact, if you can quickly shake off the discomfort of the scene in mention, you'll probably forget who Jim is and wonder aloud why ninjas would opt for motorcycles, arguably the loudest and most obnoxious of transport, as a way of getting around.
Showdown In Little Tokyo couldn't have been a better action film if it were filmed in the throat of a volcano. This is a movie that takes its cues from literally everything that came out in the 80s, and that might sound deprecating, as if it were nothing more than another clone, but I'd rather describe this ditty as simply wearing its influences on its sleeves. Director Mark L. Lester (Commando, some other stuff)must have had a field-day with this script, perhaps the perfect crystallized buddy action, just before the Will Smiths and Jackie Chans. With the most over-the-top Mr.Perfect protagonist, his over-the-top back story, and Brandon Lee's weird wit, Showdown In Little Tokyo was a neat one. It's a Bruce Springsteen song in movie format.
Detective Chris Kenner (Dolph Lundgren) is a best-at-everything white knight with a low tolerance for injustice. Kenner is the fundamental action hero, women want him, men want to have a beer with him, Japanese gangsters want him dead. He's partnered up with the impressive (but not quite as godly) Johnny Murata (Brandon Lee), and though reluctant to join forces at first, like action couples always are, the duo eventually unite and take on the violent Yakuza that cast a menacing shadow over their beloved Little Tokyo.
As I said before, this film is nothing new, but everything old turned up to 11, including the cheese factor. Indeed, the cringe in this film is also immense, much of that cringe being conducted by Lundgren's character, who is portrayed as a demi-god and all around great guy. He's contrasted with Lee's character, who is supposed to be the lesser man, the simple side-kick, but Lee actually plays a more convincing character than Lundgren, even in his feature film debut. The action is creative and the one-liners flow gloriously like cider at a girl dorm party. Lundgren may look like Hitler's image of the superman and Lee might be shamefully underused, but this flick is an absolute must for any fan of cheesy action.
Django the Bastard (1969)
Sergio Garrone was certainly no Sergio Leone, he wasn't even much of a Sergio Corbucci, but even so; Django The Bastard is a pretty great film. It just seems like Garrone showed up late to the wrong party. The film has all the poetic energy of the very best of the Spaghetti Western genre, but when compared with those very same films, it just doesn't measure up enough, that's why you'd never hear Garrone spoken in the same sentence as Leone. Maybe it's because there's something very empty about the film, despite its great action and fun plot, or maybe because Garrone would prove himself a much more proficient director with Nazi torture porn later on in his career, but Django The Bastard just kind of shows up, entertains, then leaves.
The plot centers around, you guessed it, Django, who, depending on who you're asking, can be a bit of a bastard. He's seemingly returned from the grave to exact his vengeance on the men that betrayed him and his squadron during the civil war, and though slain pretty easily the first time round, he returns as a marksman unmatched. A cold-blooded motherfucker, Django even tries to shake off the subplot concerning one of his enemy's wives, a subplot that never goes anywhere and whose existence merely ticks the ever vital "Titties" box. A part from some scenes that really are excellent and well thought out (one in particular, you'll know it), there isn't much else to be found in the plot.
There really isn't that much to the film that I haven't already said in one paragraph. It's pretty great, but it's not brilliant. It falls below a bar set very high by the likes of Leone, and it suffers for it. Womp womp woooooooommmmp.
Check out Garrone's Nazisplotation SS Experiment Love Camp (1976) though, real heartwarming stuff.
Intro
Jimi Hendrix - Peace in Mississippi
Brainbombs - Slutmaster
Fistula - Die, You're a Fucking Cop
Porn (The Men Of...) - Sister
Earth - German Dental Work
Girl Band - That Snake Conor Cusack
WHORES. - Daddy's Money
The Sick Lipstick - Go To Bed!
The Melvins - Eye Flys
Outro
Ever get tired of the same old thing every Sunday? It's the purgatory of the weekend. It's a day off, but you can't do whatever you want because you've work the next day. There's no safety net after Sunday because Sunday is the safety net of the rest of the weekend. So what do we do with it? Usually we just use it to lay around, have a fry-up perhaps, take in a good mass, but doesn't it all just become so repetitive? Sure, you do the same things on Saturday that you do every other Saturday, you drink, you vomit, you drink some more, you fall asleep. But at least Saturday has a pair of balls. A handsome pair of balls. Balls full of magma. Sunday has no such balls, so how can we give it the kick up the arse it needs? Allow me to enlighten you, friends. Here are some alternatives to your end of week ritual. This is how to spend Sunday, the Sludge way.
MAKING CAKES
Alternative:
Turn your kitchen into a meth lab. You aren't a child anymore for fuck sake. Stop licking the spoon, start bending it.
WATCHING THE HURLING
Alternative:
You're not watching to enjoy, you're watching out of irony. Irony is the only thing that makes sense to you. 'Oh, look, he did a thing with the hurl. Great' you drawl, chewing on your couch.
SPENDING THE DAY WITH FAMILY
Alternative:
You don't have a family because you never let anyone in. You will never know the happiness of all those stock photography models. They probably aren't even real families and they're still closer than you ever will be with anyone.
EATING ICE CREAM
Alternative:
1. Drink a litre of gin.
2. Cry, for you know what is to come.
3. Sprint to your local playground.
4. Pick weakest looking kid.
5. Beat the fuck out of the kid.
WALK THE DOG
Alternative:
You aren't capable of love and even a dog won't warm to you.
CUDDLE IN BED
Alternative:
Cry.
GOING TO MASS
Alternative:
Go to mass, start chewing all of the communion wafers and masturbating at the altar. You'll be removed by force, probably arrested, but you'll probably only make the local newspaper. This is probably the only claim to fame you will ever experience, you'd better hurry. Extra points for discharging into the collection box.
The notion of peace is a frustrating, troublesome one. The idea that people might one day stop murdering, torturing and raping each in the name of whatever symbol they've decided to huddle and masturbate under - it's a bit far-out, man. I'm not about to solve the world's problems (Though I probably could, I'm that brilliant), but I imagine that 'peace' is just another symbol in itself. It's just another idea in a book that people are spilling blood for. It'll be one thing, then the next. When one monolith falls, another will be erected and just like its former, all types of blood and semen will dry in the dirt beneath it because that's what we humans do best; kill humans. We're fantastic at it and getting better every day. I'm of the opinion that peace, if there is such a thing, starts on the inside, and if you aren't cool with who you are, your victories and your failures; how can you be cool with everyone else? Munchy, right?
When John Lennon and the worst person in the entire world decided to stay in bed for weeks on end as a protest against the Vietnam war (And war in general) in 1969, I'm not entirely sure what was going through their minds at the time. Sure, 1969 was apparently a batshit insane year anyway, but seeing images of Lennon and McWorstperson sitting on a bed in Amsterdam as a protest against the Vietnam war is simply cringe-inducing. Mainly because I honestly believe that these were the moments that gave rise to a new strand of liberal that is more (in)active today than ever; the lazy fucking piece of shit who wants things to change, but wants to usher in this change using passive-aggressive Internet memes.
Maybe this was revolutionary, maybe by having The Beatles guy and his punching bag lay in a bed together was a revolution. Maybe it did inspire minds to change, maybe people did throw down their rifles and maybe, just maybe, peace could be seen on the horizon. Realistically, none of that happened, and if it were ever to happen; a wife-beating rock star and his aggressively annoying wife sitting on a bed for weeks on end will not be the first sign of global unity. I'm probably just a bitter fucker though, because I know I'll never achieve "hair peace". There's grays popping up everywhere. At least Lennon was important enough to have a bullet pop out the back of his head, I'm just going to rot and turn silver and fat.
Regardless of what exactly achieves peace or whether or not you give a fuck if we ever achieve it, here are a number of activities that you can opt for instead of cuddling up in bed with fathomless evil for a week in Amsterdam.
Learn how to spell super good
Spelling super good is a great talent to have. If your spelling isn't super good, how're you s'posed to trick people into reading your blog? Stupid.
(Alternative take:) S-U-P-E-R G-O-O-D.
Invent something people will dig the shit out of
When was the last time someone came out with something completely mind-blowing? I don't mean another iPad app that allows you to perform fellatio on your partner from a ten mile radius. No, I don't mean a new effects pedal that can make you sound 1/4 as good as Dylan Carlson and I don't mean a new breakfast cereal that won't give you the pox. I mean something really good, like the plane or the automobile. Go, you fool, think of something cool and invent it. If not, steal someone else's idea and claim it as your own. Like that time da Vinci told everyone he invented sodomy.
Do a front flip on a trampoline
When I was a young one, this was the very measuring stick for how cool you were and if you were incapable of doing the flip, you were a useless troglodyte with no hope of anything ever. I think we should use this test in how we judge others and how we assign them in society. If you can do the flip; your options are endless, you can strive, you can fight, you can flourish, the world is literally your dirty fucking sand pit and you can soil yourself in it or build the biggest castle of them all. However, if you can't do the flip; you will spend the rest of your pitiful, halfling existence among all the other goldfish, toiling in the salt mines. Mining our salt.
Listen to the John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John Christmas album on repeat until you've got gun-mouth.
If you can make it past "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree" without getting gun-mouth, you're made of a greater kind of steel, my friend.
Commit Sepoopoo
Myself and a few friends came up with this concept on Thursday night. If you're up to scratch with your Japanese ritual suicide, you'll know that Seppuku is the practice in which one literally tears their guts out with a blade of some description. It's a pretty brutal way to say "Sorry guys, I'm out".
NOW
Sepoopoo is where you go into the most disgusting, vile, rancid restaurant or food outlet you can find and eat as much as you can. Eat your wallet dry, this is supposed to kill you, after all. Now, once you've had your fill of nasty seafood or some kind of bacon strip burrito, you return home for the final act in the ritual. The poopoo in the Sepoopoo. I'm not entirely sure if I need to go into further detail as to what this final act entails, but it hopefully entails entrails.
When was the last time you and your significant other really bonded? None of that trivial car journey chit-chat with rivers of saliva running down your chin or that one time you both squealed at the same time when the puppy tried to roll over. I mean, when was the last time you really BONDED. I'm talking sweaty, aggressive bonding. I'm talking about bonding with a sinister agenda. I'm talking about getting tied up sideways and taking a staple gun to the ball sack. Sellotaping yourselves together and rolling down the stairs into a pile of thumbtacks, right in front of your parents. When was the last time you fingered her in a car park, man? She loved that.
What I'm trying to ask you is, when was the last time you and your lover actually did it? With feeling? No, I don't mean feelings, I mean, feeling. When was the last time you fucked and thought to yourself "Oh no, what have I done!?"
Let's face it, friend, you've lost your touch and you know why? It's because you've been trying to slip (or be slipped) the stealth while listening to Chris Martin knock out a few notes on his piano and whine loudly about how shit it is to be Chris Martin. It's all about the mood you set with the music, and if you set a Chris Martin mood, you get a Chris Martin fuck. Boring, lifeless, and empty.
But fear not, my limp and loveless companion, there is one sure way to light a fire under the arse of your sex life, and it's really quite simple. Pornogrind.
Yes, nothing gets your partner writhing around like a lusty earthworm in a child's sand pit quite like broken distortion pedals, toilet flush vocals and songs about holding down a clown and shitting on its chest. If it's "love" you're after, well then go listen to one of those chart tunes from '05. If it's a sea monster apocalypse fucking you're after...let the following anthems soundtrack your bedtime shenanigans.
Spasm - House By The Lavatory
Classing themselves as "Drum n' Bass gigolo Goregrind", these Czech sex demons will guide your erection in any direction.
Cock And Ball Torture - Anal Sex Terror
Cock And Ball Torture are the Slayer of Pornogrind. They are the main event, the coup de grâce, the money shot. They are everything you expect to find in a band with a name like their's, and their song titles appear more like suggestions than witty record sellers.
Rompeprop - Hellcocks Pornflakes
Covered in blood, semen and other tasty bodily fluids, Rompeprop are a speeding eight-wheeler truck of sexual aggression with the brakes cut.
Torsofuck - Snuffed Freak
Not everyone is into poop. Torsofuck are really into poop. There's not a lot of things these Finnish perverts aren't into. Though they haven't done anything since 2004 and nobody's quite sure if they're still a band or not, Torsofuck's legacy still stands strong like Robert Plant's boner.
Cemetery Rapist - Herpes Injection
Certainly not the most suave of the playlist, Cemetery Rapist is about as blunt as a donkey punch, but your lover(s) will be clawing for their cigarettes once you've seen to them with this as the soundtrack.
XXX Maniak - Prowler In The Shower
With track titles like "I Must Fuck Everything" and "Unbridled Sex With Dead Animals", how could this music not drive you and your partner into a sexual frenzy? Don't knock it until you've tried it.
Spermswamp - Genital Burger
Spermswamp, the little train that could come everywhere. You'll be mopping each other off the floor like a thick gravy when you've slipped this disk in.
Porky Vagina - Something Something Something
Encapsulating everything that's right and wrong about Pornogrind, Porky Vagina pride themselves on their ability to shred and fuck like animals. If the born again Christian and lead singer from W.A.S.P. is ashamed of some of his music, his tongue wouldn't have enough hail Mary's for these Polish demons.
Intracerebrally Consuming Cephalalgia Through The Cranium Macerating Debrisfucked Manure Ingested Remains Of The Mindfucked Cataplexic Wicked Mankind Whom Fistfucked The Progenies From The Deepest Depths Of The Analmaggot Raped Human Pieces Of Erotic Shitmasses Which Gave Birth To Worthless Eunuchs As Travesty For Cumstained Whorefaced Sluts Enslaved By This Stupid Society Full Of Fetal Garbages -
Drunk And Wretched Impressions On Perverted Battering Patterns On A Pubescent Teen's.. (Can't find the rest of the song title)
By the time you've read their name alone, your sex buddy will have climaxed eleventeen times. This is music for fisting AND linguistics.
Heavy metal has historically been an extremely competitive genre of music for musicians, new and old. A Mozart/Salieri rivalry between metal bands has always existed, this very culture of one upmanship is parent to all of the subgenres we associate with metal. Competition drives the musicians and so the music is constantly driving, becoming more dynamic, so much so that we have come to a point where metal is almost unrecognizable. There is no finishing line for heavy metal, no bust of perfection, only evolution and mutation. Mutation being the key word here.
A few months ago, I published an article about the harrowing Australian death metal scene and how far from traditional metal, even traditional music, it has deviated from. The very heart has been ripped from the chest of 'groove metal' and greedily ingested by a shapeless, horrible, nameless beast. Is this still death metal? If it is still death metal, is this death metal at its most primitive or modern? What exactly are we listening to when we hear Impetuous Ritual or Grave Miasma? I can't be alone in thinking that there is something very special about these bands. Maybe I'm acting the stuck-up hipster, trying to excavate meaning from something meaningless, but metal bands are mutating, and I believe that Profound Lore Records is the dank sewer in which they dwell.
Abyssal - A Malthusian Epoch
Hailing from the UK, Abyssal haven't long evacuated the womb, but have already offered up two slabs of unspeakable evil since 2012. It's only a matter of time before these horrible fuckers muster up something just as hideous as their previous release, Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius (2013).
Impetuous Ritual - Ritual Of The Crypt
I've been worshiping at the altar of Impetuous Ritual (and Portal, and Grave Upheaval, and...) for a long time now and should probably have given this spot to a different band, but I truly believe that Impetuous Ritual are the future of death metal. Unfortunately, I couldn't provide a link to their latest release, you'll just have to stomach through that yourself.
Mitochondrion - Parasignosis
Mitochondrion come from a long line of supreme Canadian evil dating all the way back to the seemingly ageless Blasphemy. There is nothing conventional about Mitochondrion, nothing for the listener to cling to. It's the likes of Mitochondrion and Portal that are truly testing the limits of metal and the avant garde.
Grave Miasma - Seven Coils
Coming to life as Goat Molestör in 2002, Grave Miasma have been peddling occult cruelty for over a decade now and have only climbed further down the throat of the archfiend, never letting-up in their vicious sonic assault. Their latest offering Odori Sepulcrorum (2013) will put a smile on your demon's face.
A.M.S.G. - Black Rites Of Black Shadows
Ad Majorem Satanae Gloriam could only be Canadian, simply put. Canada and Australia practically seethe with venom and hatred, that's how you can tell their metal bands from our metal bands. A.M.S.G. are not trying to reinvent the wheel, but their strain of highly poisonous black metal easily thrusts them among the ranks of artists like Black Witchery and Cultes des Ghoules. These Antichrist warriors are definitely to be kept an eye on.
Despite being spoon fed by one of Italy's finest horror screenplay writers, director Andrea Bianchi still, somehow, managed to turn Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror (1981) into one of the most excruciatingly awkward of Italian zombie flicks. Perhaps it was the other way around, maybe it was Piero Regnoli that was sat at his desk, digging his nails into and clawing at any lean slices of plot that looked as though it might fit into the photomontage of his overall 'vision' for the film. Regardless of who is at fault here, whether the idea came from those of the opening credits or whether it was pitched by the sound technician, whoever came up with the incest angle in Burial Ground should either receive an award or a pair of concrete shoes.
To begin with, I wasn't a huge fan of the movie overall. As mentioned above, the story just seemed to drag on while all of its characters appeared like socially inept secondary school students trying to avoid brushing past each other in a crowded hall. At no point during the film did I feel, 'Ah, yes, this pleases me. More of that'. Burial Ground belongs among those few early 80s horror films where each character exists only to die, they are the funfair goldfish of the horror world, mere flesh props. Now, the same can be said for any film of the horror genre, that the characters are simply props to be torn apart, but in my doubtlessly retarded opinion, you'll be hard pressed to find a set of more heinously boring flesh props in a horror flick than you will in Burial Ground.
So, where is the saving grace here? I'm not even entirely sure if it really did do the film any favours, but the story arc between Michael and his mother most certainly sprinkled the film with something exorbitantly skin-crawling, but ultimately cheap, like a drunk carny's publicity stunt.
Michael, played by midget 26-year-old Peter Bark, spends a lot of the movie attached to his mother's hip. At first we're to believe that he's just one of those anemic little sissy womb-dwellers (Well, I suppose it's not unfair to say he at least aspires to dwell in her womb), but as the film progresses, we see that Micheal's relationship with his mother is far more sinister, even more sinister than the flesh-hungry undead pursuing them. In fact, it's not unfair to say that the story arc between Micheal and his mother is more disturbing than the plot itself. You're not supposed to try and kiss your mother, you're not supposed to try and finger your mother, biting off your mother's nipple is a really, really bold thing to do. Even amid certain doom, none of those things are okay, Peter Bark, you sick fuck.
Regardless of this foreskin plot device, Burial Ground is an acclaimed classic and cult favourite. Whether its fame can be attributed to its horror or its grim and incestuous subplot, that's for you to decide. Give it a pair of eyes and ears, just don't watch it with your mum.
Kilmacurragh's history is authored meticulously in its very soil with its tropical flora, crumbling stone walls and the winding, elderly trees that surround its acres and acres of land. There are stories in the flowers and trees, which were collected and planted by the adventurous and well traveled Actons, who owned the estate for over one hundred years beginning in 1750. There are stories in the walls that were built, now collapsing, of the Acton soldiers who handed down the land from one generation to the next, but none of them contributing as greatly to the land's diverse collection of flora than the keen botanist and adventurer, Thomas Acton.
Kilmacurragh now stands as a botanic garden, a popular area for sight-seeing in Wicklow, my home town, the very garden of Ireland.
The pond once used as a swimming pool by the local children, my grandparents included
The landscape of Kilmacurragh is beautiful and haunting at the same time, areas painted splendidly with exotic flowers wind and bend alongside dusky trails and branched marquees where the sun cannot find its way. I've visited it many times, as I live no more than a mile from the area, but it was only two years ago that I decided to do some reading on this large pasture of local history and lore.
While I've nothing but fondness for Kilmacurragh and have spent many a day wandering around its gardens, hopping over the peeping roots of its old trees and taking photographs of its many oddly shaped features, there is a part of Kilmacurragh's history that is omitted from the brochure you pick up on your way through its rusty gates. Because just as the land tells the story of Thomas Acton and his family, it also tells the story of a neutral Ireland during WWII, and the Nazi party member, Charles Budina, who ran the estate as a hotel from the 30s to the early 50s.
Charles Budina (Right)
Very little has been written about Charles Budina, other than his work with the popular "Kilmacurra Park Hotel", his role as a German voice in neutral Ireland, and the Hitler-Jugend and Nazi party functions that he held at Kilmacurragh. It has also been written that one of Budina's relatives drowned in its famous pool.
When WWII broke out, Charles returned to his homeland to fight, only to return to Kilmacurragh in the early 1950s. However, a dispute over his ownership of the land upon his return eventually led to the downfall of the popular hotel and this is where Kilmacurragh hotel's ruin, as well as Charles Budina's fade into obscurity, begins.
Whatever became of Budina, as of now, is a mystery. My grandparents were small children when Budina lost the hotel, and I imagine that any information on his activities afterwards could only be found on the tongues of the dead, dying or impossibly old. Nonetheless, it would be interesting to learn more about Budina, his involvement with one of Ireland's most beloved hotels of the time, and perhaps even shed some light on the political activities that were held there.
Even by today's standards, Marquis de Sade is a sick, twisted, fuck. If sucking a little boy's dick as he floats in a barrel of shit is your idea of eroticism, then Marquis is your man (You should also probably be in prison). Before he popped his final boner in a dank insane asylum in Saint-Maurice, Paris, he left behind him a series of sticky erotic novels that are still as shocking and stomach churning today as they were in revolution period France. Imagine how conservative French leaders reacted to a story about a young girl being groomed to suck, fuck and eventually stitch her own mother's vagina closed with the help of a syphilis-ridden sex slave. That, my friends, is why we still talk about Sade, and it is also why his name is applied to anyone harbouring violent sexual fantasies and whip crack excitement. If you ever happen upon someone twitching in a pool of their own vomit with their genitals exposed, you've either come across the local drunk or someone who picked up 120 Days of Sodom assuming it was anything other than what its title implies.
But what if Sade were alive now? His works certainly wouldn't be considered controversial in this age of Snapchats, sticky nightclub booths and X-tra Vision car park dogging. What we can do, for science's sake, is jigsaw an idea of what Maquis de Sade's record collection might look like, here's a few classics you might find in the boudoir.
The Mentors
The high kings of misogyny and rape rock, The Mentors, much like de Sade, were very much consumed with the darker side of the bedroom. If The Mentors had written "Whole Lotta Love", it would have been titled "This is Going in Your Cornhole, Slut!". How serious The Mentors are (or were) about their promotion of rape rock is up for debate, with key member El Duce often making television appearances and spewing out exaggerated, pro-wrestling hate speeches regarding a woman's role in society. Nonetheless, if de Sade ever found himself in a potentially harmful conversation with a pub hipster, he'd definitely namedrop The Mentors for extra rape points.
The Genitorturers
De Sade wasn't justall about tying women up and rummaging through their insides with a serving spoon, however, he also enjoyed the idea of role-reversal. I imagine nothing got the blood pumping through Sade's meager, 74-year-old veins like the idea of having a truly 'corrupted' young lady go to war on his nipples with a set of tweezers. The Genitorturers, the rock and roll vehicle for sadean feminism, would naturally be a Sade favourite. Perhaps so much so that they become that band you utterly loathe simply because your one friend wont stop spinning the same album over and over again. I imagine Sade would be that kind of prick.
Prince
Prince has more sexual ferocity in his slim, 5'1 build than one hundred horseback Mongol warriors en route to a small, defenseless village. Though Prince may have been more conventional in his approach to sexual conduct (So we think), those sexy bass licks and feminine purrs would have Sade reaching for his lusty chambermaid like the last slice of toast on the breakfast table. Christ, if listening to Dirty Mind doesn't reduce you to sex-crazed ape, then I don't know what will.
Gary Glitter
He fucked kids and that's all I'll say on the matter.
Torsofuck
Well, if the name didn't give it away for you, Torsofuck aren't very subtle and they aren't very good at writing love songs, unless your idea of a love song consists of post-mortal fisting or laying on a table and being shit on by a middle-aged salary slave in a gimp mask. Torsofuck are a Sade novel come to life, and there are many more bands like them. However, most of these bands sound identical and are almost impossible to tell apart, so I imagine Sade would favour Torsofuck over the others as he would at least be able to pronounce their name correctly. He may also very well be able to relate to their lyrics, much like all those thousands of alienated youths to "Smells Like Teen Spirit".
When I was 15 or so, I happened upon a CD by an artist called Xasthur. It was a self-titled EP with three songs. As a young teenager, I was enamored with black metal, smoking cigarettes and spewing venom to anyone who would listen, I was that guy. So when I saw this CD, whose cover artwork featured a stalactite riddled grotto mounted by an indecipherable white logo, I simply had to have it. But when I fed it to my CD player, the music coming out sounded nothing like the black metal I knew. I had to re-learn how to listen to this music.
Xasthur's corpse stopped twitching a long time ago, but the mastermind behind the music, Scott Conner, is very much alive. Reinvention sounds far easier than it actually is. To discontinue something you've been doing for years and to do so without any noticeable signs of withdrawal isn't an easy task, but that's just what Conner has done.
Nocturnal Poisoning is acoustic music. Everyone knows what acoustic music sounds like, they've drank at college parties, sat at the bar at open-mic nights and seen their friends' Youtube tutorials. If you aren't familiar with the language of an acoustic guitar, then you're either deaf or may as well be. We've all got that sound in our heads when we imagine the acoustic guitar, it's familiar, we know all about it. When I first heard Nocturnal Poisoning, I felt that confusion once again, it didn't sound familiar at all. This wasn't the acoustic music I knew. I had to re-learn how to listen to this music.
***
I usually start these things with a good ol' "How are you?", but I'm to understand that you're not into giving people trivial supplements like that. So I'll just ask, how was your breakfast?
S- I'm not too sure when breakfast is, I usually eat it at 5 am and call it dinner, no joke.
Nocturnal Poisoning has been years in the making I believe. Can you remember when and why you decided to just go for it?
S- Well, it was something new to me, with more possibilities, it seemed like any or many musics all rolled into one could be played, instead of just trying to do 'one kind of music only'. The music of Nocturnal Poisoning comes naturally to me, it worked out so well and it was a sound I was searching for, it really was like 'fuck it, I'm just gonna go for it'.
I think we've been seeing a massive decline in the guitar player, there are plenty of guitarists (in bands), but very few stand-alone players with their own distinct character. It seems like the four chord frat boy or the guitar neck masturbation styles are most dominant. Am I wrong in saying this? What do you think?
S- I don't think you're wrong at all. When it comes to acoustic guitar playing, I think people have a very simplified idea of how it's supposed to be or simplified way of hearing it. I think it's an interesting challenge to make guitar based songs where the playing and the riffs in themselves are the foundation, where the foundation can make a song stand on its own.
The reason I asked the above question is because when I first heard Nocturnal Poisoning, I was reminded of guitar players with real character. Blind Willie Johnson, Dylan Carlson, Buzz Osbourne's current acoustic stuff, those players that have distinct guitar accents. Is Nocturnal Poisoning's voice something you had to build from the ground up, or are there certain ghosts still haunting your fingers?
S- Well, in the beginning of this, I didn't have a whole lot of die-hard 'influences', I just started out learning or trying to learn a lot of old acoustic songs, you name the genre, and I picked it up pretty quick, then it was like I wanted to take everything I was learning and do it wrong or better yet, do it my kind of way or change some of what I used to do, combining it with something else new and old. That's quite a compliment, thanks, those are fine guitar players, I really like the nasty twang Dylan's got.
Your music is very busy. There's always something going on, at least always has been from what I've heard. Was there any initial trouble in keeping Nocturnal Poisoning as busy a music as it is, or was that even the intention? Does technicality even come into mind when you write or play?
S- Yeah, that's really the idea. I do try to keep it busy, with both hands or at least with one. I want to make music I would want to hear, I also wouldn't be too happy if I bought an album from a guy who used to do black metal just to find out he was doing less as his big 'change'. I also think being expected to do something less or casual made me want to do more! Yes, technicality is in mind a lot of times, sometimes more technical than other times.
I've had this little warped acoustic in my bedroom for the past ten years, it's become an ornament at this point, but I still play my electric, mainly because I shit myself over the idea of learning chords and finger picking techniques. The videos you post to Youtube are great because they give the listener an idea of what you're playing and how you're playing it, like a tutorial, or exposing the bones of a song. Are these videos for fun, practice, promotion, or all the boxes ticked?
S- That's really the idea, it's a way of explaining what I'm trying to do but without spelling it out step by step either, at the same time, I see it as a way to clear up any misconceptions of what's being played. It is for enjoyment and it's also a challenge. I get a sense of completion when I film the songs, I also don't have to worry so much about trying to remember them once they're filmed, because... well... there they are.
With your third record, Doomgrass, is coming out this Summer, how would you compare it to your two previous records? Are you still trying to establish a sound with the record or will it be something of an experiment?
S- It's experimenting with more tunings and coming up with more chords. Some of it's darker this time, moody, that's where the doom comes in and it's all based around country, bluegrass, or 'folk' type of picking that I keep rolling with and expanding upon. Don't totally let the doom part throw you off because it's moving, kind of faster, but mellow all at the same time.
You smashed a laptop today with a fucking morning star. How good did that feel?
S- Well, pretty good. I think the laptop has really killed something called musicianship, it's caused a lot of laziness and its helped to overcrowd and devalue music. A lot of people want to play on their laptops instead of getting together and playing for real. I'm not one of those people who makes music on their lunch break with a free app or a laptop. Music isn't supposed to be something easy and I see the laptop as a cheating shortcut. If people wanna copy what I do, they should just start by smashing their laptop or by not relying on it.
Thank you again for the interview and thank you for providing the soundtrack to my formative years, and now my drunken adulthood. Looking forward to the new record and wish you the best of luck with the next one. On that final note, is there anything you'd like to communicate to the readers?
S- Well, thanks a lot, the questions were great. There's a lot of good old music out there, and it's not always linked to subgenres of metal.
Blurry eyes, smouldering headache, and a mouth like a pensioner's purse. Ah yes, the Maynooth Thursday morning, it's been a while my darling. This blanket feels like a cuddle from Mr. Blobby in an opium den, I don't want to emerge from underneath it but I'm also terrified that I've over slept. I wonder for a moment where I am, then I hear two of my friends leaving for college, bidding me farewell as I stare up at them with bloodshot eyes and a jaw-torturing smile. Of course, it's Neil's house. This place is ordo ad chaos. You couldn't meet a more welcoming group of sweethearts if you tried, but each and every one of them have uncontrollable demons that enter stage left as soon as the party starts. I am grateful to have them as friends, but so terribly frightened of what we become when a drink is taken. Our Hitlers and Mussolinis are in league.
I peel myself off of the couch like a wet bacon strip, trip around a motorcycle that's been parked in the sitting room, and do as best I can to clean myself up before exposing my goofy face to the unforgiving sunlight and chirping college girls.
A chicken roll and a fistful of painkillers sets me up when I return to my own apartment and while reclining on my bed (which also serves as both couch and desk) for an hour, I begin to feel somewhere close to tippidy top. However, as you know, during this period of tenderness, you begin sifting through your mental inbox and it's not long before you come across some guilt mail. Luckily, I hadn't fucked up immensely on this occasion (gold star for avoiding Buckfast for this long), with the exception of trying to lay foundation with this tiny club chick who obviously wanted no part of a slobbering bearded schmuck singing Hulk Hogan's theme song all night. However, I did remember something of great significance;
Tonight is Gorgoroth night.
***
I've made the horrible decision of wearing my leather jacket on a day like this, but black metal dress code demands it. No matter how hot and uncomfortable one becomes on a commuter train under the rare Irish sun, one must always feign misanthropy and bleakness, because nothing says 'grim fucker' like a black leather jacket in shorts weather.
I love livin' near the city
I arrive at Temple Bar where I meet long-time friend and temple of doom brethren, Man Man. We exchange a manly embrace and make our way to the venue. We've been waiting for this gig for a very long time now and have spent many a conversation circle-jerking over Gorgoroth and how dreamy they are. Truth be told, I'd fallen out of love with black metal a year before I met Man Man (I'd become one of those post-rock chimps), and when the music had begun to corrupt him, I found myself once again on the molested end of its skeletal fingers. Anyway, it was only fitting that we see Gorgoroth together, despite being one brother down.
R.I.P. Julian Palmer, gone but never forgotten.
Ageless Oblivion
I don't think I've heard an opening band sound as though the venue they're playing can hardly contain their energy. Without moving too much on the stage, their sound alone bounced off the walls, slapped faces, dump-tackled trophy metalhead girlfriends and downed over-priced pints of Stella. Vocalist Stephen Jones cuts a Jekyl & Hyde figure on stage, part charming gentleman as he addresses the crowd, part flesh-eating wendigo as he hunches over the stage. Ageless Oblivion aren't my usual cup of tea, but as mentioned above, they set a very high standard for their main acts. Pint one, Stella, finished.
Vital Remains
Were it not for the incredibly violent climax of Gorgoroth's set, Vital Remains would easily have stolen the show. Throughout their time on the stage, I was reminded of why I fell in love with death metal in the first place. They brought me back to 2004, hearing Cannibal Corpse and Morbid Angel for the first time, listening to a music that was both exciting and confusing, like your first time watching porn. You don't know what the fuck is going on, but you love it. Stage presence, turret rattle tunes and the first wall of death I've seen at an Irish gig in three years. Vocalist Brian Werner (Who had been instigating mosh pits all night) launched himself on top of the bar and brought an end to their vicious, nostalgic, and genuinely inspiring set. Death metal is most certainly alive. Pint two, Stella, though a Jagerbomb was considered.
The Gorgoroth Prick, or "that guy"
Not actually The Gorgoroth Prick, but you know the type.
Moshing is great. It is the ultimate in fan participation and conducts at least half, if not all, the energy of a good gig. I myself rarely participate in a pit unless the body is pumped but the brain is nowhere to be found, but when I do participate, I'm sure to keep to mosh etiquette. There aren't many rules to the game, really, they're not that difficult to fathom. 1) Do what you have to do in the pit, 2) Don't go out of your way to try and hurt people that don't want in on the pit.
The Gorgoroth prick was some fat German troglodyte in (of couse) a sleeveless denim jacket covered in old school patches, most notably a giant (of course) W.A.S.P. patch. The Gorgoroth prick was essentially the pause button on the craic. Everyone was moshing, moving, headbanging, having a damn good time, and this complete wad of festering shit just insisted on launching a blubber assault at everyone, whether they were in the pit or not. At one point, after trying really hard to contain my frustration, I grabbed a handful of his hair and pushed the pig out of the way. He stands up, gets in my face and asks me why I did it. I explain to him that he's a fat fuck and that he's been knocking over pints and pushing over girls all night, but he keeps whining "Whai Choo Pull Mai Hayor?".
To Gorgoroth Prick, I will remember your face, and if we ever cross paths again, I am going to ignore and probably pretend I don't remember you because you're bigger than me. But if I get totes swell by the next time I see you, you're getting a pink belly, a purple nurple and a face full of Liam.
Gorgoroth, and Hoest tries to kill a guy.
There was a hush just before Gorgoroth took the stage. No drunken howling, no laughing, no swearing or beer spewing, hardly any talking. It was the most silent I've ever heard a packed venue full of metal fans. Maybe it was atmosphere created by the smoke, maybe it was the haunting organs droning over the PA system, but there was a genuine feeling that something brilliant and terrible was about to happen. And something brilliant did happen, followed by something very terrible.
The band were cold and taunting from the moment they took the stage. Their nefarious figures disappearing and reappearing behind the thick veil of fog that surrounded them, it was nearly impossible to take your eyes from the ritual going on in front of you, unless of course when Gorgoroth Prick's blubber was slabbing off your shoulder. Simply put, Gorgoroth were everything I'd expected them to be; harsh sonic abuse without a heartbeat of warmth to their presentation.
Hoest makes a fantastic front man for this kind of music. His stage presence fills in for the long moments between his vocal movements. He is both reptile and early man combined. We would soon learn that he is more than a performer, however, as by the end of the show he proved himself to be just as violent as the character he portrays, if you can really call it a character. Pint three, Stella, €15 lighter.
A fan standing front row had been messing with Hoest all night, according to one group of onlookers, while others claimed that the attack was completely unprovoked. Either way, that fan left the venue bleeding profusely and leaving a trail of blood behind him on the floor. He'd been struck with a microphone, kicked in the face and eventually cracked over the head with an empty bottle of wine. A young woman standing near the front suffered a vicious gash to her wrist following the attack with the wine bottle and had to have her wounds dressed immediately. There was a lot of blood, a lot of fog and Gorgoroth got right the fuck out of dodge.
Man Man and I were completely ecstatic by the end of the gig. We'd hadn't seen anything like this in years. The return of the wall of death, the old school death metal vibes, the indiscriminate violence, it was magic in many ways. But the metal concert is a space with which these activities are acceptable. It's simply sociology. You are one kind of person among friends at a specialist event such as a metal concert, and you are another kind of person in a wider space where etiquette is more stringent and odd. While we were practically sporting boners among all the blast beats and bloodshed, when we left The Voodoo Lounge, we were ready for normality. Unfortunately for us, the conflict wasn't over yet.
While waiting for the number 2 at Busáras, Man Man noticed a young woman crying as she passed us. We asked her what was wrong and explained that she had been fighting with her boyfriend and had lost him in the process. Man Man and I, the pious individuals that we are, tried to help her out by calming her down and looking for her boyfriend. Eventually, we spotted a man fitting the description she had given us and she called him over. At first I was pretty happy that she'd found him, until of course he started eyeing me up as though I'd just been caught with my hands up her skirt.
What followed next was a completely uncalled for tirade of pushing, pulling, and constant threats of "I'll have both of you shot!" and "Do you know who I fucking am?". Man Man and I, of course, had absolutely no idea who this guy was other than he sounded like the most convincing Dublin gang banger/general knacker we'd ever encountered, so we decided to (must like Hoest) get the fuck out of dodge. Not satisfied with our explanation that we were trying to help her find him, he followed us up and down Busáras, screaming abuse, punching windows and threatening us with bullets to the heads. Needless to say, we were pretty freaked out.
Worried that he may have been on the phone to some mates (pretty sure that was one of his hundred threats too), we walked to the other end of the bus station and chilled back with some old Northern Irish men who seemed a little too excited at the concept of beating up a black dude, but we were happy to have their company at the time anyway,
After a serious verbal dissection of what had just happened, the black guy appears from out of nowhere, eyes now full of empathy and hands extended. He apologized profusely for taking out an imaginary hit on us and generally screaming abuse at us for helping his girlfriend, we shook hands and he left. Man Man and I have never been as sober on a night out in our entire lives and we ended up on the very cusp of three different physical altercations with the possibility of varying outcomes of bodily damage.
Overall, the night gets a 7/10. Not enough sixers and shredding.
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