Here we have further proof of my self-important delusions of grandeur, circa 1992. Archived for your pleasure, numerous receipts of my musical purchases around that time, which I thoroughly believed would be displayed int he Smithsonian at one point.
Sacred Rich "Question", Rightouts Pigs "Stress Related", Brujeria 7", Misifts "Evilive", Death Kennedys "Give me Convenience"
Believer "Extraction", Broken Bones and Tankard cassettes, Slayer "Decade of Aggression", DRI "Crossover", Wehrmacht LP and Metallica "One" 45-single, Slayer cassette, and DOA cassette, Sacred Reich "Surf Nicaragua"
Once upon a time, when my white high-tops were high, and my mullet flowed effortlessly down the back of my neck, I honestly believed that I was destined for greatness. Considering what I wore at the time (black sweatpants, massive amounts of Brut cologne and an assortment of metal shirts), it's fair to say that the greatness I believed to be destined for lay somewhere within the musical spectrum. Perhaps—I thought—I'll get to be the drummer of one of these new death metal bands from Florida (the time being the early 90s and all). My dream was to make multiple thousands of dollars a year, and maybe get to live in the same outdoor storage facility that Chuck Schuldiner from Death lived in near my family's apartment. That, to me, would have been a great success.
Why bring this up? Why do I share my most personal dreams and aspirations? Because I recently found proof of how severe my delussions of grandeur were back then. Though the tendency that my brother and I had for archiving every receipt of every tape and album that we bought back then (starting in 1990) could simply be chalked up to our packrat/fastidous tendencies...I would now argue something else. Deep inside my head, the one with the flowing and elegant mullet, I believed that one day these would be museum pieces. Behind bullet proof glass, in temperature controlled comfort, these receipts would be displayed in the halls of the Smithsonian, or some other similarly impressive institution. Visitors would "oooh" and "ahhh" as they saw when I bought my first Sacred Reich or Kreator cassette.
That of course, was my dream.
Reality, as is often the case, is much simpler. My celebrity status never came. I never became the drummer of a famed Florida death metal band, and these receipts have yet to be accepted into the Smithsonian. As such, today they are simply what they were then. A sad and retarded metal scrapbook, which I retain to this day.
Receipts for Entombed "Crawl", Napalm Death home video, Autopsy "Fiend For Blood" EP, Broken Hope LP, Prophecy of Doom/Axegrinder split cassette, SOD album, Morgoth CD, Napalm Death's "Utopia Banished"
I am bummed the fuck out. Do you want to know why? Because I recently discovered that one of my metal heroes has contracted Robb Flynn’s Disease. According to the doctors, he doesn’t have much time left. It’s a very advanced case and it’s spreading rapidly. Brothers and sisters of metal, the only way we're ever going to put an end to this horrible affliction is by educating ourselves. It's with this goal in mind that I share with you the tragic case of former Morbid Saint (retroview forthcoming) guitarist, Jay Visser.
I first received the bad news via email from a concerned Metal Inquisition reader (thanks, CC). He’d found out about Jay’s condition when he stumbled upon this eBay auction. My initial reaction to reading the listing was “Why the FUCK is Jay Visser selling his BC Rich Ironbird!?” Then I saw it…the image that will haunt me for the rest of my life. A bloated, middle-aged Jay Visser with braids down to his waist in a matching Boxshaft (his new band) longsleeve and over-sized cargo pants playing what HAS to be shitty nu metal. At first I didn’t believe my eyes. I refused to accept that it was real. I was convinced that it must be some internet prankster, but no prank was to be had. This was reality and the cruelty of life seemingly knew no bounds. Jay Visser, former shredmaster for Morbid Saint, one of the most raging thrash metal bands ever, had succumbed to the worst of all possible fates.
What motivates a grown man from Sheboygan, Wisconsin that played on one of the greatest thrash metal records of all time to start dressing like an angst-ridden teenager, braid his hair, and join what looks like a KoRn tribute band? It can't be pussy because there's NO WAY he's getting laid looking like that, not even in Wisconsin. I'm afraid we may never know because chances are we'll never get to peer inside the enigmatic mind of Jay Visser. All we can hope for now is that the Angel of Death swoop down and take him away to a better place. A place where men in their 40s don't try to dress like their kids. A place free of rap metal. A place where once awesome guitarists don't sell out and try to pawn off their old gear.
I know it's going to be hard, especially after reading this post, but try to remember the good old times. And if you can't remember the good old times, then watch this video. Fuck you, Robb Flynn.
Paul Baloff, Exodus frontman (who also sang in Hirax and Piranha) passed away in 2002. Luckily for all of us, he left behind a fantastic legacy of stage banter that puts him up there with some of the best.
Metal Inquisition grafix designers have teamed up to create the video below, which serves as a fine example of Baloff's genius. Enjoy.
I expect full credit for being tasteful and not using the "aneurysm" tag. He died of a stroke you see.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but earlier today I was informed that legendary white trash misogynist death/grinders Anal Blast will be embarking on their final tour in the coming week. I know, it hurts. I can barely hold back the tears as I type this, but the world of metal is sometimes capable of bringing us as much sadness as it brings us joy. What will the world be like without the twisted minds that brought us Vaginal Vempire and Battered Bleeding Bitch? Well, it'll probably stay much the same, but I'm sure at least a couple of people will be bummed out.
Apparently Anal Blast is embarking on their final tour because vocalist and mastermind Don "Lord Stomache" Decker is dying from liver failure. Sad news, indeed. We here at Metal Inquisition would like to send Don our best wishes. If we had an extra liver to give, I couldn't think of a more deserving person to give it to than Don. So be sure to show Don and the rest of the Anal Blast boys your support by going out and seeing them on this final tour. The dates are posted on their MySpace page. Check out this killer tour poster:
And don't forget to pick up their "Spraying Blood" live DVD that will only be available on their final tour!
You didn't really expect subtlety from a group of guys that look like this, did you?
Ok, I admit it, I was very jealous of Bud. Anthrax didn't come to Chicago for a show, but to rock Bud’s house. Amazing.
They pull out all the comedy stops. They address Marcy as sir. They have snappy comebacks. Marcy gets horny and they again refer to her as sir. Anthrax thrashes to their cd and trashes the place.
I don’t want to ruin it, so I leave it to all, but sometimes I wonder why we don’t see more metal in today’s programming. Imagine Anal Bleeding on “How I Met Your Mother” and how awesome that could be.
Billy Milano must be one of the world's most annoying human beings, and also one of the saddest. Watch this video, and tell me you don't want to just punch him in the face so many times that your hand will break in half. The guy with the glasses is also kinda' asking for it. He's like every Jersey greaseball that pumps your gas in that damn state. His cadence is so unbelievable phoney and forced. It's funny to see them talk and act like they're on top of the world, as they sit in the Holiday Inn hotel room that they all have to share while they tour with Laaz Rockit.
The band's name is M.O.D. for god's sake....Mr. Milano had such a hard time letting go of S.O.D. that he started a bizarro world version of it. It's as though Dave Mustaine had been kicked out of Metallica and had gone on to start Netallica.
I wonder if this is exactly what I sounded, and looked like to my parents and other adults around me in 1992. To be fair, I was cooler because I wore sweatpants 24-7.
Also, how huge has Phil Rind from Sacred Reich gotten? Jesus. His bass is starting to look smaller and smaller, he's getting dangerously close to Crowbar territory. It's hard to take songs about how stupid and ignorant Americans are (no matter how true) when they are coming out of a huge fat, white dude that looks like Fred Flintstone. Looks like he ate too many pork-rinds! Ha, ha. Get it? Rind is his last name. My comedic engine is firing on all four cylinders today!
In honor of Superbowl Sunday, Metal Inquisition researchers have chosen the following metal personalities as being the most likely members of team metal's starting line-up.
Dino Cazares
Gene Hoglan
Kam Lee
Vinnie Paul
Kerry King
This fat, angry black metal fan
Shane Embury, who looks just like Hurley from the TV show Lost
Pretty much anyone in Crowbar
Billy Milano
Messiah Marcolin
Honorary mention goes out to the entire line-up of Ohio's Drogheda, circa 1995.
Though not as funny or rewarding as the original set of clips we posted of a fat Slayer fan screaming, this video is still pretty good.
This girl reminds me of a realization I had in my early teens, when I looked around and saw tons of fatties like this at metal shows. It all of a sudden dawned on me that I had made some stupid choices in life, since I had greatly limited the type and quality of women that were even somewhat within my grasp. Like every other metalhead, I hated jocks. But they had the right idea, at least when it came to girls. They got to be friends with, and date girls in the soccer team. I was stuck watching tubs like this one yell "SLAYER!" while reeking of cigarettes. Yay for me.
In Mike's head head, the performance by his band (a band he had only recently started with his two cousins and the guys from the machine shop) would be flawless. In reality, it was one of the saddest moments in musical history.
He had just bought new strings for his bass, and he laid out his flame button-up shirt. It was a big day in Indiana's Glendale Township, and the shirt would certainly bring that point across. His thinning hair was nowadays often hidden behind a filthy Harley Davidson bandana, which he actually ironed for the occasion. Disaster struck a few days before the actual performance. Vicky, his wife of three years (who can be seen sporting a fantastic baby back pack), put his leather pants (which he still only half-jokingly referred to as "my rock pants") in the washing machine, along with baby Madison's soiled linens. The pants, though Vicky didn't know this at the time, had not been washed since the summer of '86. The pants became brittle, shrunk a bit, and thereafter reeked of baby urine. But the show went on. It had to. Though the audience didn't much care for the music (it was a small get-together for his parents' 50th anniversary), the band plowed ahead through a set of mind numbing mid-tempo musical swill, the likes of which had not been heard since the Kiss solo albums. The kids made a large poster (for "Ma-Ma and Pap-Pap") which completely covered the drummer. At one point, the practice-sized guitar amps drew too much power and blew a fuse. But such is the price of rock. Mike did his best Steve Harris, machine gun pose towards the end of the song, and disregarded the unenthusiastic responses of the elderly audience. This was his day.
