# 191: Venom's "Black Metal"

"We chime the bell, chaos and hell,
Metal for maniacs pure."

Sometimes you need a big, fat slab of stupid heavy metal. Sometimes you need it delivered in messy bursts of grinding noise and hoarse screaming. Sometimes you need a song to charged with testosterone and adrenaline that your head feels like it's going to burst every time you listen to it... yet you have to rewind it as soon as it's over. Sometimes you need "Black Metal" by Venom.

"Fast melting steel, fortune on wheels,
Brain hemmorage is the cure."

Venom is a trio of hairy, British knuckleheads who thrived in the early '80s as heavy metal's answer to punk rock. In their first few albums they hadn't learned how to play yet (and when they did it destroyed what made them so great), so they got by on a blur of hyperactive drumming and Satanic soccer chants that fell somewhere between Gary Glitter and The Exorcist. To this day, many believe it was all a put-on, but whether they were wickedly sly parody rockers or misogynistic cavemen with guitars, they certainly had an influence. Venom is often cited as being ground zero for extreme heavy metal, launching a movement that would spawn countless imitators and quite a few platinum selling acts, including Metallica, Slayer, Megadeth, and just about every other headbanger who came after them.

"Freaking so wild, nobody's mild,
Giving it all that you've got.
WIld is so right, metal tonight,
Faster than over the top."

Sadly, the boys lost the plot somewhere after their third album and fell into Spinal Tap obscurity, but before they went out they created one massive five-star classic, the invincible metal anthem "Black Metal". The title track to their excellent 2nd record, this beautifully simplistic ode to their own atonal madness is one of the most pure songs in the history of music itself. Laugh if you will, but this song encompasses (and even creates) some of heavy metal's most endearing cliches, and it strips away anything resembling fat, leaving behind the leanest, meanest 3 minutes committed to record.

Adding to my love of this song are two different lines that would definitely make it on my list of greatest rock lyrics of all time. First, early in the song, lead singer Cronos (did I mention their awesome pseudonyms?) sings what sounds like "Energy screams, magic and dreams, Satan records the best notes!" Sadly, many internet lyric sites quote Cronos as saying "Satan records their first note," which doesn't have the same charm and thus, I'm ignoring those factinistas and sticking with my ears.

The other lyric is so wonderfully clear in the mix that there's no way you can mistake it. Just as the chorus builds into a tense tornado of power chords, with Cronos moaning the song's title over and over again with increasing anger, suddenly the song screeches to a halt and his voice soars over the canyons: "Lay down your soul to the Gods rock n' roll, metal ten fold through the deadly black hole!" Milliseconds later, the dam bursts and the song pours forth again, even more awesome than it had been mere moments before. Genius.

To you non-heavy metal lovers out there, "Black Metal" is so amazing that even in your silly, misguided avoidance of this wonderful art form, you end up reading MY BLOG and BLAM, there's the glimmering perfectness of "Black Metal" sitting out there for you to read about. Dare to try it. Dare to embrace it. Dare to let it encompass you in its evil web. Lay down your soul to the Gods rock n' roll.

#192 - The Replacements' Tim

I was 17 years old and as wide open as possible to hearing a song like "Bastards of Young" when it first passed my ears. Initially I was taken in by the guitar, a melodic bit of riffing that suggested that there was quite the unique anthem ahead. Sure enough, the charging drum-n'-bass combo brought to mind both Bruce Springsteen and the Ramones as it rushed into the most amazing voice I had ever heard up to that point. "God, what a mess, on the ladder of success/Well you take one step and miss the whole first rung."

Paul Westerberg's lyrics didn't make sense in that way that, say, Morrissey's lyrics made sense. They were obtuse and at times they only strung together clever phrases that hinted at much deeper ideas underneath. They were meant to be decoded by the people who bothered to take the time to do it, and at that moment, with that song, I was officially one of those people. "The ones that love us least/Are the ones we die to please." Totally.

Some of my friends were quite taken with my sudden obsession with the band. Up to that point, I had been Pearl Jam fan numero uno, but as I grew older I realized that A. they were writing the same song over and over again and B. Eddie Vedder's lyrics had all the subtlety of a screaming toddler. In comparison, Westerberg tossed out meaningful/meaningless tidbits like "You and I fall together/You and I sleep alone", and I would spend hours mulling over what in the world he meant by that.

Tim, the album that I immediately purchased after hearing "Bastards..." for the first time, was an invincible bit of music to enter college with. The lyrics celebrate drunkeness and a joyful love of music while alternately pointing out the sad ironies that come with being "different", not to mention deep relationship regret that you only get perspective on when you're living 500 miles from the town you grew up in. It was a batch of insecure anthems that encapsulated my experience better than anything I had ever heard up to that point. It was heartbreaking and inspiring all at once. It was perfect.

It was tough being the only guy I knew who listened to this band; after all, these were anthems that rocked with an authority that shamed the pathetic modern rock that had dribbled out of the post-grunge era I was living in. While most kids my age rocked out to one-hit wonders like the Toadies and whoever sang "Cumbersome", I was busy memorizing "Left of the Dial" and wondering how this amazing band had been totally overlooked. This was indie rock with all the shit I hated about indie rock stripped away from it, how was I the only person on campus listening to it?

Sadly, I was 11 years too late to get onto the Replacements bandwagon. They had already been broken up for 5 years by the time I was burning a groove into my first CD copy of Tim, and I was doomed to be the only guy taking these songs to heart at that moment in time. It was my own personal band, and by the time I finally met some other people in my area who were as passionate about them as I was, it was five years later and the dudes I met were mostly hipster douche bags that were more interested in one-upping me on Westerberg trivia than listening to music.

All this nostalgia might cloud the simple truth about Tim: it's a fantastic rock album even now, and I can't tell you how many people I convinced to buy this album through the years based on the strength of these incredible songs. No tune on it has won over as many people as "Here Comes a Regular", a lone guitar ballad on an album full of barn-burning rock songs and fist-pumping anthems. While the other songs would often inspire volume knobs to crank up, "Here Comes a Regular" often caused the kind of intense silence that only a room full of people listening intently can create. This melancholy tribute to being a functional alcoholic had the least to do with my life at the time (I'm not kidding!) but it was a tale told so well, I instantly needed to learn it on the guitar so even if the CD wasn't handy, I could still play it for people.

"A fool will waste his life, God rest his guts." Indeed! Tim, what a fucking fantastic album.

#193: Bacon

Perhaps the most simple of all the things I love, bacon is the perfect cut of meat from the most perfect of all animals. I mostly despise pigs, if only because their foul smell and selfish behavior, yet I begrudgingly give them a superior status over far more "human friendly" beasts like cats and dogs because of that perfect tasting flesh surrounding their rib cage.

Derived from the Old High German word "bacho", meaning "back ham", bacon is cured and/or smoked strips of meat taken from the torso of the animal. In America this is often fried and then paired with other unhealthy food items, like fried eggs, cheeseburgers, and if you eat at IHOP, pancakes covered in whipped cream, strawberries and maple syrup. Even fancy restaurants show the bacon love by wrapping morel mushrooms or water chestnuts in expensive bacon sent from a foreign country and then charging you $12 for four of them.

I, a lover of bacon, have eaten just about all the things listed above. Healthy? Nope, which is why I only eat the bacon every few weeks or so. Yet when I decide to eat it, I go "hog wild" (insert eyes rolling) to a degree that actually scares my wife. I wish I was kidding, but earlier today, as I was ordering a BLT at dinner, she actually voiced concern twice while I was ordering the sandwich ("You're ordering the full size?" "Extra bacon?") and then wouldn't look at me while I was eating it.

There aren't really any clever stories or witty comments to pair with this one, although I considered a fake story about how I had to slaughter a pig when I was a teenager, a perfectly believable fib considering my backwoods heritage. But no, it's just a simple one this time: bacon = greatness.

#194: Black Coffee

I am hopelessly addicted to coffee. If I don't drink it after the first 30 minutes of being awake, I've got a window of about 3 hours before my head turns into a throbbing mass of pain, confusion, and hate. And despite having no prejudices against flavored creamer (it makes it taste like a milkshake!), no drink gives you that early morning punch like delicious black coffee.

Black coffee doesn't try to fool you; it smells great but it tastes somewhat like a sock worn by a coal miner. Yet that great aroma/bad taste combination drives me from the comfort of my bed to face reality on a daily basis. Rain, shine, snow, tornados, no matter what the conditions I literally need to guzzle from the ceramic teet or else I'm a useless slob. I feel so ridiculous when it's a brutal 80 degree day, I'm already dripping with uncomfortable sleep-sweat, yet still I can suck down a burning hot cup of Folgers like I had just come in from sledding.

Unlike many people, I'm no coffee snob. Starbucks? Tastes awesome. Big Boy? Good stuff. The sludge down at the local college coffee house? I'll drink it like water. Nothing about any flavor of coffee bothers me, even that weak-ass Hawaiian stuff that my co-workers foisted upon our office when they didn't have the heart to throw it out. To me, coffee reminds you of the simple pleasures in life; no matter how rich or poor I've been, I've always had the money for some plain, black coffee.

I also love coffee because of the very little amount of work that goes into its production. Basically, before you go to bed you scoop some black stuff into a rounded piece of paper, put it on top of thing filled with water, and the next morning you hit a button and five minutes later you have the juice that keeps you loose. Coffee: it's faaaantastic.

I know that some people enjoy grinding beans and putting all that work into it, and I even know some folks that will roast their own little formulas. I respect those people a great deal. But those people clearly have more energy and focus than I do. In fact, there are mornings where I'm so groggy from exiting my bed that I literally forget to drink coffee until I'm halfway to work. Upon this realization, I often shift directly into panic mode, grinding my teeth and literally filling with that icy fear that you should only get when you're moments from your final breath.

I'm a pretty rational cat, so having this caffeinated monkey on my back is nothing to be proud of in moments like these. Sure, I'll find some coffee. Sure, I'll be fine eventually. But lucid thought is the last thing I can manage when I'm fiending for a cup of Joe. And I guess that's why it's totally great: it literally keeps me sane. And it's cheap! Unless they start prescribing coffee so that my insurance can pay for it, this has got to be the most affordable addiction I can take on at this financially delicate point in American history.

So if you're with me and you love and embrace your basic addiction to caffeine, than raise your mug to the monitor and say it with me... "Viva la café!"

#195: Cena Pinata

This difficult (but oh so tasty) summer drink was literally made on the fly only moments ago, but its delicious goodness overtook me with such a passion that I had to blog about it immediately. It's yummy, it's good for you, and it increases brain cell growth. Just follow these complicated and somewhat user-unfriendly instructions and before you know it, you'll have a little slice of summer in your belly.

Cena Pinata (similar to a Pina Colata)

1 cup of cold leftover Folgers coffee
3 shots of Vanilla Toffee coffee creamer
1.5 shots of Bacardi Jamaican rum
1 banana
0.5 of a green coconut (white meat only)
4 freezer tray ice cubes

You also need a hand saw/machete and a blender.

First, attack the coconut. The green coconut is one of nature's worst packaging jobs, like a pineapple but even more frustrating and awful. Don't be afraid to show it who is boss by savagely hacking at it with a machete. When a machete is not available, take a handsaw and for God's sake do this outside so that the coconut water doesn't run all over your kitchen.

Once you are finished, you'll be disappointed by the shockingly little amount of coconut meat there is inside. Don't sweat it, it tastes 100X better than the crap they sprinkle on coconut cream pie, and it adds a neat base flavor to this drink. Scoop out as much white meat as possible without getting any of the next layer (which is basically wood).

After plopping that into the blender, unpeel the banana and savor nature's easiest packaging job after the shitty coconut incident. Drop that puppy into the blender. Next, add the ice cubes, the creamer, and the coffee, in that order. The coffee is the most important ingredient because there are so few uses for leftover coffee and it kicks this puppy into high gear. Any flavor creamer is acceptable, but this is what I had at my disposal when I discovered this drink. It really is more powerful than just about any other ingredient, so feel free to go with something that you know you'll like.

Finally, drop in that rum and start blending. I say blend the shit out of it, even if it ends up more liquidy than the frothy pina colada in which this drink is based on. If you don't grind down the coconut enough, it'll just show up as chunks in your drink and not add any flavor. Blended properly, you'll still end up with a little pulp, but it'll flow nicely with the ice.

Next, drink it! Drink it right out of the blender if you like, it's that good. Or dump it into a fancy glass and put an umbrella in it. Or whatever, you'll love it, so don't even worry about presentation. If you really don't like the creamer idea as much as I do, I recommend adding flavorless cream in its place with a few chunks of pineapple, that way it'll be way more like a traditional pina colada. Also, rum is not a necessity, but if you take it out of the mix I recommend a little more creamer for flavor.

Me? I'm happy with my recipe and will continue to make this insignificant-yet-great drink many times more. Enjoy!

Warning: Spouses don't tend to enjoy cleaning up after this incredibly difficult process, and in fact may end up getting really mad at you if they come home to find a handsaw, coconut pulp, a dirty blender, and a floor full of coconut water when they didn't expect it. Just saying...

#196: Bars That Aren't Fancy

The Elbow Room in Ypsilanti, Michigan.

Some of the very best (and worst) memories of my life happened between the walls of a blue collar drinking establishment. There is more than just snobbish novelty to be found in your local tavern. There are long romantic tales of what could have been, there are men and women convinced that just because they haven't found love in a bar yet doesn't mean they won't still, and there are batshit crazy locals who are convinced that they are a cornerstone of the city because they occupy a bar stool every night. I do not look down on these people, no matter what our differences. I love them because they are unpretentious braggarts who remind me of me.

As I get older, I notice the tastes of my friends seems to gravitate towards places where you can actually hear your conversation, where smoke isn't clinging to you like cat hair, and where a glass of beer costs just as much as a magazine. I admit, I enjoy going to a place like this on a casual evening, but when I think of going out, I think of loud music, clinking glasses, and a menagerie of simple folk enjoying the atmosphere. A non-fancy bar doesn't have to be any one specific thing, and in my book, there are multiple categories.

Just the other night my friend took me to a very large dance club on the outskirts of Belleville, the Diamondback, where country music and cowboy hats are the order of the day. While this is not a common hangout of mine, I found the place to be incredibly friendly and inviting despite its redneck reputation. The cross-eyed door guy let me in for free, the waitresses were floored by the fact that I tip over 20% when I get good service, the crowd was loud and stupid in that lovable way that I can be loud and stupid, and the people watching was A+. Let's face it, watching a group of thirtysomething ladies line dance their way through Nelly's "Hott in Here" was not only entertaining, it was downright endearing. I had multiple shots purchased for me because of some vague understanding that my birthday was in the very recent past, but I got the impression that these people would have bought me a shot to celebrate the 8 month anniversary of my birthday.

Another establishment that I enjoy despite the fact that it is the polar opposite of a country bar is Detroit's City Club, the premiere goth establishment in Lower East Michigan. Despite being frozen in about 2001 in just about every way, from the DJ's playlist to the crowd's fashion sense, there is an excellent vibe surrounding this joint that I can't help but love. This bar is enjoyable in many of the same ways that the Diamondback is, from the amazing people watching to the general friendliness of the clubbers. Goth kids put across a look and attitude that is purely based in some odd vampire fantasy world they hope to occupy, but underneath they are your typical blue collar patrons who just happen to smother on a load of makeup to justify their otherwise typical bar behavior.

The bars I tend to occupy lie somewhere in-between both of these places, which is to say they are not associated with either intense alternative or redneck lifestyle and usually have some kind of rock music playing. I am by no means a bar fly, which sometimes disappoints my bar fly friends who would love to see me haunt the same venues they do. That being said, I love a good night at the local tavern, and the relaxed, fun atmosphere of a night at an inexpensive night of casual drinking can't be beat for pure story-forming fun. From Ann Arbor's 8 Ball to Ypsilanti's Elbow Room, I have my favorite places and I can't help but love them for all the reasons I've listed above.


Remie's in Marquette, Michigan.

I think the genesis of this comes from my upbringing in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, a place so devoid of snobbery that it makes Texas look downright prudish. The bars in the U.P. fit into two categories: a smoky beer joint that offers fried food and pretzels, and a smoky beer joint that only offers pretzels. I LOVE a night out in Marquette, where the romantic bar lifestyle of small town America that you only see in movies comes to life in vibrant color before your eyes. Now that I've lived in Lower East Michigan for over ten years, the lack of any racial diversity does sometimes weird me out, but then you find yourself hugging an old high school friend and slobbering out random facts about our fellow classmates and all those thoughts just drown into the next pint.

I have a pretty diverse gang of friends, and I'm not sure what they make of my local-bar-love. I know people who are ex-alcoholics who consider this line of thinking to be dangerously nostalgic, I have friends who think that I'm nowhere near hardcore enough to formulate an honest opinion about the local bar scene, and I have pals who will probably think I'm a dope for even considering these places to be enjoyable at my age. I'm also aware that my experiences are firmly based in either Michigan establishments or the blue collar joints I've found in places like Boston, Seattle, and New York, which I maintain are just as friendly and awesome as any Midwest bars, and probably even safer. I'm sure that if I went swaggering into a real deal biker bar in small town Tennessee, I'd get knocked out with a shovel and thrown into the parking lot like a lawn dart.


The Crocodile Club (R.I.P.) in Seattle, Washington

But maybe not! If I've learned anything from the non-pretentious bars I've frequented, it's that you never know where you'll meet an empathetic new friend, a kind bartender, or a boisterous local legend. These people are all over the U.S., and maybe not every gin joint's gonna be a winner, but I'd rather take my chances in a place like that then a martini bar with a dress code. Next time you're going out, at least take ten minutes to wander down to your local watering hole and have a beer next to a neon Miller sign; you'll feel less dirty the next time you're sipping on a $8 glass of wine.

#197: Lucha Libre

All around the world, there is pro wrestling of some kind. In the US of A, the template is obviously laid out by the WWF/WWE, the most dominant wrestling organization of all time. 99% of Americans, when they think of pro wrestling, think of Hulk Hogan, an immense human being with a thick fu manchu, a red bandana covering his bald head, and a flat blonde mullet dangling down his neck. They think of beer-swilling fans stomping around their local bar screaming "Austin 3:16!" right before they down a shot and slap their friend in the chest. In short, they think of rednecks.

Things are quite different South of the border, where Mexican culture celebrates an entirely different kind of wrestling. Lucha libre (literally translated: free-style fighting) is one of the most successful wrestling styles in the entire world, a national sensation that transcends cultural boundaries and stands tall as one of Mexico's entertainment cornerstones for the last century. It shares some similarities with American pro wrestling in that it all takes place within a four-sided ring, it has a referee and many of the same "rules", and it is also scripted and choreographed. After that, it's a totally different beast.

Luchadores (the preferred name for Mexican pro wrestlers) are colorful and bizarre characters, sporting extravagant costumes that often include a Spider Man style mask. This mask has become a great source of pride for the characters that wear it, and often they will hold mask-vs.-mask battles where the loser has to take off his mask, a point of great shame and emasculation in lucha libre. Indeed, getting to keep your mask is valued higher than anything else, giving these luchadores real-life super-hero status among Mexican children.

The actual wrestling itself is an amazing display of gymnastics and violence. Often, the back-and-forth move sequences seem more like high risk dance routines, and the way they use the ropes to launch themselves into 360 degree backflips (among many other suicidal manuevers) is nothing short of miraculous. Even if you're a fat luchadore, more often than not you'll still be doing stuff that defies gravity and makes the fans gasp with fear.

A huge difference from the US and, well, everywhere else is the celebrity status that these wrestlers enjoy. El Santo, perhaps the most famous Mexican wrestler of all time, starred in over 30 movies, fighting villains as well known as Dracula, the Wolf Man, and the Mummy while also picking up beautiful ladies and driving fancy sport cars. He was a Hispanic, mask-wearing James Bond, except even cooler (in my book) because he fought monsters. Other luchadores, such as the Blue Demon and Mil Mascaras, have starred in movies as well, and even today they appear on soap operas, reality shows, and the national news. Nothing's stranger than picking up the Spanish version of People and seeing a masked wrestler walking arm-in-arm with a beautiful actress on the gossip pages.

My favorite luchadore is La Parka, a dancing goofball dressed head-to-toe in a skeleton outfit that makes him look like Skeletor (from He-Man fame) mixed with a Charles Adams caricature. At a Detroit indie wrestling show in 2002, La Parka did a crazy move that landed him in the front row of the crowd, where my friend Bob and I helped pick him up and give him encouragement to fight on. I don't purely geek out for much, but high fiving La Parka was undoubtedly a life highlight I'll never forget. Hey, some people remember their kid being born, I remember La Parka.

Even stranger is little Kemonito, a midget dressed in a blue monkey costume that serves as a mascot for CMLL, one of Mexico's two biggest wrestling organizations. Kemonito does things that utterly blow my mind, if only because a 3 ft. tall man should never, ever, ever take the suicidal risks that he does, especially while wearing that ridiculous outfit. If I died from a mistimed wrestling move and I was wearing a blue monkey costume... well, okay, maybe I'm not the best example, 'cause I'd find that pretty cool, but I'm sure most other people would be mortified (no pun intended).

I know when we were in Mexico on vacation they literally showed it every single day on Fox Sports, and just about every tourist stand in Playa Del Carman had an awesome variety of cheap wrestling masks. I also crashed through the language barrier by striking up conversations with shop keepers and cab drivers about Mexican wrestling that literally went like this:

"Te gustan Psicosis?"
"Si, Psicosis es bueno."
"Te gustan... Rey Mysterio?"
"Rey Mysterio es un luchadore que quiero, si."

I imagine that if we had been kidnapped by a gang of drug-running guerillas, we would have avoided the torture and abuse through my knowledge of lucha and Mexican death metal (that's another chapter). No one's cutting off my wife's toe and sending it to her family for random when they're too busy talking about Ultimo Guerrero with me!

Selling other people on lucha is tough, because in the end most everyone can't get past the fact that it's pro wrestling. The temptation to avoid it is strong, but it's pretty unique stuff. Just don't think you're gonna be getting two steroid-injected freaks trading crappy looking punches, because it's way more complex, bizarre, and fun than that.