Rub a dub dub
Some of the world's greatest masterpieces were jreamed up in the bathtub. A rare moment of house to yourself indulgence is a holiday gift of its own. Bubbles.
Over the next couple of days, families from around the globe will gather to celebrate the birth of Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ. It's a day of love and hope and togetherness and peace.
Glad to be a part of it. Really. I like it when people are nice to one another. You can see it everywhere you go this time of year.
Smiles and laughter.
Happily ever after.
People push their aches and grumbles aside, and give to others.
But I'd love it more without the religion behind it. The true gift of human compassion should rest on a Hope so strong that it can stand alone, without being tethered to Faith.
A Hope without Faith... until Faith can be found again, is still a Hope.
Merry Christmas to all of God's children, and by God I mean Buddha, Allah, Krishna, Wayne Gretzky. Safe and happy holidays to all of your friends and families. And all of their friends and families, and all the neighbours and coworkers, and all the whole world through.
Group Hug.
Come January, we can go back to crucifying Tiger Woods.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tiger Tiger Woods Y'all
Crushing metal, Ripping Skin
Tossing body mannequin
Spilling Blood, Bleeding Gas
Mangle flesh, Snapping spine
Dripping bloody valentine
Shatter face, spitting glass
Split apart
Split apart
Split apart
Spit
Spit it out!
My Apocalypse by Metallica
A song about driving your Cadillac SUV into a tree.
Not unlike the rest of everyday normal, snow-shoveling Canadians, I'm tired of hearing about Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods may have proven himself quite intriguing to the everyday average paparazzo. However, watching a public icon crumble before the world is not my fetish. Thank you very much.
Back in early October, I published a blog post about Tiger, and Derek Jeter, and Roger Federer. On July 5th of this year, these three athletes each excelled at his sport. Each turned in a dominant performance, and no doubt, each one of them shaved that morning using a Gillette Fusion razor. I thought maybe some money could have been made directly stemming from the events of said July 5 2009. So much for that.
Opinions being what they may, it should come as no surprise that we all seem to have one about billionaire athlete Tiger Woods.
Dear Tiger,
You screwed up. You let down your wife, your kids, your millions of fans, and maybe even your dead father. You disappointed a great many people. Your weakness was revealed. Your image as a stand-up, straight shooter kinda guy has faltered greatly.
You need to take your lumps and persevere. Recent news reports are speculating on your every move. Your wife Elin allegedly wants a divorce.
Do it.
Let your wife have everything she wants. Give your family everything they need. You don't need ALL the money. Let go of your image. Grow a new one. If you want to party like Jeter you can't be married.
Throw yourself into golf. Come out at the Masters and win. No more wearing red on Sundays. You should wear Bengal orange. Have the best golf season you've ever had. Show the world that you are still the most dominating athlete on the planet.
Because no matter how bad you messed up your situation, you can learn from it and move on. You should grow some dreadlocks, and untuck your shirt. You're allowed to skip the morning shave from time to time. Some girls like a little scruff.
Last I checked, a TIGER was a predator. And a tiger thrives when playing from the rough.
Regards,
Darryl Renwick
er... I mean... Anonymous.
Tossing body mannequin
Spilling Blood, Bleeding Gas
Mangle flesh, Snapping spine
Dripping bloody valentine
Shatter face, spitting glass
Split apart
Split apart
Split apart
Spit
Spit it out!
My Apocalypse by Metallica
A song about driving your Cadillac SUV into a tree.
Not unlike the rest of everyday normal, snow-shoveling Canadians, I'm tired of hearing about Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods may have proven himself quite intriguing to the everyday average paparazzo. However, watching a public icon crumble before the world is not my fetish. Thank you very much.
Back in early October, I published a blog post about Tiger, and Derek Jeter, and Roger Federer. On July 5th of this year, these three athletes each excelled at his sport. Each turned in a dominant performance, and no doubt, each one of them shaved that morning using a Gillette Fusion razor. I thought maybe some money could have been made directly stemming from the events of said July 5 2009. So much for that.
Opinions being what they may, it should come as no surprise that we all seem to have one about billionaire athlete Tiger Woods.
Dear Tiger,
You screwed up. You let down your wife, your kids, your millions of fans, and maybe even your dead father. You disappointed a great many people. Your weakness was revealed. Your image as a stand-up, straight shooter kinda guy has faltered greatly.
You need to take your lumps and persevere. Recent news reports are speculating on your every move. Your wife Elin allegedly wants a divorce.
Do it.
Let your wife have everything she wants. Give your family everything they need. You don't need ALL the money. Let go of your image. Grow a new one. If you want to party like Jeter you can't be married.
Throw yourself into golf. Come out at the Masters and win. No more wearing red on Sundays. You should wear Bengal orange. Have the best golf season you've ever had. Show the world that you are still the most dominating athlete on the planet.
Because no matter how bad you messed up your situation, you can learn from it and move on. You should grow some dreadlocks, and untuck your shirt. You're allowed to skip the morning shave from time to time. Some girls like a little scruff.
Last I checked, a TIGER was a predator. And a tiger thrives when playing from the rough.
Regards,
Darryl Renwick
er... I mean... Anonymous.
Smashing Through the Snow (in a one-dog hopin' way)
Floyd pulls me through the field toward the treeline. The steel claws of his prong collar digging into his thick neck. He snorts and his breath leaves a vapour I can see under the glow of the distant streetlight. My jeans have bunched up around my winter boots and snow is getting at my ankles. The dog pays no mind as we march diligently into the forbidden land behind our street.
Up ahead near the trees, I can hear voices. There is giggling and laughter. The Floyd hears it too, and he brings his snout up from the ground and stands at attention.
"Who is it, boy?" I whisper to the dog.
I can hear them whispering as well, and decide to approach with caution. Floyd's leash once again goes taut and his stubby tail wiggles with anticipation.
We pass through the treeline and into the clearing... and there they are. It's our old friends Dim and Dizzy.
Mr.Dim is standing there grinning with Holiday cheer. Ms.Dizzy is smiling broadly herself and they're both looking at us.
"Gidday mate" says Dim as he extends his hand, "Merry Christmas."
"Floyd... Off!" I wrestle with the leash. "Hey you guys. How have you been?"
"Good good" They answer in unison.
"Get your shopping done yet?" I ask, as I take in the scene before me. Both Dizzy and Dim are COVERED in snow. Dim's purple toque is pulled down over his bushy eyebrows and Dizzy's hood is packed with the white stuff.
"No sir," Dizzy chimes in, "we've been much too busy making snow angels and crawling through those big cement culverts over there."
Dim is brushing himself off, still grinning wildly. Dizzy adjust the strap of her shoulder bag and starts rifling through it looking for something. "Do you have my phone?" she asks Dim.
"Nope" he shakes his head as he bends to stroke the slobbery Floyd.
Dizzy's purse-digging becomes more frantic. In her search she starts pulling items out and throwing them onto the snow in front of her pink boots. There's a wallet. There's a sunglasses case. An iPod. A big yellow and black striped soft cover book titled Ventriloquism For Dummies.
Wow. This girl is something else.
Dim and I both stoop to gather up her belongings before they are lost in the snow. She continues launching her things out of her handbag. Was that a hammer?!
"Ms.Diz, perhaps your celly is in that culvert over there." says Dim
She looks up, owly-eyed. An expression of hope comes across her face and she smiles the prettiest of smiles. "By golly, you're right!"
Dizzy scurries over to the culvert as we follow, knees up, trudging ahead. The Floyd is taking big leaps over branches and the tall dead grass.
"There you are!" she exclaims. Her smile gleaming ever-brighter.
She holds up her phone in triumph as the two of us begin handing back all her pursely possessions.
"Thanky thanky gentlemen." she purrs "much appreciated."
"Your welcome." we both reply a little Dimly.
The brown dog who has been politely watching the entire scene starts voicing his impatience.
"Wanna go home for some FOOD, Floyd?" I ask. That's right, I said the F-word. "Wanna go home and see Ellah?!"
"Woof!" he agrees.
And with that, we bid our friends a very happy holiday season and make our way home.
I can hear their giggles starting up again as we disappear into the woods toward the path.
I'm not weird. I just happen to have an unfocused, over-active imagination.
Up ahead near the trees, I can hear voices. There is giggling and laughter. The Floyd hears it too, and he brings his snout up from the ground and stands at attention.
"Who is it, boy?" I whisper to the dog.
I can hear them whispering as well, and decide to approach with caution. Floyd's leash once again goes taut and his stubby tail wiggles with anticipation.
We pass through the treeline and into the clearing... and there they are. It's our old friends Dim and Dizzy.
Mr.Dim is standing there grinning with Holiday cheer. Ms.Dizzy is smiling broadly herself and they're both looking at us.
"Gidday mate" says Dim as he extends his hand, "Merry Christmas."
"Floyd... Off!" I wrestle with the leash. "Hey you guys. How have you been?"
"Good good" They answer in unison.
"Get your shopping done yet?" I ask, as I take in the scene before me. Both Dizzy and Dim are COVERED in snow. Dim's purple toque is pulled down over his bushy eyebrows and Dizzy's hood is packed with the white stuff.
"No sir," Dizzy chimes in, "we've been much too busy making snow angels and crawling through those big cement culverts over there."
Dim is brushing himself off, still grinning wildly. Dizzy adjust the strap of her shoulder bag and starts rifling through it looking for something. "Do you have my phone?" she asks Dim.
"Nope" he shakes his head as he bends to stroke the slobbery Floyd.
Dizzy's purse-digging becomes more frantic. In her search she starts pulling items out and throwing them onto the snow in front of her pink boots. There's a wallet. There's a sunglasses case. An iPod. A big yellow and black striped soft cover book titled Ventriloquism For Dummies.
Wow. This girl is something else.
Dim and I both stoop to gather up her belongings before they are lost in the snow. She continues launching her things out of her handbag. Was that a hammer?!
"Ms.Diz, perhaps your celly is in that culvert over there." says Dim
She looks up, owly-eyed. An expression of hope comes across her face and she smiles the prettiest of smiles. "By golly, you're right!"
Dizzy scurries over to the culvert as we follow, knees up, trudging ahead. The Floyd is taking big leaps over branches and the tall dead grass.
"There you are!" she exclaims. Her smile gleaming ever-brighter.
She holds up her phone in triumph as the two of us begin handing back all her pursely possessions.
"Thanky thanky gentlemen." she purrs "much appreciated."
"Your welcome." we both reply a little Dimly.
The brown dog who has been politely watching the entire scene starts voicing his impatience.
"Wanna go home for some FOOD, Floyd?" I ask. That's right, I said the F-word. "Wanna go home and see Ellah?!"
"Woof!" he agrees.
And with that, we bid our friends a very happy holiday season and make our way home.
I can hear their giggles starting up again as we disappear into the woods toward the path.
I'm not weird. I just happen to have an unfocused, over-active imagination.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Budweiser Blues
just in from a night of drunken goodness. the billgoat and i tested our wares at the Lone Star. our heads are numb and silly from the drink. we met sheila from Australia and we weren't old enough or successful enough or hairy enough.
"are you Army with your hair like that?" asks sheila. "Police?"
"Army?!" I chuckle. "No. I'm Low maintenance with hair like this."
"and I'm high." she quips
"you're funny! that's a good one sheila." i snort
"how old are you" needs sheila
"oh. that's how it is. You need to know my numbers." I grunt
"uh huh" is sheila
"i see," I sigh. "well then, I'm darryl and i'm 33 years old. this is my queenaged roommate michael and we like long walks on the beach, pretty sunsets, and playing balderdash."
"hello darryl i'm sheila. sheila is a derogatory term in australiia. don't make fun." she turns away to interrogate someone else.
sorry, that's what i do. why don't you piss up a rope. you bleach blonde klingon.
i also can't type when im hammed.
then there's Glitterface girl and her friend Whiteboots. retired strippers. whiteboots RECENTLY retired. every time they walk by, they eye hump us. white boots is naughty and wants us to know it. her eyes re dark like coal.. glitterface has two kids and an ex husband at home, and she wants some blow. some nose candy. homie don't deal that kind of candy honey. keep clear of these two mikey, they'z trouble. in the words of the reknowned Nicholas Lombo, it is what it is.
then we meet a pretty lady with a bright smile. this chick bores through me with her eyes. thers an instant of recognition. she sees the age. she sees the crows feet around my steel blue eyes. the shared maturity. we chat. we laugh. and then some young stud comes over and drapes her coat over her shoulders.
He's 20. she tells me. with a wink. That's right. He's 20. Like she wants a hero biscuit or something.
And then the youngin' pipes up with his own two cents.
"Yeah man, and I don't need no blue pill.
"cum again" i growl.
"i don't need no blue pill." says boy. "i'm not saying you do."
"gotcha." i nod. "just that some guys might need a blue pill, right?"
"right" sez boy.
"Well you two have fun" me says with a wink of my own.
have fun indeed.
Billygoat and i are off to the homestead for some toast and jam.
suckas.
"are you Army with your hair like that?" asks sheila. "Police?"
"Army?!" I chuckle. "No. I'm Low maintenance with hair like this."
"and I'm high." she quips
"you're funny! that's a good one sheila." i snort
"how old are you" needs sheila
"oh. that's how it is. You need to know my numbers." I grunt
"uh huh" is sheila
"i see," I sigh. "well then, I'm darryl and i'm 33 years old. this is my queenaged roommate michael and we like long walks on the beach, pretty sunsets, and playing balderdash."
"hello darryl i'm sheila. sheila is a derogatory term in australiia. don't make fun." she turns away to interrogate someone else.
sorry, that's what i do. why don't you piss up a rope. you bleach blonde klingon.
i also can't type when im hammed.
then there's Glitterface girl and her friend Whiteboots. retired strippers. whiteboots RECENTLY retired. every time they walk by, they eye hump us. white boots is naughty and wants us to know it. her eyes re dark like coal.. glitterface has two kids and an ex husband at home, and she wants some blow. some nose candy. homie don't deal that kind of candy honey. keep clear of these two mikey, they'z trouble. in the words of the reknowned Nicholas Lombo, it is what it is.
then we meet a pretty lady with a bright smile. this chick bores through me with her eyes. thers an instant of recognition. she sees the age. she sees the crows feet around my steel blue eyes. the shared maturity. we chat. we laugh. and then some young stud comes over and drapes her coat over her shoulders.
He's 20. she tells me. with a wink. That's right. He's 20. Like she wants a hero biscuit or something.
And then the youngin' pipes up with his own two cents.
"Yeah man, and I don't need no blue pill.
"cum again" i growl.
"i don't need no blue pill." says boy. "i'm not saying you do."
"gotcha." i nod. "just that some guys might need a blue pill, right?"
"right" sez boy.
"Well you two have fun" me says with a wink of my own.
have fun indeed.
Billygoat and i are off to the homestead for some toast and jam.
suckas.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Something to Cheer About - Metallica part 7 of 7
The concert's over, and we're rushing for the parking lot. The four band mates are on the stage waving goodbye to Ottawa's loudest crowd of 2009. Tomorrow, Metallica will donate a portion of the proceeds to the Ottawa Food Bank. merry christmas. James is throwing out guitar picks like mini frisbees as Lars chucks some of his supertitanium drumsticks into the crowd. Lobbing them, as to not spear somebody's eye out.
These guys look old. They're all showing their grey hair and doughy skin. Are they tired? Are they happy? Nonsense. They're rock stars. Are they done yet?
We're being herded like cattle towards the wall of exit doors. Where are the Twisted Sisters? Where's Mr. Brown? Tall cousin and smaller cousin? What about all the other folks I knew who would be here tonight? My eyes scan the sea of smiling Ottawans before me. There's Jimmy, with the bill of his ball cap curved round like a spool. You know, Jimmy, Jimmy from Metcalfe. Or is it Johnny from Carp? Who knows? Everybody's smiling goofily. And I'm guilty of a massive grin.
There they are. The sisters loved it. They're grinning too.
Run to catch up to Stoy Boy, I mean Bandit.
Good. There's Meathead and ChunkySoup waiting under the huge Chris Kelly #22 banner. We're off toward Miranda and the getaway car.
Hurry. The cool autumn air is crisp in the face sinus.
That's it. Done.
The Eastbound Queensway carries a bittersweet love on this night. As it often does. In the car, we review the concert while it is still so fresh and breathing. Our ears ringing like tree frogs attached to our skulls. Recalling the gleam. The pageantry. The fire. The show.
For those familiar with deezthughts, you know I'm a little bit retarded for Metallica. And yogurt. To the people close to me, I extend an apology. Thanks for enduring the fanatical. But in the same breath, I urge you to be fanatical about something. Stand in awe. Grab an obsession. Or two. Find a hobby. Sing a damn song. Enter a race. Dance a jig. Seize the moment. Hug a mother.
If by chance you read this, and you were actually AT the concert, do me a monster favour and let me know if I got it right. Or at least trigger a memory or two of your own. Did I paint this seven-parter a suitable colour? There is no RIGHT shade of grey.
This blog experience has become a love-hate kind of thing. I enjoy the writing process, but I'm having a hard time focusing on one story. May have something to do with the cabin fever and the two unruly doggies. May be a thyroid induced general lack of motivation. There's a writing class I'm considering signing up for. A five weeker, where at each week's meeting we hand in a new chapter. It sounds like uber fun, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to jump on it.
Some of us were conceived from love. Some were conceived by accident. A great many conceived by duty or obligation. This little bloggy of mine was birthed by all three. And I'm glad about it. What I'm trying to say is thanks for reading.
I've got an itch.
Thanks for the scratches.
May you always have something to cheer for
These guys look old. They're all showing their grey hair and doughy skin. Are they tired? Are they happy? Nonsense. They're rock stars. Are they done yet?
We're being herded like cattle towards the wall of exit doors. Where are the Twisted Sisters? Where's Mr. Brown? Tall cousin and smaller cousin? What about all the other folks I knew who would be here tonight? My eyes scan the sea of smiling Ottawans before me. There's Jimmy, with the bill of his ball cap curved round like a spool. You know, Jimmy, Jimmy from Metcalfe. Or is it Johnny from Carp? Who knows? Everybody's smiling goofily. And I'm guilty of a massive grin.
There they are. The sisters loved it. They're grinning too.
Run to catch up to Stoy Boy, I mean Bandit.
Good. There's Meathead and ChunkySoup waiting under the huge Chris Kelly #22 banner. We're off toward Miranda and the getaway car.
Hurry. The cool autumn air is crisp in the face sinus.
That's it. Done.
The Eastbound Queensway carries a bittersweet love on this night. As it often does. In the car, we review the concert while it is still so fresh and breathing. Our ears ringing like tree frogs attached to our skulls. Recalling the gleam. The pageantry. The fire. The show.
For those familiar with deezthughts, you know I'm a little bit retarded for Metallica. And yogurt. To the people close to me, I extend an apology. Thanks for enduring the fanatical. But in the same breath, I urge you to be fanatical about something. Stand in awe. Grab an obsession. Or two. Find a hobby. Sing a damn song. Enter a race. Dance a jig. Seize the moment. Hug a mother.
If by chance you read this, and you were actually AT the concert, do me a monster favour and let me know if I got it right. Or at least trigger a memory or two of your own. Did I paint this seven-parter a suitable colour? There is no RIGHT shade of grey.
This blog experience has become a love-hate kind of thing. I enjoy the writing process, but I'm having a hard time focusing on one story. May have something to do with the cabin fever and the two unruly doggies. May be a thyroid induced general lack of motivation. There's a writing class I'm considering signing up for. A five weeker, where at each week's meeting we hand in a new chapter. It sounds like uber fun, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to jump on it.
Some of us were conceived from love. Some were conceived by accident. A great many conceived by duty or obligation. This little bloggy of mine was birthed by all three. And I'm glad about it. What I'm trying to say is thanks for reading.
I've got an itch.
Thanks for the scratches.
May you always have something to cheer for
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
STCA SIX
Kirk's eyeliner.
That's what I'll remember most about this latest version of Nothing Else Matters. He's standing there playing his ESP guitar surveying the crowd. Not making eye contact, he's much too shy for that. He's looking over our heads at our hair(my Mohawk). His own curly black hair is starting to show silver tendrils. And he's definitely wearing eyeliner.
But this is clearly James Hetfield's song. Beautiful guitar work, heartfelt lyrics. The closest thing you'll ever hear to a love song by Metallica. Metallica don't do love songs. The words can be applied to any bonding relationship though, not just a lovey-dovey one.
This song is the glue that bonded that black album. It is melodic and pretty, and speaks of a love that knows no bounds. A hope for a better day.
The album was the first Metallica project produced by legendary Canadian music man Bob Rock. The album was new, and clean, with multi-layered songs, and expressive experimentation. A sonically sound album, in every aspect. Fuck, the dogs are fighting again.
"Floyd, Enough! Ellah, sit! That's enough!" whah whah whah!
So yeah, sorry. Sometimes this place turns to a goddamn zoo. Constant bickering and one-ups-man-shit. Dawg eat Dawg. Like at your job.
So anyway, the black album brought billions of dollars with it. And the next song we hear tonight will be the last one. The last song before the three song encore, that is. It's the most recognizable Metallica song in the world. It's played at high school dances, it's played on rock radio, and most importantly, it's played at NHL hockey games. Early and often. We're witnessing of course Enter Sandman
.
No need to describe this song. Babies come from wombs humming this song.
The song's over. The lights go up a bit. The crowd knows there's more. There's got to be more. My ears are ringing. What's next? This is the part on all the set lists I had seen, that was different on each one. It will be a cover song. A tribute to a band that helped shape the sound of Metallica. What'll it be?
Last Caress by the Misfits. A New Jersey heavy punk sound from the early 80's.
I've got somethin' to say
I killed your baby today and it
Doesn't matter much to me
As long as it's dead
Well, then. There's that.
And to close the show, the guys go back to their first album. 1983's Kill em All.
Those people who tell you not to take chances
They are all missing on what life is about
You only live once so take hold of the chance
Don't end up like others the same song and dance
Motorbreath
Its how I live my life
I can't take it any other way
Motorbreath
The sign of living fast
It is going to take
Your breath away
That's Motorbreath, written by these middle aged men when they were nineteen years old. It's played quickly and violently like it was meant to be. Some of the younger people in the crowd may have heard it once or twice... some others may have never heard it at all. It's the first time I've seen it played live. And it's something I'll never forget. I played this album in my car for a solid two weeks after this concert. Just to relive the energy of that moment. To drive home with a song in my head and a smile on my face.
And last but certainly not least is Metallica's first crowd favourite from the bars and concert halls of early 1980's California.
Seek and Destroy .
Kick ass. Crowd hollering. Crowd going hoarse. Crowd bouncing and singing from it's toes. I'm watching Robert play bass in front of us. I realize at that point that I can't really hear the bass. But wait. There it is. It's been there the entire time. My sternum is vibrating with it. My insides feel it move.
The Bulgarian Bandit leans over to me, and asks...
"Darryl, is your eyeliner running?"
To be concluded...
That's what I'll remember most about this latest version of Nothing Else Matters. He's standing there playing his ESP guitar surveying the crowd. Not making eye contact, he's much too shy for that. He's looking over our heads at our hair(my Mohawk). His own curly black hair is starting to show silver tendrils. And he's definitely wearing eyeliner.
But this is clearly James Hetfield's song. Beautiful guitar work, heartfelt lyrics. The closest thing you'll ever hear to a love song by Metallica. Metallica don't do love songs. The words can be applied to any bonding relationship though, not just a lovey-dovey one.
This song is the glue that bonded that black album. It is melodic and pretty, and speaks of a love that knows no bounds. A hope for a better day.
The album was the first Metallica project produced by legendary Canadian music man Bob Rock. The album was new, and clean, with multi-layered songs, and expressive experimentation. A sonically sound album, in every aspect. Fuck, the dogs are fighting again.
"Floyd, Enough! Ellah, sit! That's enough!" whah whah whah!
So yeah, sorry. Sometimes this place turns to a goddamn zoo. Constant bickering and one-ups-man-shit. Dawg eat Dawg. Like at your job.
So anyway, the black album brought billions of dollars with it. And the next song we hear tonight will be the last one. The last song before the three song encore, that is. It's the most recognizable Metallica song in the world. It's played at high school dances, it's played on rock radio, and most importantly, it's played at NHL hockey games. Early and often. We're witnessing of course Enter Sandman
.
No need to describe this song. Babies come from wombs humming this song.
The song's over. The lights go up a bit. The crowd knows there's more. There's got to be more. My ears are ringing. What's next? This is the part on all the set lists I had seen, that was different on each one. It will be a cover song. A tribute to a band that helped shape the sound of Metallica. What'll it be?
Last Caress by the Misfits. A New Jersey heavy punk sound from the early 80's.
I've got somethin' to say
I killed your baby today and it
Doesn't matter much to me
As long as it's dead
Well, then. There's that.
And to close the show, the guys go back to their first album. 1983's Kill em All.
Those people who tell you not to take chances
They are all missing on what life is about
You only live once so take hold of the chance
Don't end up like others the same song and dance
Motorbreath
Its how I live my life
I can't take it any other way
Motorbreath
The sign of living fast
It is going to take
Your breath away
That's Motorbreath, written by these middle aged men when they were nineteen years old. It's played quickly and violently like it was meant to be. Some of the younger people in the crowd may have heard it once or twice... some others may have never heard it at all. It's the first time I've seen it played live. And it's something I'll never forget. I played this album in my car for a solid two weeks after this concert. Just to relive the energy of that moment. To drive home with a song in my head and a smile on my face.
And last but certainly not least is Metallica's first crowd favourite from the bars and concert halls of early 1980's California.
Seek and Destroy .
Kick ass. Crowd hollering. Crowd going hoarse. Crowd bouncing and singing from it's toes. I'm watching Robert play bass in front of us. I realize at that point that I can't really hear the bass. But wait. There it is. It's been there the entire time. My sternum is vibrating with it. My insides feel it move.
The Bulgarian Bandit leans over to me, and asks...
"Darryl, is your eyeliner running?"
To be concluded...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
STCA V
Taste me you will see
More is all you need
Dedicated to
How I'm killing you
Come crawling faster
Obey your Master
Your life burns faster
Obey your Master
Master
Master of Puppets by Metallica
1986's brilliant title track. A song written by four California punks getting their first taste of fame and fortune and a lifestyle of exceeding excess. It's a song about the struggle against alcoholism and addiction.
The crowd is alive. The ones who have seen this stuff before know the concert's about to turn into a shit-show. The barking. The chanting. The beautifully melodic middle section with the two guitars simultaneously soloing. Yum. Very Yum. The guys around me can see my good time. It's all over my face. Like reading a story, and right about near the end, you realize it's going to be a happy ending. All over your face.
Master, Master, you promised only lies
Laughter, Laughter, all I hear or see is laughter
Laughter, Laughter, laughing at my cries
Hell is worth all that, natural habitat
Just a rhyme without a reason
Neverending maze, drift on numbered days
now your life is out of season
I will occupy
I will help you die
I will run through you
Now I rule you too
A rhyme without a reason?! I mean, c'mon... that's Hetfield at his goofiest. Some heady lyrics no doubt. Why are we all grinning? And singing? Funny thing, the human being.
The song serves it's purpose and wakes the crowd from its trance. We are alive. Like racing through a long rocky smooth decent at Camp Fortune. Pedaling through it with gusto... your eyes tearing at the wind. Hello Ottawa! How does it feel to bounce together? We like it when you sing! The base of my skull throbs from the headbanging. My neck is going to be stiff tomorrow. And I can't feel my ears. More is all I need.
Up next is Battery. A song I've never seen live. I've seen it on a DVD. That's not the same. This is hard pounding war-cry stuff. A "don't stand in my way" kind of song. Clear the track, here comes Shack. Another one of those 1986 space shuttle exploding angry songs. Not smart enough to be political, but hard hitting enough to be heard.
Now let us gather and pay homage to the stuff that brought massive fame and commercial success. The album that is the reason black terrycloth wristbands sales remain high. The one without a title. Or is it self titled? You've all seen the cover. It's black. That's it. The black album. How cliche? I don't know, I can't tell... it's so black. No wait. There's something there. In the lower corner. Something is embossed on the the black paper. Turn the CD(cassette) case in your hand. Achieve the slant. It's a snake coiled up. It looks a little like a dollar sign.
Enough of that. It's time to tune into the Canadian Formality known as The Grey Cup. I hope the tens of thousands of fans at that cold Calgary Cow Party rock the hell out. I want them to feel alive.
To be continued...
More is all you need
Dedicated to
How I'm killing you
Come crawling faster
Obey your Master
Your life burns faster
Obey your Master
Master
Master of Puppets by Metallica
1986's brilliant title track. A song written by four California punks getting their first taste of fame and fortune and a lifestyle of exceeding excess. It's a song about the struggle against alcoholism and addiction.
The crowd is alive. The ones who have seen this stuff before know the concert's about to turn into a shit-show. The barking. The chanting. The beautifully melodic middle section with the two guitars simultaneously soloing. Yum. Very Yum. The guys around me can see my good time. It's all over my face. Like reading a story, and right about near the end, you realize it's going to be a happy ending. All over your face.
Master, Master, you promised only lies
Laughter, Laughter, all I hear or see is laughter
Laughter, Laughter, laughing at my cries
Hell is worth all that, natural habitat
Just a rhyme without a reason
Neverending maze, drift on numbered days
now your life is out of season
I will occupy
I will help you die
I will run through you
Now I rule you too
A rhyme without a reason?! I mean, c'mon... that's Hetfield at his goofiest. Some heady lyrics no doubt. Why are we all grinning? And singing? Funny thing, the human being.
The song serves it's purpose and wakes the crowd from its trance. We are alive. Like racing through a long rocky smooth decent at Camp Fortune. Pedaling through it with gusto... your eyes tearing at the wind. Hello Ottawa! How does it feel to bounce together? We like it when you sing! The base of my skull throbs from the headbanging. My neck is going to be stiff tomorrow. And I can't feel my ears. More is all I need.
Up next is Battery. A song I've never seen live. I've seen it on a DVD. That's not the same. This is hard pounding war-cry stuff. A "don't stand in my way" kind of song. Clear the track, here comes Shack. Another one of those 1986 space shuttle exploding angry songs. Not smart enough to be political, but hard hitting enough to be heard.
Now let us gather and pay homage to the stuff that brought massive fame and commercial success. The album that is the reason black terrycloth wristbands sales remain high. The one without a title. Or is it self titled? You've all seen the cover. It's black. That's it. The black album. How cliche? I don't know, I can't tell... it's so black. No wait. There's something there. In the lower corner. Something is embossed on the the black paper. Turn the CD(cassette) case in your hand. Achieve the slant. It's a snake coiled up. It looks a little like a dollar sign.
Enough of that. It's time to tune into the Canadian Formality known as The Grey Cup. I hope the tens of thousands of fans at that cold Calgary Cow Party rock the hell out. I want them to feel alive.
To be continued...
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