Exploring the Bizarre World of Gore-Hop

GOOD CALL, MATE!

I have never owned an over-sized hoodie covered in cannabis leaf designs, and as such; I have never been a fan of any of the many hip-hop or "EDM" fads that have come and gone seamlessly over the past decade or more. I was only just recently introduced to a genre of electronic known as "Witch House", where the more ambient and experimental of electronic soundscapes are merged with occult themes, imagery and performance. I threw my eyes over a Wiki page for Witch House and it provided me with enough entry-level knowledge of the music so that I might feel confident were I to find myself shitting from my own mouth amid a gaggle of hipsters in the packed smoking area of a nightclub I probably shouldn't be allowed in. Sorted, Witch House, I got you. Except then I found the "House" drop box at the bottom of the page, and any hope I had of impressing girls in large beanie hats with my knowledge of ridiculously beep-specific electronic garbage fizzled away like Sunday morning Sopladeine in a glass of tap water. 

There are just too many sub-wub-wub-dub-genres out there, I can't keep up. Even Vice/Noisey/Pitchfork can't keep me in the endless loop. The only way I could ever wish to gain entry into the golden warehouse of the electronic elite would be by spending the rest of my life shuffling between London's guerilla nightclubs, trendy hairdressers, and all the while dealing ket to school children.

It's a good thing I don't particularly give too much of a fuck what my age group are listening to. I do, however, like to explore all the wackiest and most gimmicky fads that EDM and, to a lesser degree, Hip-Hop have to offer in this, the age of the Internet. An age where in order to be heard, you must stand out, and in order to stand out, you must be prepared to plunge into a whirlpool of teeth-grinding madness. Or at least look as though you have. 

Enter Gore-Hop, the inevitable offspring of murder rap, backyard wrestling and the needlessly macho poodle men that tried to hijack brutal death metal back when it was 'cool'. But it's far too easy to slip Gore-Hop into the recycle folder and it's even easier to point and laugh at some of the genre's more flamboyant and shamelessly white artists, and that's the thing about TMINI, we don't do things the easy way. In fact, on paper, Gore-Hop is what we're all about here, it employs all the same imagery as Death Metal, so lets open up our minds so that we may open up our intestines. 

Butchers Haerm - Everlasting Anal Fist Fuck

From a glance, it's fair to say that Gore-Hop owes much of itself to early 90's 'Horrorcore' or Murder Rap artists like Gravediggaz and The Insane Clown Posse, maybe even some of the more established acts of the time like NWA, artists that didn't shy away from brutal lyrics about gunning down their fellow man or raping anything with a pulse (or without, all down to preference). However, while their cues definitely come from the early lyricism and theatrics of the Murder Rappers of the 90's, some of these Gore-Hop artists take it to a whole new, stomach-churning, finger-licking level.

At the very centre of Gore-Hop, again, from a glance, is the seminal outfit Butchers Harem, an Australian group whose members consist of a number of artists, such as Cumblood, Anal Executioner, Mc Bushpig, and McSlurry. While those Murder Rap artists that came before them were somewhat more timid with regards to the ol' gut-slicing, the members of Butchers Harem, mixing rap with the spirit of Goregrind, are far more liberal with their feces and blood spatter. Originally formed under the name Suicidal Rap Orgy in 2001 and led by Mc Bushpig, Butchers Harem are known for plunging head-first into themes made famous by the Goregrind bands that came before them, with songs about fist-fucking, snuff porn, anal rape, and all set to the traditional Hip-Hop studio beats that the local "get rich or die trying" kid is programming on FL Studio. However, Butchers Harem don't seem so intent on the getting rich part as the dying part. Or rather the killing part.

Chuckklez - Keep The Head And Eat The Rest

It's impossible to talk about Gore-Hop without placing it side by side with its originators and innovators, those pesky Juggalos. There's no doubt in my mind that today's Gore-Hop artists are the product of The Insane Clown Posse and their devout following of face-painted Juggalos and Juggalettes. For some reason, the Jaggalo doesn't have a good name for himself, indeed, he is shunned by many and hated by more. Maybe it's the face-paint, maybe it's the incessant "Whoop! Whoop!"-ing, or maybe it's because the American media have picked the very worst of them from Facebook profiles and tagged them as brain dead redneck gangsters with meth-mouth. Either way, Jaggalos, and The Insane Clown Posse, have been given a hard time by the media, and as a result of this, the rest of the world as well. I've never spoken to or seen a Juggalo up close in my entire life, so I'm not going to start beating off into the same sock that everyone else on the Internet seems to be. I don't understand it, I may never understand it, but that's okay, I'm not a part of it.

The Gathering of The Jaggalos, an annual festival set up by Psychopathic Records, is currently taking place in Thornville, Ohio, and many Gore-Hop artists are taking to the stage alongside established names like Cannibal Corpse and Cypress Hill. Judging by the festival's website, the event looks completely horse shit insane, with death match wrestling and an eclectic line-up of Hip-Hop and Metal prancing hand in hand through a field of clown-faced cartoon characters full to the neck with psychedelic drugs and cheap booze. I'd be a liar if I said it didn't look like class A craic, so I won't.

Owning the GOTJ Pendulum stage are notable Gore-Hoppers like Insane Poetry, Scum, Hex Rated and Dieabolik The Monster. Whether this is their first time on the GOTJ line-up, I'm none the wiser, but if there was ever a venue for this fledgling off-shoot of Hip-Hop and Goregrind, it's the GOTJ, and god speed to them, I say.

As previously stated, it's the easiest thing in the world to poke fun at these guys, just as it's the easiest thing in the world to poke fun at any of my favourite Death Metal bands. We're living in a world where theatrics, over-the-top lyrics, and a general sense of danger have been shunned once again by the music industry in favour of neat haircuts, acoustic guitars and the ever flavourless 'cool' factor, whatever that may be at whatever time. 

Gore-Hop isn't for everyone, it isn't even for me, but it's good to know that there are still artists out there who are as colourful and demented as the likes of Butchers Harem and Hex Rated. It may come in a different package than most of us are used to, but it's oddball weird and it's unapologetic in its tastelessness, and that's good enough for me. 

A Brief Guide to RTÉ One Programming

For those of you that do not have access to or have never tuned in to RTÉ One, whether due to television license disputes, hardcore prison time, impaired visual and hearing ability, are under the age of fifty-five, or are currently residing inside a kinetic force field, I'd like to give you a quick run down on the kind of disturbing, sexually aggressive, pornographic content that the channel presents on a daily basis. 

Of course, I'm being facetious here, as usual. RTÉ One is basically a caricature of Irish culture. Whereas RTÉ Two allows us to escape into some kind of Westernized fantasy, RTÉ One holds up a fun house mirror in front of its audience and lets the paranoia set in. Do we really look like that? Are we really that pathetic? Are we really that needlessly jovial? Is this Ireland? 

My answers is; you shouldn't give a fuck about any of those things. Possessive culture is a safety blanket for boring people, and that's just what RTÉ One is...boring. Boring as a live stream of a lamb in a slow cooker, which actually sounds like something RTÉ One would air. Now I know, naturally, that tastes vary from person to person, but would it kill the RTÉ execs to throw on Bumfights or Sexcetera between their usual programming of traditional Irish cooking shows or the live stream of Sunday mass? That's the future I want for my children, but in the meantime, here's what you can expect from the channel as is;

The Angelus

Synopsis

Pious children of God stare mournfully towards the sky as a church bell tolls and reminds them of the fragility of life, the way in which they should lead their lives, and the dangers of speaking to or befriending sewer-dwelling protestant vampires.

Primetime

Synopsis

Old people discuss current events and the winner of the show is the contestant that has collected the most feces on their bib. Subjects often include; violence in the streets that rarely occur, teenagers and ten reasons why they should all be sent to prison, political events that no one really understands, pessimistic babble, what the average Joe should and shouldn't be allowed to do, and compulsive liars trying to plug their political parties. 

Nationwide

Synopsis

Journalists travel all around Ireland collecting stories of interest, usually regarding the "Feel good" or the "Uh-oh, recession". On one hand you've got a baby calf being born on a small farm in Kerry and on the other you've got Anto, the smack-addicted hurling enthusiast who hates Joan Burton, but isn't really quite sure why. I'm not sure why any of us hate Joan Burton. There's just something there.

The Big Big Movie

Synopsis

Movies about stupid fucking talking animals and wise-cracking teenagers with magical powers for the 3-12 year old audience, because if they don't get their weekly Big Big Movie; they'll grow up to become the anti-social, alcoholic scumbags featured on Primetime. Be wary, if your kid doesn't have its Pixar movie after Sunday mass, they'll turn into hopeless addicts, snorting krokodil off of ouija boards and holding ritualistic vomit parties.

Fair City

Synopsis

The worst actors and writers in the world assemble together to put on about 23 minutes worth of shite based in a Dublin where all teenagers are annoying criminals, everyone seems to be either fucking each other or not fucking at all, and betrayal lurks in every corner. It sounds like every other soap opera on television really, except at least there's violence in Hollyoaks.

Channel Surfing #1

Micro stories for micro attention spans.

Vampire Horse

Creeping on hands and knees, the good doctor brushed through nettles with the sleeve of his jacket pulled up over his knuckles, as his other hand clutched a crucifix close to his beating chest. His mistake was allowing night’s inky curtain to draw before reaching his intended destination, and as he crawled anxiously through the barbs and vines around him, he knew that his only hope was to abandon his grizzly crusade for another time. The sun does not easily find its way through the hills and woods of Transylvania, this he knew well, though of all the nights he could have chosen to perform his exorcism, this one appeared to be darker than usual, and its darkness fell with a haste that his carriage could not match. Fiends, such as the ones he hunted, were residents of the night, and to approach them in their nocturnal habitat would be to stride foolishly towards certain doom. Were he mere minutes earlier, he may have won a fighting chance, but all was lost, for tonight.

Though miles he was from the closest town, and without a carriage to return him to his lodgings, Doctor Lindeman couldn’t help but find a narrow humour in his current predicament. Indeed, humour is important to the doctor, for one cannot lay eyes upon the corpses of women and children without the ability to later escape into a smile or a laugh. And so it was that the good doctor allowed himself a chuckle, if only to escape momentarily from the horrors surrounding him. This, of course, was Doctor Lindeman’s final mistake. A vehement snort came from somewhere behind him, followed by the clip and clop of demonic hooves. And before the doctor could hold aloft his cross in defence, the shadow-born mare rose above him, a dark colossus, eyes as red as the tongues of fire, and it found his throat before a gasp could it muster.

****

Tourist Bot VS Reptile Man

Rubble and fire rained upon the scorched earth that was once the city of Amsterdam and the narrow streets, which had so hummed with life, now convulsed with screams and the wailing of sirens. The colours of the city had been almost completely drained and so the lights which once painted amber stripes upon the quiet Amstel now flickered faintly, only barely enough to sometimes illuminate the bobbing, floating dead that littered her waters.

Above the flames and ruin strode a cyclopean terror, a 300-foot tall amorphous beast, somewhat reptile and too man-like for those who saw it to fathom. Where it rose from, no one knew, and what path of destruction it had left in its journey, none would dare envision. All the people of Amsterdam knew was that their danger was both outlandish and immense, and that the city was no longer their own. Abandonment was their only hope so it seemed, and the crowds were frantic in their desertion, leaving homes and vehicles, in some cases family and friends, behind them.

Indeed, the city appeared to be lost, until the roaring, the screaming, and the wailing, was accompanied by a new sound. The city’s sky exploded with the thunderous hum of something akin to the drone of an airplane’s engine, and though few turned in their frenzy to see what was making the sound, a young girl stopped in her tracks, awestruck, she pointed to the sky and yelled at the top of her lungs; “Tourist Bot! He’s here to save us!”

Tourist Bot, a pearly war-machine whose sized equalled that of the reptile man’s, began to descend from the sky, landing just close enough to garner the beast’s attention. At first, the scale-clad gargantuan looked upon Tourist Bot with its fissure eyes as though in shock, but it quickly took to raising its hideous claw to the sky in an attempted barrage. But before the beast could lay a dent upon the magnificent Tourist Bot’s shining EU-emblazoned chest plate, it had already been shot to the ground by the great protector’s hand-missiles, and its fall to death was near deafening and a great grey smoke rose from its grave.

The streets of Amsterdam, now a monument to wreckage, erupted with cheers and praise. With the aid of Tourist Bot, the city was once again their own.

                                                    ****

Detective Deadbody

Detective Deadbody was idiosyncratic and that’s why his role within a case always hung by a thread, the head office could never understand a man from a working class background, a man with real dirt between his fingernails. His bizarre mannerisms disturbed those around him, and perhaps that’s why he never quite gelled with his peers. However much he perplexed and provoked them, whether intentionally or otherwise, he always managed to close the case. He was scorned from a stone’s throw but respected from a far distance. That’s why the man always had a home at Scotland Yard, and it was that same reason that brought Mr. Mayne to his desk that drizzly evening.

Mr. Mayne sat before the detective, puffed from his corncob pipe, and listened intently to what he had to say. To his credit, Mr. Mayne, a wealthy lawyer residing in a stately manor in Datchet overlooking the Thames, was not at all put off by the detective’s peculiarity. Detective Deadbody was leaned back in his seat, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, and though this lack of eye-contact may have made the lawyer feel somewhat uncomfortable, he knew that this was all a part of the man’s mode of thought. He’d heard much about him, and he knew that the detective would steer him right.

A fly landed on the detective’s cheek and wandered about his hanging jaw before alighting onto the pile of papers that stood as a tower upon Deadbody’s desk. ‘The detective is an incredibly busy fellow’, thought the lawyer, and all the while he sat and puffed, his eyes narrowing and widening with every sentence Deadbody uttered. Each suggestion Deadbody put forward was a shock to the lawyer’s system, he’d clearly reviewed Mayne’s case with the utmost attentiveness and with that wild genius that he’d become so very well known for. Then the detective said something that shook Mr. Mayne to his core.

The pipe rattled in Mayne’s hand and his lip quivered.

“It’ simply can’t be” he stammered, though he knew that everything the detective had told him added up, as though he had, in those few minutes, pieced together the jigsaw puzzle. The lawyer pulled back his chair and breathed heavily.

“It was I all along, I’m responsible for the killings” he said, shakily pinching the handle of a knife from his jacket pocket, “by Jove, Deadbody, you’ve done it again”.

Thoughts bounced and reverberated inside of the wealthy lawyer’s mind, he shook with them, each revelation coming down upon him like a lightning bolt. All the while, Detective Deadbody remained deathly silent, calm as morning. Mr. Mayne shot up from his seat and looked upon the detective as a lost sailor might the glow of a lighthouse.

“We simply must stop me before I kill again!” he barked, knocking over his chair and slamming the door behind him as he left the detective to revel alone in triumph once again.

                                                    ****