Jesus Yelled At My Hotrod

Repent, brothers and sisters!

Repent, for you do the Devil’s handiwork every time you raise those unholy fingers in the sign of the horns!

REPENT, for Jesus cannot love you if you do not love him! Even though Jesus loves everybody. Except fags. And liberals. And/or those who cannot bring themselves to vote Republican in the next election.

Repent, for the music of Satan will only plunge you further into the depths of hell! And that hell is HOT, brothers and sisters. It is fiery and merciless. It is fierce and unforgiving. The flames will scorch your flesh and blacken your very soul. And then your soul will be blacker than it is right now, at this moment, as you blast that Satan music from your car full of illegal immigrants and hoist your middle finger in what you imagine is defiance. Blacker than that indeed, brothers and sisters! And blacker still, until there can be none more black. Do you hear me, my wayward lambs? NONE! MORE! BLACK!

REPENT, I say! For I have spoken with your spokesperson, a certain Mr. … Lant. Yes, Conrad Lant, from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which I’m told is in some faraway place called Europe. And it has not been a reassuring conversation, brothers and sisters. No! It seems this illegal foreigner has some ideas of his own about the spiritual needs of this fragile human enterprise and its relationship—or lack thereof—with a higher power. Indeed, many of Mr. Lant’s illegal comments and sentiments were decidedly un-Christian. He made several references to my unmentionables, for example. But I suppose I should not be surprised, not with the unruly state of the great unwashed that stands before me today, what with your unkempt beards and your abortions and your heavy metal. What’s next? Drugs? Oh, but I imagine you’re already into those—the uppers, the downers, the all-arounders! And what about anal? Yes, ANAL, brothers and sisters! Be it between a man and a man or a Muslim and his dog, it is BLASPHEMY. But I can already smell it on you. I can smell it like I can smell the poop in your pants when Jesus comes to judge you. How will thee be judged? Harshly and swiftly, I should think! HARSHLY AND SWIFTLY!

REPENT, for you are unknowing and ungrateful! The almighty JEEEEZUS will have no use for you. Not now, not ever … UNLESS! Unless you kneel down before Him and beg his forgiveness and the forgiveness of Glenn Beck and swear upon your heart that tax cuts for the ridiculously wealthy are the only way to ease our earthly woes! Yes, prostrate yourself before Christ! I beseech you to beseech Him! It is the only way to absolve your filthy, homosexual, heavy metal abortionist lifestyle in the eyes of the Lord! ABORTION! HOMOSEXUAL! FILTHY!

Repent, I tell you! Do it now or suffer the consequences on Judgment Day! Because that day is coming soon, you dirty gaylords. And punishment will be worse than anything described in that Devil music you listen to, worse even than the bloody, half-formed fetuses you throw in the trash can after having all that hot gay sex out of wedlock and smoking crystal meth for three days with unwed mothers and heavy metal. REPENT! REPENT! REPENT! And write to your senator to tell him that God HATES “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” It is then and ONLY then that JEEEEZUS can forgive you! He is the only way out of the darkness and into the light! Tell your senator that unemployment benefits are for COMMUNISTS! Tell him to give that money to the corporations and giant banks that NEED IT! Tell him you believe in the trickle-down economy and that you will believe in it until you freeze to death in your own bed come February, bloated from starvation! Tell him you want more predatory loans! Tell him that women belong in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant! GET THEM SHOES OFF, BEEETCH! Tell him that all brown people should be shipped back to ESS-PAN-YOL! Ask him, does he realize that the president is A BLACK MUSLIM FROM AFRICA? Do it now, brothers and sisters, do it now! HOMOSEXUALS! HEAVY METAL! ABORTION! REPENT! REPENT! REPENT!

This bullshit originally appeared in the February 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Couch Trip

From the transcript of a free psychoanalysis session requested by an unnamed patient and conducted by his childhood friend, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater, April 21, 1984. Reprinted with severe reservations.

Unnamed Patient: “My spirit animal came to me in the night. At least I think it was my spirit animal.”

Noisewater: “What was it?”

“A jackalope.”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s a little unprofessional, don’t you think?”

“Sorry, but you expect me to believe you had a dream about a jackalope? Just consider my chain yanked and let’s move on.”

“It was a man-size jackalope. He was riding a white horse. And he was wearing a denim vest with a Motörhead patch on it. And I think maybe one of those Metallica ‘Metal Up Your Ass’ patches.”

“What’s a motorhead?”

“You know, like a tweaker. A speed freak. One of those amphetamine people with the scabs and green teeth and whatnot.”

“Why would a jackalope have a patch of that?”

“It’s also a band.”

“Oh. Any good?”

“The best.”

“So what happened?”

“With the jackalope? He gave me a sword.”

“How do you know it was a he?”

“I don’t know. I just sensed it. He seemed very masculine.”

“Then what happened?”

“I think he wanted me to cut his head off. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill my new friend because he was an awesome jackalope and I just wanted to hang out with him and maybe pound some brews or whatever.”

“Why do you think he wanted you to cut his head off?”

“I have no fucking idea, man. But the whole thing just felt weird, like he was trying to tell me something that I could only find out by chopping off his head. For a second I thought maybe the idea was that he’d grow a new head that would tell me something important. Like the second head had all the secret info but was being suppressed by the first head.”

“I see.”

“Could you move your chair like three feet further away from me? I can smell your breath. What did you eat for lunch, a can of pickled assholes?”

“Smoked salmon, actually.”

“Shmoked shalmon, actually.”

“Why are you being such a dick?”

“I’m being a dick? I told you in all earnestness that I had a dream about a jackalope—my spirit animal—and you told me to fuck off.”

“I think maybe the problem is that…”

“Look, I know what the problem is. But what the shit can I do about it?”

“Wait, what do you think the problem is?”

“The problem is that I need to figure out a way to re-enter my dream so I can cut off the jackalope’s head and find out what the second head needs to tell me.”

“I thought you said you didn’t wanna do that.”

“I know. But I think I need to. I think it’s crucial to my development as a human being.”

“Since when did you care about that?”

“Fuck you, Kenny. I’m serious.”

This bullshit originally appeared in the January 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Letter To The Editor

On Oct 4, 2010, at 11:05 AMthisisnotmyemailaddress@gmail.com> wrote:

Hey, Alberto –

It was awesome hanging out with you down in Richmond the other day. Psyched you could make the trip. My favorite part was when Witte ran over that old lady with his fixed-gear. That’s what you get for being a cripple in public.

Sorry about that thing with those dudes at the bar, though. I didn’t realize how pissed and, like, Samoan they were until his fist was about four inches from your skull. I know you’re a vegetarian and all, but that trick with the steak over the eye really does reduce swelling. I know ’cause I saw it on The Brady Bunch once. That was a sweet episode. How hot was Maureen McCormick back in the day, by the way? I would’ve loved to get handsome with her when she used to swap hand-shandies for cocaine. I had some pretty vivid dreams about that chick until my adolescent fantasy rolodex replaced her with Phoebe Cates from Fast Times and Samantha Fox’s chest.

So, I’ve been mulling over some of the stuff we talked about. In retrospect, I realize that 5000 words of speculative meta-history on how the lyrics to Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Night Shift” provided the basis for every Cannibal Corpse song ever written is a bit excessive. But I think my point remains valid. Would you let me go 1800?

You’re totally right about that Appice Brothers cover story. I don’t know what I was thinking on that one. Yeah, they’re drum legends and all, but dB readers probably aren’t super-familiar with the work of King Kobra and, like, 3 Legged Dogg. I don’t care what anyone says, though: That first Blue Murder album is Hall Of Fame material.

I’m torn about the “Win A Candlelight Dinner With Glen Benton” contest. I’ve met that cat, and I’m fairly certain he’ll be bummed if a dude shows up to that fancy French joint the label is trying to book this thing at. Also: Since when does Tampa have a restaurant that serves something other than tainted shellfish and Coors Light?

I know I told you this already, but it bears repeating: I am totally cool with turning the entire Up Front section over to Fenriz.

Despite the fact that I argued vehemently against it for like 15 minutes, I’ve decided that letting Jeff Walker and Seth Putnam write all the reviews next issue might actually be kinda fun. Especially if we can dress it up with some of those photos Seth has been posting on the Interhole lately. Historically, dB seems to do really well at the newsstand when we have shirtless fat dudes in the mag. I’m not sure if the numbers will hold up if we switch it to bottomless fat dudes getting their dicks sucked by bony skanks from Revere Beach, but there’s only one way to find out.

Can you imagine the elegant romance of that first date, by the way? I can:

Seth: On your knees, bitch. This thing ain’t gonna suck itself.

Skank: Do you mind if I smoke while you fuck me?

Seth: You are so goddamn hot right now.

Skank: Do you mind if I snore while you fuck me?

Seth: Oooh, baby. I think I’m gonna come.

Skank: Just whip your dick out and chuck it into my pussy.

Other stuff I’ve been thinking about:

* Do you think we can get Deepak Chopra to interview Trey Azagthoth? Because I just don’t have that kind of time. (Is that new Morbid Angel album even coming out?)

* Can you hook me up with Jerry A. Deathburger’s email? I need to tell him about the grind band I’m pretending to start with a couple of the dudes from The Red Chord. We’re gonna call it Scab Mangler. Our first album will either be I Hope You Die In A Cancer Fire or I Love It When You Call Me Big Poppa.

* Q&A’s with Marty Friedman and Merle Allin. Seriously.

Okay for now. Talk soon, dude.

- JB

P.S.: I got dibs on the Leatherwolf Hall Of Fame.

This bullshit originally appeared in the December 2010 issue of Decibel magazine.

Dear Dominator

My new friend Valdas Paskas, a.k.a. The Dominator, former vocalist for legendary UK proto-grind titans Face Violator, has asked (demanded) that I turn Cry Now, Cry Later over to him every once in a while (“whenever I like, you cunt”) so he can answer queries from his fans around the world. This is the first installment, obviously. And quite possibly the last.

Dear Dominator,

Many Hailz!!!! I love black metal, but I think posing in the forest in corpsepaint whilst wielding a sword is gay. What should I do?

Best,

Corky from Cardiff

Hey, Corky—I was just thinking the same exact thing while I was in the forest wearing corpsepaint and wielding a sword. Then I remembered that I had a life to lead.

Dear Dominator,

What do you think of these d-bags with sideways haircuts who are combining Auto-Tune with bad metal?

Maggie

Port Townsend, WA

Dear Maggie,

I’m glad you asked. What’s Auto-Tune?

Dear Dominator,

Did you really tell Ian Gillan to “huff my sweaty bag, fat boy,” when Face Violator opened for Sabbath in ’84?

Ronnie

Omaha, NB

First of all, Ian Gillan is the fattest, drunkest fuck in rock n’ roll next to Bob Hite (R.I.P.) from Canned Heat (R.I.P.). And what I actually said was: “You better clean up this beer, fatso. You wouldn’t want me to slip and accidentally put my foot up your ass.”

Dear Dominator,

When I was 12, I found a dead squirrel in the woods behind my house and decided to see what it would feel like. You know, on the inside. That’s when I discovered that it wasn’t actually dead. What do I do?

Alaksandar

Minsk, Belarus

Dear Alaks,

I suggest you toughen up and stop being such a faggot. Penetrating a small mammal is considered a rite of passage all across Eastern Europe. Suck it up, sissy.

Dear Dominator,

I hear you make an excellent lamb stew. Care to share the recipe?

Danke,

Karl from Hamburg

Okay, Karl. The recipe you seek is an ancient and highly guarded Lithuanian secret, but here goes: 1) Kill the lamb by strangling it with your bare hands. (2) Butcher, clean and dress the beast. (3) Throw everything into a cauldron over an open flame. (4) Go fuck yourself.

Yo, Dominator –

When I get out, Imma kick ya big white ass for what you did to my girl.

Tito

Pelican Bay SHU

Hey, Tito—your girl is actually right here. If she didn’t have her mouth full at the moment, I’m sure she’d say hi.

Dear Dominator,

Where can I find your albums? I’ve searched everywhere, even the Internet. Do you even exist?

Ian

Sheffield, England

Dear Ian,

Of course I exist. You just emailed me, genius. As for the albums, did you check your mom’s house? I’m pretty sure I saw some when I was over there.

Dear Dominator,

I used to be in a moderately successful third-rate metal band back in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Then our lead singer’s ego blew up like a balloon, so he split the band and went solo. He’s still kind of a prick, but I think we might have one more album in us if we put our minds to it. Should I get the band back together?

Pete from Brixton

I know this is you, Damone. The day we get the band back together is the day hell freezes over and Satan comes over to plant a money tree in my backyard. Faaaaaaahk youuuuuuuuuuu.

_________________________________________

The Dominator currently resides somewhere in Thailand with his three teenage pool boys, Zorro, Tonto and the Lone Ranger. You can email him your questions at maximum.domination@gmail.com

This bullshit originally appeared in the November 2010 issue of Decibel magazine.

Face Pollution

I was talking to Alice Cooper the other day. Had he been present, he would have heard me telling this story I like to recount after about half a beer to whoever is within earshot:

I remember most of the details like it was yesterday. My barely competent attorney, Juan Perez, and I were at a Sebastian Bach show in Nashua, New Hampshire. This was probably like 10 years ago. Almost eleven. After the show—yeah, it was awesome—we spotted a couple of skanks leaning against the bar, waiting to be escorted backstage for an audience with “Baz.” These chicks were straight out of ’87—teased hair, short leather jackets, ripped fishnets, makeup applied with a spatula, giant hoop earrings, the full creature double feature. This is New Hampshire, remember. At a place called Sharky’s. Which is pretty much all you need to know. Well, almost. Because then Skank One turns to Skank Two, waves three fingers in front of her own tropical-fish-like visage and asks, “How’s the face?”

It was an excellent fucking question. Because what if The Face had been obscured by something other than five pounds of foundation, eyeliner and rouge? Or what if said foundation, eyeliner and/or rouge had been smeared across The Face in an unsightly manner, making Skank One look like the famous dead actor from that overrated Batman movie? (Granted, that movie had not been released when this happened. But you can see what I’m getting at here.) What if dust, foodstuffs or other detritus had become lodged in the gelatinous beige craters that just this morning had been plain old acne scars? The horrors were endless, but none more frightening than the potential result: If The Face was not presentable, perhaps Mr. Bach would be disinclined to put his wee-wee in or around it. Not that we have the slightest clue whether or not Skid Row’s former lead vocalist ever engaged in these kinds of sweaty extracurricular activities at midnight on a Tuesday, or whatever, in Nashua, NH. Last time we checked, he’d been married for like 300 years.

The upshot of witnessing this exchange is that my attorney and I replicate it at least a couple of times a month. Whenever we go out to lunch and one of us feels as though we might have crumbs in our beard, we bust out three fingers and a quick “How’s the face?” The question has to be asked with the kind of corpselike seriousness that Diane Sawyer used to summon effortlessly on 20/20 when she wasn’t completely shitfaced. If this routine qualifies as a male bonding ritual, I figure it’s at least way less gay than shirtless chest-bumping at a Rage Against The Machine concert, and maybe only slightly gayer than, I don’t know, watching football on the idiot box, eating hot wings and grunting at each other? But Americuh accepts the idiot box/hot wings/grunting scenario as so stereotypically hetero that its prominence in the national milieu reeks of overcompensation for all the ass-grabbing and bending over that happens on the scrimmage line. It’s like Chris Barnes’ Cannibal Corpse lyrics or something. Methinks the lady doth protest too much, dude. What’s that from, anyway? Shakespeare? Nothing gay about that.

But I seem to be getting off track here. Somewhere on an air-conditioned indoor golf course in Arizona, Alice Cooper is losing interest in my story. Oh, right: The Skanks. The 14-year old inside of me—you know, the one who writes for this magazine—is still secretly in love with those skanks, even though neither of us can remember what they looked like. (That 14-year old would’ve been just three years old back then, but he still knew a sure thing when he saw it.) In a way, those lusty ladies weren’t all that different than my attorney and I that night. We were all reliving a particularly fond piece of our teenage years; we were all psyched to be getting our drink on in the general vicinity of a once-mighty rock legend, and we were all definitely singing along to “Eighteen And Life.” At Sharky’s. In Nashua. Wow. The more I think about it, the more I sincerely hope those faces made the cut.

This bullshit originally appeared in the October 2010 issue of Decibel magazine.