DEAR R&B MUSIC:

Marvin Gaye was killed in 1984. With a few shining exceptions here and there, you have pretty much sucked donkey ass since then. Please give up the ghost and fucking wither away.

tia

LT

PETER SOTOS ON CREATION AND COMPULSION

Transgressive author and pornographic madman Peter Sotos has written some of the greatest....well, I don't really know what the fuck to call it, in decades. His work is truly challenging using every conceivable definition of the word. Although his recent work is, I feel, better than his earlier writings, I would suggest you start with his old fanzine Pure if you want to get a genuine taste of what this man is about.

He also has some very interesting ideas about the nature of creativity, specifically as it applies to him. I suspect, however, that his quote could apply to a great many artists whose work is the product of obsession, dark or otherwise:

"I don't write just to have a book with my name on it. I write because I'm compelled by the intensity, as well as the lack, in the material at hand. I think there's a huge difference in the way I write now and what I'm better known for writing, but I see absolutely no reason to look for a subject to write about or find something I can somehow turn into a book or whatnot. I don't look for new projects or ways to impress or surprise others. I'm not interested in craft. If I'm told I write well, I know that it comes from a passion with the subject. The subject propels the writing and the constant thought. I don't have a need to create something. I have a need to create this."

REIGN IN BLOOD

The year was 1986. Glam metal was taking off, and an aura of vaginal submissiveness ruled metal-land far and wide. Sure, there were fox-holes of hope here and there, offered by the likes of Metallica and Megadeth, but for the most part, a gaping hole existed in metal with little more than a bunch of coke-fueled cross-dressers willing to fill it.

And then came this. Slayer had had a couple previous studio albums; their subject matter was definitely satanic and anti-christian and heavily influenced by their British counterparts, Venom. But production on their early efforts was shoddy, and neither album made a huge mark in the thrash metal scene. But then the boys were introduced to rap producer Rick Rubin and it was all over from there. With Rubin's masterful help, Slayer unleashed 29 minutes of pure, unforgettable sonic hell that sounds as relevant today as it did 24 years ago. The tempo is unbelievably fast, and the sound is tight and oh so to the fucking point.

Never ones to simply dip their toes into the shallow end of the pool, Slayer lets you know right away that you will not be listening to songs about finger-banging sweet Sally in the back of your convertible. "Angel of Death," the album's opening track, is a tour de force into the mind of Nazi sawbones Josef Mengele. The lyrics are bloody and explicit, and, best of all, offer no comforting moral perspective from which to view the atrocities they describe. There is no fucking "message" here. And don't even get me started on vocalist Tom Araya's bloodcurdling scream that gets the track started. Priceless shit.

The closing track, "Raining Blood," starts off with drummer Dave Lombardo's steady pounding, a sound that seems to announce and, yes, welcome the apocalypse. In the background, a rain that can be called anything but gentle can be heard. The lyrics are a true end-of-the-earth nightmare, but also ambiguous enough for Tori Amos to include it in her album of cover songs.

What Slayer achieved with this masterpiece is to create the most intense metal album released up until that time, and to do so with relative commercial success. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the album was released in the mid-80s, which was the height of the PMRC record labeling controversy. I'm sure the boys take great pride in being one of the bands that were seen as so dangerous that a warning sticker had to be put on their albums. This album pretty much guaranteed it, in fact.

MAXIN AND RELAPSIN

I started this blog during a period of prolonged sobriety, during which I found myself with a fair amount of free time and enough free-form thought floating around in my brain to fill up a cess-pool. The comparison is deliberate.

Since that time, I have started drinking again and I find that my blog entries have pretty much declined in proportion. The alleged correlation between creative thought and action and ravenous consumption of mind-altering substances is well documented. Not to compare something as inconsequential as my personal blog to the works of Hemingway or Fitzgerald or the music of The Velvet Underground, but for the love of sweet fuck I just don't see how they did it. When I drink, there are a few limited activities in my peripheral vision of desires, and, trust me, not one of the fucking things is productive. Not to say I've never had a good creative thought when drunk or high, but I can count on one hand the number of times I was ever driven to anything remotely resembling creative action because of it. Of course, this leads me to wonder in periods of intense honesty whether I really "have it" in the same way all the great drunk writers do. All types of presumptuous on my part, I know.

Pretensions to artistry aside, this whole business does leave me with a certain dilemma. Two things I love, one productive and one destructive, have shown themselves to be, if not entirely incompatible, certainly not comfortable living together under the same roof. The decision of which one to ditch should be an easy one, and I'm sure it would be for a non-addict. Unfortunately, this beautiful poison that I have come to love and hate with equal passion is much more persuasive with me than it is with the average citizen. Pathetic, yes, but a reality nonetheless. My best hope is that my desire to actually produce something worthwhile that came from my own mind will outweigh the urge to stare into the abyss for its own sake. God knows, I've spent enough time on option two.

THE LURE WOULD PROVE TOO MUCH

Stone cold, I think I'm taking you home, so
I can be broken in two
Just like you

Sexy eyes and c'est la vie, I'll call you sometime
When I'm blue

Say so, I'm getting under your skin, so soft
I can't help but pursue
Til I'm screwed

Sunset, everything's fire
But I can't can't get any higher
Come get this lightning and rain all over me

Come to, I forget all of it
Someone, I can't remember at all
Is gonna fall

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Come back down, come back down
Come, if you're dumb

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Sunrise, sunrise, sunrise, some rise
Sunrise, sunrise
on me

Shine on, I can see clearly the light on
Crashing me into the rocks
You siren sweet

DEMONS AND SUNSHINE

I recently watched a documentary about the brilliant avant garde filmmaker David Lynch entitled, creatively, Lynch. If you are a fan of Lynch, it is truly a delight to watch, seeing the master in his preferred milieu, acquiring ideas and inspiration from sources that range from merely ugly to downright sinister. It's like watching Bach compose one of his beloved concertos.

Interspersed at various points throughout the documentary are gems wherein Lynch provides his theory of film and art and the most advantageous process whereby successful artists communicate with the world. Among these pearls is a monologue that kept me thinking about it for days afterward. Contrary to popular wisdom, Lynch does not believe that one needs to be unhappy or morose or even brooding in order to create art dealing with the dark and nightmarish side of human nature. To the contrary, says Lynch, great art, whether it be a celebration of light or darkness, is more likely to occur when the artist is at his happiest and most alert.

Watching Lynch be interviewed belies his point quite nicely. Quirky and conversational, David Lynch never comes across as some brooding asshole who's too good for his interviewer. His little broadcasts on his website regarding the weather in L.A., along with his formidable story-telling abilities relating to his days in Philadelphia, reveal a somewhat social man whose extroverted qualities cross over to his films.

Knowing that this man is the creative force behind some of the most twisted and bizarre films in history illustrates his point quite clearly. Maybe a happy life is the key to understanding the dark underbelly of the human animal. Perhaps it allows the artist a certain objectivity and distance that is necessary for an honest portrayal of existential reality. On the contrary, a genuinely miserable person is more likely to get bogged down in his own lack of joy and his bitterness at the world. Even taking something as relatively minor as this blog, I know I am much more likely to blog if I am having a good day. Methinks Lynch is onto something here.

Now, as to how to ensure that you are happy so all this great art can be brought to life? Sorry, folks, that is just not my fucking department.

Nothing But

Is there anything more important than what is true and what is correct? I've discovered recently that there is a significant portion of peeps out there for whom truth is a mere afterthought or, even worse, an inconvenience to be overcome with spin and perception-controlling. I want to write a detailed and exhaustive blog about the ultimate importance of truth and its declining importance in the age of ubiquitous media. If you notice that I've gone another 2 or 3 entries without laying down my views on the beauty of truth, please let me know. I think the time is ripe.