Always striving to bring the world to my readers, I hit the streets of Barcelona today with the intrepid KTray, and I must say, it is one cool town. In order to help you all fully appreciate this super mod metropolis, I will be posting photos over the next few days, starting today. Click on the thumbnails to enlarge. Enjoy, suckas.

I recently took this photo of cans of glass cleaner that have been sitting by my desk at work for about a thousand years. For some reason or another, I found it interesting, and while looking at it I noticed that the cans say, “for the graphic arts industry” on the front. I’m sure that the spray cleanser company Sprayway is a very reputable place, but I have a feeling that this particular cleaner is no more apt for the graphic arts industry than say, Windex. However, it is my suspicion that some marketing exec somewhere out there decided a niche needed to be filled. Oh well. Who cares. I like the picture.

What’s REALLY funny, though, is this clip I found on YouTube about Windex:

Not a lot of people realize this, but Norway and the surrounding area is widely considered the birthplace of true black metal, a sub genre of heavy metal which focuses on exploding double bass drums, highly distorted tremolo guitar picking, odd rhythm changes, and chilling vocal screams and growls venerating the many charms of satan. It is a dark music—many would say evil—and while for some it has no more meaning than the artifices of professional wrestling, for others it is a path for life; a call-to-arms against the status quo that has, at times, resulted in violence, and—it must be said—occasionally murder. I won’t go into the whole history, but if you’d like to learn more, you can start by clicking here.

My curiosity about black metal and its origins has more to do with economics. Usually, such extreme cultural views where one is led to have disproportionately negative connections with the rest of society stems from a poor economic background. Basically, struggle breeds strife. But in this case, we see a prime example of global paradox, because as far as I know, Scandinavia is a fairly well-to-do part of the world. Socioeconomically speaking, it’s kind of the earth’s suburb. And for the most part, suburbs tend to produce relatively harmless—if somewhat obnoxious and clueless—citizens. Scandinavia, however, has a rather large sub-culture producing artistic material such as this:

The above video is from a Norwegian band named Gorgoroth (named for an especially nasty neighborhood of Mordor—yes, THAT Mordor). Supposedly, there is no irony embedded in their message, no wink given to audience members in on the joke. These cats are the real deal. They believe in satanism, and chaos, and fire, and blood, and pain, etc, etc. See more about them here. So, if I am correct and the members of this band lived formative years of relative comfort, from whence does the menace bloom?

As you may have guessed, I have a theory. I think that many of the people from this part of the world suffer greatly from seasonal affective disorder, which is basically a form a depression that strikes the hearts of many whenever the air gets cold and the nights get long. And nowhere else on earth do the days get colder and shorter than Scandinavia, parts of which are far enough north to be subject to the infamous polar nights. During these times, northern territories exist without sunlight for as long as three months in a row. Jesus. I’d probably want to kill for satan too, after putting up with that kind of horseshit for decades on end.

I guess I’m thinking about all of this now because I am getting pretty sick and tired of my own region’s winter. It’s been an unusually cold and snowy January here in the NYC area, and I’m sick to death of it. You would think that since I grew up in the miserable Midwest that I would be used to this kind of tawdry treatment from that bitch Mother Nature, but hey man, that was a long time ago. I have become accustomed to better treatment. I’m also feeling frayed by a winter that seems to have brought more illness to the masses than in recent years. Add it up, and I’m finding myself becoming more and more lethargic, more interested in large quantities of dark beer, more apt to jump in my longship , sail down to the nearest village, and burn it to the goddamn ground, pillaging everything in sight and massacring anyone who gets in my way.

I think this little tidbit from Gorgoroth singer Gaahl, one of the most feared and hated men in all of Norway, sums it up best:

For more on the Scandinavian Black Metal scene, I highly suggest watching this interesting video from VBS.tv.

Here’s to the winter ending soon. Before satan swallows us all.

There Is A Dream In Here Somewhere by Miriam Climenhaga

Long time Jose el Retardo reader Miriam Climenhaga is a dedicated human and painter (check out her work above, and more by clicking here) from the American Breadbasket, and she recently posted an item on her blog art and art like substances about the difficulties one has finding the time and energy to do the things one loves to do. She mentions in her post that she wonders how much the computer has interfered with more constructive work. Perhaps there is an argument here, but I suspect that with enough research into the tools super-braniac computer scientists have produced, one can turn the computer into quite the resource for self-promotion.

One thing will never change: the power of word-of-mouth. And this is where the computer really seems to be shining brightly these days, but only if we all do our part in communicating to each other the hard efforts of a deserving friend. Thus my post today, and a promise to make more of an effort to use this super-popular publication as a tool of positive promotion for people who need it.

Dear dedicated readers, if you have a moment, check out the work of Miriam C. I think the above work is particularly striking, and Miriam is truly a unique painter. In a time when many modern artists are simply making prints to blend in with the background and break up the monotony of the wall behind the couch, hers is a refreshing change.

Anyone who seriously loves rock music would agree that, although theories abound, there is no one way to define the soul of the genre. From the somber crunch of Black Sabbath, to the endless wisdom of Dylan, to the all-encompassing everything which is Zeppelin, the spirit behind rock music is as endlessly complicated as the prog output of the Mars Volta. Many will say that this is bullshit, that the message is as straightforward as a middle finger shoved up the ass of a high school principal, but are we really comfortable placing the Cars or Traci Chapman in this category?

Yes, I can hear the din: “Traci Chapman?! Are you fucking kidding me? That’s not ROCK!” These dissenting  voices may in fact have a point, but plenty of others would disagree, and this ambiguity is exactly what I am talking about. The depressive moan of Chapman’s folk may be a far cry from Chuck Berry’s initial gift to us all, but is the mathematical holocaust of Pantera any closer?

It’s impossible to say. Rock is ubiquitous. But truly, for me, it all begins right here, with this group of unnamed heroes, reminding me that rock is for every man, woman, and child. It is the one thing joining all of modern culture. Embraced by the masses and attainable to anyone brave enough to pick up a guitar, microphone, or a drumstick. See for yourself:

I would like to bring everyone’s attention to the 2 minute mark of this clip, where you will experience, quite possibly, the most mind melting breakdown in rock history. I only point it out because you were in all likelihood mesmerized by the glorious vocals, and may have overlooked it. And the keyboards…that sound may very well be one of the most common voices in all of western culture. So immediately recognizable.

If anyone knows the name of this group of courageous souls, please forward it along.

Don’t listen to what the media tries to tell you. For the most part, punk is pretty much dead. I’d love to see it come back, but you know. There’s a lot of things I’d like to see happen that never will. In my opinion, one of the very last great punk records is, oddly enough, Metallica’s 1987 release Garage Days Re Revisited. It was a primal, stripped down, and aggressive homage to the punk music that had influenced them over the years, recorded live in a Los Angeles garage soundproofed by the band. As the story goes, the recordings emerged out of the practice sessions devoted to the breaking in of the then-new-now-gone bassist Jason Newsted, who replaced the irreplaceable Cliff Burton after the latter’s tragic death in ‘86. Everything about the record is punk. It is sloppy and brilliant, it blisters and soothes at the same time, it is forceful and irreverent all at once, and at just over 25 minutes long, it was over far too quickly.

Hands down, the best track on Garage Days is the cover of Killing Joke’s The Wait. There’s nothing else to be said for it except that it kicks royal ass. I have no idea how a needle could stay in place on the vinyl version of this recording. One of the less obvious joys of this track is that it might make the listener more curious about the band that penned the song, Killing Joke. And as it turns out, their version of the song kicks just as much bootie.

Formed in the late seventies in England, Killing Joke made some truly fantastic punk music. It’s hard to nail down exactly what the band was up to, and the thing you have to love about that is that the band probably could care less about it’s style or agenda, they just played the music that came out of their collective selves. Much of it was urgent and mysterious, and you got the feeling they knew something about the world that had, thus far, escaped you. There was definitely a primal quality to the early work, like the Clash on a bit of a freaky acid trip. And then, perhaps strangely, somewhere in the mid-to-late eighties, they morphed into a new wave, Cure-ish kind of thing that I could do without.

Anyway, it’s interesting is all. Here is one of Killing Joke’s early songs entitled Change, and it pretty much rocks balls:

I was once of the opinion that the gargantuan bailout to wall street was a necessary evil in order to save the jobs of so many innocent slobs slugging it out in the trenches of middle management; not to mention all the folks out there shining shoes, spraying tans, waxing BMWs, and cobbling high-heels. And to a certain extent, I still do. However, it is now painfully clear that the egomaniacs running these companies should have been disposed of properly before the companies ever received a freaking dime.

These guys care nothing for the normal people naively plugging away down here at street level. For them, we are fools to be disregarded. We are the inconvenient speed bump. We are the ignorant peasant stooped low over the till laboring in the shadow of the castle’s towers. They are the lords of the land, anointed by god to rule in luxury, appointed by the forces of the universe to distribute the wealth as disproportionately as they see fit.

I know I sound angry, but don’t you feel the same? We, out of the goodness of our hearts and out of a true desire to do what is best for the collective, even at the expense of self, gave these (mostly) men nearly a trillion dollars of our own money in the belief that we could help them mend the very wounds they themselves inflicted. And they are mocking us for it. We have thus far proven ourselves to to be every bit the fools they have always believed us to be.

Here is an example of what they have accomplished thus far: even after everything that has happened, Wall Street doled out over 18 billion dollars in bonuses. They will soon be called in front of Senator Christopher Dodd’s Banking Committee to find out whether or not any of the pay outs come from tax-payer money. Funny how easy it is to get a bonus on wall street. Evidently, there’s no need to perform your job well, or indeed, within the guidelines of the law. Out of curiosity, what was YOUR bonus this year?

Another tasty tidbit: Citigroup, which has received billions in government aid, placed an 50 million dollar order for a brand new, foreign-built jet recently, and only canceled the delivery of the sumptuous plane after being smacked around by lawmakers on the hill.

So what now? It’s obvious these men are sociopaths. They live the lives of a hundred normal men and only want more, and they are willing to steal to get it. So it must all be taken away from them. From now on out, we should demand that any new monies be given to the board of directors of any given company if and ONLY if they agree to throw out the old company directors first. And then, upon the exit of this sullied leadership, these miserable larcinists must pick from a list of options their new futures. I briefly considered exile, but in this NEW GLOBAL ECONOMY, I’m sure they would only fuck things up from afar.

The choices available to the new millennium scum, as devised by yours truly:

1. Something we’ve always wanted. The proverbial human hunt, mixed with the gritty immediacy which is reality television. Every week, we see a newly unemployed wall street banker run for his life through heavily monitored forests, trailed by hounds and some of the best turkey hunters America has to offer. Just to spice things up, I suggest making them run this gauntlet in Target brand sweat pants and Payless Shoe Source sneakers. Oh, the humiliation borne of middle class fashions. If they can make it to a specified location alive, they will be allowed to live, but only on Swanson’s Hungry Man dinners until their (hopefully) untimely deaths from heart related issues. Oh wait. They don’t have hearts. Scrap that last part.
2. Remember when the editorial department here at Jose el Retardo suggested medical testing on prisoners? Well, now we have the perfect criminals. Objectively speaking, these CEOs and their ilk have had far more of a negative impact on a far larger swath of the community than any poor college kid selling pot to buy books, so don’t they deserve a worse fate? We have no problem testing on innocent monkeys, so why not test on these awful, putrid, nasty monkeys?
3. In all reality, in a community as toothless as ours, there is no easy solution to the imense problem of Catholic priests molesting innocent children. Until now. Call it a new spin on the old idea of the confessional booth, mixed with the old school satisfaction of the glory hole. I think you know where I’m headed with this, so let me leave it at that. After a few priests have had a go at whatever banker is chained inside, we sink the banker to the bottom of the sea. From down there, he is given a chioce of levers to pull. One distributes food, another floods the bell with sea water. Which lever does what is changed on a regular basis. This is, of course, all televised.

Truly, I have had it. These men are criminals and they laugh in the face of our turmoil. They care nothing for the child who will go hungry as they thoughtlessly swill away another thousand pensions.

That is all.

You might think from looking at the above headline that I am about to send huge props out to Philip Glass. This is not the case. If you love all things Philip Glass passionately and feel that he is the God Penis Incarnate, I suggest you move on. If you have never experienced Philip Glass, take a look at this YouTube clip of the Philip Glass Ensemble performing “Train/Spaceship” before you read any further (you won’t have to watch for long): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dl0BSh7RXPc.

Ok. Now that we have that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, let me hasten to the point. One of the issues I have always had with guitar shredders like Yngwie Malmsteen is that they tend to spew technical prowess all over the floor without actually expressing anything whatsoever. For an example, check out the two dorks below hashing it out, and pay special attention to the crazy warlock device that the uber-spaz on the left is tapping:

Sounds a little like the Philip Glass, right? At least in spirit? Am I crazy? Try this: open the Philip Glass link in a new window (turn it down halfway or so because it’s fucking LOUD), and then start playing the video clip of the dorks on this page. Dude, they fucking go together almost perfectly. Scary boring.

Technically adept musicians are always frustrated when a larger audience embraces a songwriter or group with less nimble fingers or theoretical knowledge. What escapes these discouraged players is that it is never how many notes you cram into a measure or how sick your progressions are that capture human imagination and hearts. Often times it’s not even the specific lyrics. It’s all about the expression, people. Can you translate into a few simple notes, or into a rhythmic strum, or into your voice, the plight of the human condition? Can you express sadness or joy in a way that is meaningful to another person? If you can, great. You’ve got the makings for a wider happy audience. Like an old friend of mine once said, it’s not WHAT Elvis sang, it’s HOW he sang it.

Shredders are part of the geekdome. They can catch the air on fire with the searing friction of their speedy notes, but their lack of emotional projection leave the rest of us scratching our heads and wondering what the big deal is. And Philip Glass is like this, too. Neo-classical wonks pee their pants at the thought of putting his records on at the party, but the rest of us just wish they’d get over it and put a fucking Journey record on, for the love of Christ. Yes, Steve Perry was a mega-freak, but at least we could all sing along.

No, this isn’t a bathroom joke.

Thanks again to Xtra Normal.

Something has happened to rock music. It has splintered. It has consolidated. Tastes have changed. Tastes have reverted. It has become indie, but indie is so corporate. It is anemic, juvenile, and overly concerned with the cantankerous and pontifical music blog scene. I would love to hear something—anything—that lights the mass imagination like 1987’s Appetite for Destruction by Guns N’ Roses. Drawing on such classic rock influences as The Rolling Stones and Aerosmith, It’s raw and incendiary power single-handedly brought rock-n-roll back from the brink of glam, and arguably opened the door for the grunge age to follow.

Gun’s N’ Roses was far from a pretty band, and their deeply flawed personalities, while gaining them plenty of headlines and notoriety, eventually tore them apart before they could even produce a fourth album. But it was this very quality of imperfection that drew many of their fans to them, and fueled their insanely hook-driven music. They were power-houses, rock-wise, and they left a big, gaping hole in the landscape behind them.

Sure, grunge came in and mopped up the mess GNR made with great efficacy; Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Sound Garden, and Alice In Chains hold fond places in the intelligent rock lovers memory, but when was the last time you heard a young singer say they were inspired to fucking kick the walls down by Eddie Vedder? Or of a kid driven to pick up a guitar and start wailing because of Jerry Cantrell? I’m not saying these guys weren’t good—in fact, they were (and continue to be) fairly brilliant. But one could also argue that if it wasn’t for their (at times) overly-introspective take on life, we could have avoided all this stupid fucking emo bullshit nonsense that just makes a person want to give up on life completely and listen to jazz. For instance, how influenced do you think those snotty pricks, Vampire Weekend, are by THESE lyrics:

Ya get nothin’ for nothin’
If that’s what ya do
Turn around bitch I got a use for you
Besides you ain’t got nothin’ better to do
And I’m bored

That little piece of brilliance was from GNR’s It’s So Easy, and there is something just so beautifully immediate about it’s complete lack of artistry. That’s rock and roll. Accept no imitations. Somebody out there please start making some real music again.