M.D.I.Why. the art, gear, music, filth, depravity of Ross Sewage
Those fucking Hall brothers. They were right. The Chunnel was pretty lame. Ya don’t even get ta see the train. But the hall we drove in looked pretty cool after we had watched Alien.
Escape from the U.K. 20 minutes later we were on French soil pointed towards Belgium. For me, things get more interesting once the language changes from English. Or American, as you prefer.
Continue reading “European Bluntkrieg 2”
So far, so good, so butt.
I can’t lie, having a half empty, non-stop flight to Europe put me in a great mood. Lying across an entire row of seats is the best way to travel… Besides not being in “economy” aka poor fuckers class.
From 1999 to 2011, I was in a band called Ludicra. It was a good run with four amazingly talented people. There were a lot of good times. The ending of the band wasn’t one of those good times. The feelings left behind could make one want to forget the whole endeavor. But all good things must come to an end, timely or otherwise… except the memories. Those can live on, and with music, they can live on loudly. This is what I intended.
In this age of information, a picture is worth a thousand lines of code. So what’s a song worth? I spent the last few months compiling all the recordings I had packed away. With the help of some websites, some free programs, and some D.I.Y. production work, I completed the total archive of Ludicra’s output over it’s 13 year existence, downloadable and free to all.
It has been an amazing year for us, but ahead is Europe in early 2013 with our “buds” and Tankcrimes label mates, Cannabis Corpse. We ended our 2012 run of shows with a real bang of a weekend. The first show on Friday, November 16th, was with Tankcrimes label mates Vitamin X. The show itself was a Tankcrimes joint. Our own “fifth member” Scott Bryan was currently working with GWAR, so this weekend we drafted Mr. Tankcrimes himself, Scotty Karate. Tankcrimes, Tankcrimes, Tankcrimes!
Some zipper heads might recognize this flyer as having been outside the Metro the same day they were paying twice as much to see the “Misfits all-star cover band featuring Jerry, only.” Ah, c’est la vie, how to compete with a legend? Well, you pack a smaller room with a bunch of numbskulls who beat the shit out of each other, that’s how.
November 12th was an epic night for metal in Oakland, California. Napalm Death and Municipal Waste bringing us a show of epic proportions.
Along with long-time metal stalwarts and former locals, Exhumed, punk legends and actual locals, Attitude Adjustment, and last and probably least, our own gang in Impaled, you’ve got a bill worth getting in line for. A big fucking line.
Continue reading “Torture of Duty: Impaled gets Napalm Wasted”
We were invited by our friend Shlak to play the New Jersey Death Fest 4 this past weekend. With friends like Shlak, who needs enemas? We met this crazy mother fucker some years back after we’d watched him wrap himself in barbed-wire and staple dollars to his head while bleeding everywhere during a set with his old band, Call the Paramedics. You never could imagine a sweeter, more cordial fellow caked in blood. We flew out for what was sure to be a night of steady blast beats and pinch harmonics. We wouldn’t fit in at all.
This was going to be an epic weekend. We would play the fest, stay in New Jersey, and then follow it up with a sweet show at St. Vitus in Brooklyn. It WAS going to be a sweet weekend. Some colossal shit dickery occurred between some members of our band, promoters, and bookers which led to a misunderstanding that wasn’t revealed until days before the event. We had to cancel the Brooklyn show. All I can say is, my dick remained free of any shit. As it stood, we had a lot of fun in New Jersey, despite, or maybe because of, the chaos.
I played music on an aircraft carrier. How many people can say that? Okay, probably a bunch of enlisted men from the music corps., maybe some kids from a chorale group or something… but I play in a death metal band. And I played in the same halls that were once bombed and sent off bombers to war. There’s something in the left over bits of me that played with G.I. Joes as a kid that is really excited by that. No, we didn’t play on the U.S.S. Flagg, but even cooler, we played on the Bay Area’s own piece of naval memorabilia, the U.S.S. Hornet.
Yes, this stalwart steel lady battled in WW2, served in Korea and Vietnam, and famously recovered the astronauts of Apollo 11 from the first moon landing. And we were about to completely denigrate that proud naval history by swilling beer and playing heavy metal in her hull. That’s what it is to be an American.
The organizers of Slaughter by the Water thought for their third festival they should do something novel; that is, make the name irrelevant by holding the fest ON the water. It was an interesting choice, at least enough to entice Impaled to agree to play and see what the shit show would be like. We had also used the U.S.S. Hornet before, as a back drop for Sean’s solo in the video of our song “G.O.R.E.”
We were scheduled to play around 7 PM. Our load-in time was 10 AM. What the fuck? Well, in order to avoid the impossible task of carrying our gear up the gang plank, we had to be early to make use of the crane and the cherry picker to get stuff inside the massive ship. Most of the back line went in the cargo holder, our stuff was less ceremoniously lifted on the cherry picker.
There was lots of support staff about and lots of veterans volunteering at the Hornet helping. I can only imagine these guys dealing with a bunch of slacking musicians, remembering how they ate dirt to shit freedom… for this: a bunch of gear made to fight the system, overshadowed by gear made to fight and defend the system that makes the former possible.
All I can say about this is… hardly.
Slaughter by the Water officially started around noon. There was a stage outdoors that was free to all, though I think the families walking by going to the U.S.S. Hornet were a little less than impressed. Well, they could go and enjoy one of the multitude of food stands that normally wouldn’t have been there and eat some funnel cake to shut up their stinkin’ pie holes.
The power for the outdoor stage was from bicycles. Are you kidding me? No, Ross, I’m not. It was a clever set up, but not so clever as to recognize the inherent laziness of metal heads. You needed about 10-15 people on these bikes pushing transformers to get up enough power for a couple amps. This might’ve worked great at Outside Lands or at Burning Man, with some dude and his Fender Twin. Throw up an SVT or a Triple Rec and you’re running into problems: the fifty or so times bands had to restart their songs. Whatever, I did my part… for about five minutes.
A good number of bands played outside. There was enough metal to attract the Jesus freaks. Really? Don’t you have some gay military funeral to protest vainly? Somehow, I don’t think coming to a performance by slackers is going to win or lose you anything… except maybe an afternoon of your time. It’s fairly obvious that we’ll never give a rat’s ass about your son of man, save for His excellent hair.
I alternated between watching and exploring the vast aircraft carrier. I work within a stone’s throw of the thing, but I’d never gone inside. The U.S.S. Hornet is a great museum, carrying vintage helicopters and jets within its hold, test equipment for the Apollo missions, freedom to roam many of the corridors lined with information, and even a ghost tour. I wouldn’t buy into those things personally, until I’m standing right by a test Apollo capsule and I’m told to hush up because Neil Armstrong, first man on the moon, has just passed. Eerie. Godspeed, American hero.
At least we still have Buzz Aldrin. That mutha fucka will punch a man in the face for claiming the Apollo missions were faked. Such is the fate deserved by any ignorant disparager of the incredible work, talent and bravery involved in America’s moon landing. The same goes for people who believe humans couldn’t have built the pyramids without help from aliens. Seriously, folks… ancient people were BORED. What else to do but stack some boulders to the sky when you don’t have great shit around to watch like America’s Got Talent or NCIS: CSI: SVU.
Around five, the most important moment of the day arrived: the families were kicked out and the bar opened. The bar was positioned on the airplane elevator that would lift jets from the hull up to the flight deck. You wouldn’t think it would have any problems, until later in the evening when it was evacuated temporarily because it was sinking a bit. Sure, it can lift an F-J2 Fury Jet, but don’t expect it to hold the massive girth of metal beer bellies en masse.
Severed Fifth opened the inside stage. It was a bit worrisome, being that the sound was being amplified within a gigantic tin tub. That said, it sounded better than I expected. They were followed with excellent sets by Fog of War, Witchaven, and Abysmal Dawn. The crowd was digging all of it, but I’m pretty sure the friendly guys in red shirts were none too stoked. I comforted myself knowing that this event was probably helping pay for the physical preservation of a naval relic, if not sullying a few veterans’ memories on the way.
We played next and it was chaos, go figure. Things were running late and we had to cut two songs. Nevertheless, we had a great time on stage and the crowd seemed to be as friendly to their father’s death metal band as always. It was almost like Impaled hadn’t completely slacked off for the last four or five years.
We were followed by Absu, who turned in an excellent set of original American black metal. These guys always destroy. That is, until they were unceremoniously unplugged. I guess things were running later than I thought. Well, a five minute bag pipe intro is bound to cut into your set time a wee bit.
The piecemeal back line hadn’t included a bass head, so I’d lent my Ampeg V-4B to Absu and left it up there for Autopsy. I’m proud to say it sounded bad as fuck for one of my favorite death metal bands of all time. Autopsy slayed it, sounding as sick as ever. By now, things were on time and Autopsy got a full set that pleased all the tigers.
Next up was Philm. That’s when we left to go drink some beers in the parking lot. I don’t know what “novo punk” is and by God I don’t care.
Lastly, Exodus took to the stage. Expecting anything less than a stellar performance from these guys is foolhardy. The came out and ruled. The sound in the tin can was actually exceptionally good for them. Other than a few crass remarks about Neil Armstrong later followed by a string of wretched jokes to fill in some guitar fixing time, I thoroughly enjoyed their set. But boy, oh boy, was I ready to go home after 16 hours of being on that fucking boat.
I thought Slaughter by the Water was a real success, despite the many, many hiccups it had. I’d like to see it continue on the U.S.S. Hornet. With some more experience at the same location, I could see things running smoother with the set times. Maybe they can figure out how to power a second stage with gerbils instead of metal heads. I also appreciated the special booths outside dedicated to Native American health and studies. It was weird to see such a thing next to a grand symbol of American imperialism, but a nice gesture nonetheless.
Besides, where else can you see an F-14A Tomcat like this while hearing pounding guitars… other than while watching Top Gun. R.I.P. Tony Scott, you shoulda waited a week. Your ego was writing checks your body couldn’t cash.
That’s RIGHT, Ross… man. I’m dangerous.
After the whirlwind of events in the past year, how fitting we should wrap up such a significant portion of our lives in a whirlwind event of a weekend. GWAR-B-Q 2012. We’d spent the better part of almost three months this past year with GWAR. Who woulda thought this little, technically unsigned, management-less project would ever go so far? With just a little heart and a lot of latex, we’d found ourselves amidst brethren we never knew we had. Richmond, VA, is rapidly becoming a second home. And a welcome one at that.
We took a red eye flight on Thursday night. I was schnockered, fitfully downing beer and shots of Maker’s Mark because our flight was delayed. The crew at Jet Blue did us fine, charging us next to nothing for all our guitars and such. The robot and the monkey had headed cheaply a few weeks earlier via Amtrak: much cheaper than posting them. We couldn’t disappoint our godfather’s in GWAR with half a show, not after all we’d been through.
GWAR had been inviting us to GWAR-B-Q for some time. Something I’ve learned is that when GWAR says something is going to happen that seems non-sensical, like going on a second tour, playing GWAR-B-Q, it’s not fantasy: it fucking happens. That kind of veracity and stalwartness are rare these days.
We were picked up from the airport by our friend, merch guy for the last tour, and co-prop master Jim Stramel. He’s the multi-talented Director behind the hit tattoo-murder move, “Degenerates Ink.” and an absolute pushover when it comes to letting us trash his abode in Richmond. Ya gotta love a sucker like that. We crashed, hungover, I mean, jet lagged as shit. It was the day before GWAR-B-Q, so the local dive, Strange Matter, had a BEFORE-B-Q show hosted by Mr. Dave Brockie. Some of us scraped our asses off Jim’s couch and made our way there.
We showed up late, but managed to see our friends George and Kent play in their band Savage Attack. Stripped down Pantera and Slayer worship, the boys let out with a… savage attack. One of my favorite moments was when the vocalist said, “We’re not gonna drop names like Dave Brockie,” except ya just did.
Dethrace from New York were one of the more bizarre things I’ve ever seen, a kaiju inspired… something… band. I guess death metal? Kind of. Drum machines, down tuned guitar, but gimme a break. All eyes were on the pentagram-domed front thing. With stuffed shorts. Dancing. They passed out comic books before the show, explaining their origin and what not, but does it matter? It made about as much sense as any Godzilla movie I’ve ever seen. That was the best picture I could get, because despite having such outlandish costumes, they preferred it covered in fog.
Then we had blessed sleep. We had to be at the fest at Hadad’s dirty grungy ’70s style water resort fucking early.
I’m not sure what Sean is pointing at. I’ve never heard of ’em. That’s my story, and I’m kind of sticking to it.
The first band of note was The Burial, Jameson aka Beefcake the Mighty’s pop-punk band. They put on a good performance early in the day and were really the first guys to get the ball rolling. I was really excited to see GWAR spew-tech, our heavy metal maniac, and good friend Germ get on stage and play some damn guit-fiddle. It was weird seeing him on stage and NOT getting beat up by a robot, but he nailed it.
There was some weird noiseness with Mutawawa, but more exciting for me was Antietam 1862. They brought forth the Norwegian style black metal but with an American southern bent. Not in they music, per se, but Antietam is a reference to the bloodiest single battle in American history. More Americans dead than even at Normandy. It was nice to see the corpse paint, wizards, and Norsk shit put aside for a mo’.
At some point around this time, GWAR was doing a meet and greet with the fans. Drummer Jizmak da Gusha apparently, as recounted to me by Beefcake the Mighty, pissed into a water bottle and told anyone who’d swill some that they’d get free beer all day. Three people partook. I’m SO SAD I missed this, said with all due sarcasm. Seriously, GWAR fans… they are another breed. Half.
The fest really picked up as the sun came out. The tigers were having a blast in the water park, disgusting as the water was.
This was a man made lake. The water looked fairly nasty, especially if you count these two fools were jumping in. Our boy Scott and Steve of Whorechurch make quite the strapping pair.
We had our set time, and it was a blast. There was a late start, with some confusion as to why there were no guitar heads on stage. Luckily, we were saved by Antietam 1862. We still had to cut a song to keep our set on time. Unfortunately, no one had told Scott, and I had to yell at him while playing to get his next costume on as he sat comfortably smoking a cigarette. He thought I needed a towel. Please, that’s why God invented sleeves.
We got a lot of grief previously for ripping up a baby on stage (spoiler: it was a toy doll). This time, we smashed a box of kittens (spoiler: some fake fur and blood bags). GWAR has really helped us a lot to become the complete crowd mocking, repugnant assholes that we were meant to be.
Sadly, I missed our friends in Occultist who we’d toured with as we cleaned up our mess. The next band I got to see was our friends from Portland, Murderess. It was a lot of fun hanging out with them all day.
When they started playing clad in bikinis and booty shorts,, it was clear that the crowd didn’t wanna take them seriously. As the first notes started chugging, and that PDX crust-death-punk started blowing eardrums, however, it was a different story. Murderess charged forth and literally had tigers hanging from the rafters air-moshing. They rule. Murderess, I mean. The dudes in the rafters were complete retards.
I had a bit of damper in the day when our new shirts arrived. It’s the old Splatterthrash design, but I had personally redone the separations myself for a new company. And they didn’t look good. Dino smirked at the travesty. I was a bit hurt and disappointed in myself. I was planning a blog post on how to do shirt separations, but alas, I have to go back to the drawing board. We must accept our failures and trudge onwards, otherwise we never get better. Or, just fucking give up. Washed out and crap. These suck, Ross.
After the Casualties and Valiant Thorr, the crowd wanted one thing… GWAR.
The chant was rising forth like bubbling spew from the tip of a cuttlefish. We’d seen a lot of shows touring with GWAR, but this one was special, especially for a dyed-in-the-wool old bohab like myself. The festivities were started off by the main man himself, Mr. Sleazy P. Martini. The nowadays rare appearance of GWAR’s manager is a sure sign that a carnival of chaos is headed your way.
The hits didn’t end with Slaughterama, either… it went double old school with the appearance of Sexicutioner doing his own signature song. I haven’t seen this guy join his fellow scumdogs on stage since the nineties, for fuck’s sake.
It was an amazing performance from GWAR, as always, but with a little more. I’m glad GWAR has evolved to the more tightly honed metal machine they are these days. A little bit of the TSR playing little kid in me, though, misses the old chaos: WAY too many people on stage flopping about like a bunch of half-retarded LARPers.
As with all GWAR shows, the paramedics were helping out a tiger at the end of the show, trying to figure out which blood was real and which was fake. I myself, was exhausted. Sun baked and still jet lagged, we headed out from Hadad’s, a lot of hugs to our benefactors and brethren in GWAR. This was it! The real end! Until the next time…
Some of our camp headed out to the after show back at Strange Matter to see the amazing Ratface from Pittsburgh. I’m sad I missed it, but dammit all, I was tired. I stayed in with our boy Jim and watched some movies while eating garbage and cursing our 6AM flight home.
It was a crazy weekend and the most excellent wrap up for a year with GWAR. We saw the first and last show of this tour cycle. We shared the best of times, we shared the worst of times. These boys were always in my heart as a fan, and now they’re in my heart as friends… or fiends. I can’t decide which.
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| photo by Glenn Cocoa |
Much love… right to the balls.