The 10 Greatest Metal Bands Of ALL TIME

Heavy metal. Our music, our way of life, the altar at which we kneel inside the church of steel. Metal. Our culture. Brotherhood. Heavy metal. Rock and roll. Dimebag. Party. Dean guitar. Family. Family. Brotherhood. Metal. Beers. Orange Amplifiers. Skeletons. Our music. Our Music. Our Music. Brotherhood. Friends. The collective. Powerslave was great. We're all in this together. Metal. Heavy metal. Skull bong. Anton LaVey. Denim on denim. Dimebag. Rust in Peace was great. Righteous. Gnarly. Metal chicks. Metal chicks. Scott Ian. Just checking out the merch table.

Metal brotherhood. Loyalty. Dimebag. Studded leather jacket. Broadsword. Family. Our music. Culture. Us against the world. Stoked to see 'Tallica. Beers. Titties. Rapier. Fog machine. Lightning Fist. Storm Puncher. Steelizor. Dean guitars. Influential. Speed Metal belly top. I didn't like St. Anger. Family. Girlfriend's Nightmare Before Christmas handbag. Booze. I hope Nevermore reunite. I hope Nevermore reunite. I hope Nevermore reunite. Scott Ian's goatee. Death Angel > Dark Angel. Custom Dean. Forever. In the annals of. Glow in the dark skull bong. Glove chains. Fuck Phil Anselmo. Glove chains. American Thrash Metal > EuroThrash. Metal God. Robb Flynn is great. Stoked to see Robb Flynn. Machine Head are great. Jacket chains. Bullet belt. Bullet belt. Bullet belt. Cargo shorts. Dark Fortress are the best black metal band. Obey. Consume. Family. We're all family. Metal chicks. See you in the pit.

10. Electric Wizard.

9. Electric Wizard

8. Electric Wizard.

7. Electric Wizard.

6. Electric Wizard.

5. Electric Wizard.

4. Electric Wizard.

3. Electric Wizard.

2. Metallica.

AND FINALLY. NUMBER ONE. FAMILY. FOREVER. GLOVE CHAINS...

1.

!!Electric Wizard!!

Stream of Consciousness: Wearing Maggots To Bed.

There are visual intricacies to sleep paralysis that are only noticeable by eye if the eyes allow them to be seen. The knee-jerk is to attempt a closing of the eye, but the eye is pried open by the sonic dread violating the ear, and so all senses available to you are essentially arrested by the episode. Often the occurrence may prove so frightful that a childish squeal might escape you and in hearing your own frightened tones independent of these encompassing, horrendous wails, you are agitated further and further into giving life to something that is very much living inside of your brain. It is a highly visceral birthing process engendered by the sperms of nightmare. It is a terrestrial invasion by the shapeless black things that dance whimsically somewhere in the loft above bedtime. It’s easy to call them phantoms or devils but those are inventions of the conscious and what you’re experiencing comes from the collective unconsciousness, those shared and ancient vibrations that make mad, voodoo satellites of all soup-swimming brains. It is only terrifying if you close the eye, so long as you allow what’s happening to run its course, and as long as you become a willing participant, you will be rewarded for at least a moment.

Sometimes the shuddering, mutant obscurity reveals itself to be the face of a friend, a baby, a robin redbreast, or anything delicately simple, just enough to defeat the screaming for a few moments. It is frightening in itself to note that one of these intricacies is that your sedative visual is actually a hideously precise moment in time that has latched itself for some reason to your subconscious. The furrowed brow of a friend or the glistening spittle on an eager tongue. Those detailed memories proven inaccessible by independent thought, and no matter how warm the optic may be, it has now manifested as something grotesque. That is the reward for your courage, a moment or two of merciful stillness with a dead reflection. The question is: who showed it to you?

And then it starts over again.

Movies: Trail of the Screaming Forehead

Trail of the Screaming Forehead (2007)

Organic madness. 

The unimaginative neckbeard with his expensive collection of LOTR replica swords would tell you that this movie was the result of "tons of weed man, ah-huh-huh". He would then likely regurgitate his month's worth of two-minute microwave hamburgers and nod off in the bubbling slime, a shuddering victim, overdosing on his own passionless drivel. I say this because TOTSF should never, ever be pigeonholed as simply another throwaway gimmick flick for lifeless college frat types. There are plenty of movies out there that serve that very purpose, the purpose of pandering heavily to a couch full of roach-lipped figurines with gags about Stifler peeking in the girl's bathroom. As much as I do love the crude and the trashy, this is one film that doesn't rely on the reliable. It's familiar, but it's adventurous. It's shimmering, clean comedy. It's organic madness.

If you've never heard this oh-so recyclable plot line before then your mother is probably still using stabilizers. A small, quaint little strip of Americana becomes ground zero of a sinister alien invasion, and each of the town's inhabitants are systematically brainwashed by these parasitic visitors. As stated before, this story has been done to death. It's been fucked, flipped over for seconds, and fucked again for the last sixty years, but as far as my knowledge stretches; it's never been done with sentient foreheads from a distant, dying planet. 

This is the first Larry Blamire film I've seen, but I can already confidently tell you that he has mastered 1950s pastiche like no other. Everything from the bubbly soundtrack to the traditional and perpetual mid-long shot is executed perfectly as though Blamire had sat at his desk and thrown two bugling eyes on every single nuclear family sci-fi ever belched forth during that so paranoid era. It's full of a snappy, but completely idiotic kind of charm, with absolutely zero reliance on innuendo or vulgarity. It's audio/visual proof that there is really an art to writing terrible dialogue, and it's effortlessly funny in its delivery from the cast, all whom portray characters that need little highlighting, each of them standing out in their own way with their own set of eccentricities. 

"Avant-garde" isn't a term I like to throw around, especially for a comedy that so clearly sets out to be derivative, but everything from its bright visuals to its unconventional humour designate this as something entirely different to anything yet produced during this b-movie revival. It predates many of the most well-known revival flicks like Hobo with a Shotgun or WolfCop, but it's every bit a rival to their quirky charm. If this film is anything to go by, Larry Blamire is definitely one to keep a hawk's eye on if you require a strong fix of bizarre fun.