of the late nineties but also leaving those in the crunchy-jam dust for the intricacies of Scandinavia and the darker urges of Ozzy Sabbath. Lyrics playout like D&D scenarios, but then I think they mean it. Imagine geeks with reality issues manning Corrosion of Conformity. Killing each other in caves and not entirely joking about the Spider Beast they see crawling from the aqueduct. Yeah.
2: the unfortunately (but very metal, and trust me; no irony will occur) named Dead Child's new Attack, heady and science fiction-glommed but guitar-textured like a dream, courtesy of Dave Pajo, he of the Chicago-Kentucky noodling gang but then you know Slint was nu-metal at heart and then there's further back the Squirrel Bait et al, and you go well: Pajo was bound to wail and chugga chugga sooner than retirement.
Mengestu, drinker of drinks at my old watering hole. Say hi to Ray for me) when 14th street NW was still scabby hookers and vials like pine-cones in a spruce forest and vacant used car lots planted with syringes under multi-colored flapping flags in the spring breeze. You could get 6 vials for $25 on Florida, by U, and the fuzz used to ask me to empty my pockets on their hood becuase I had long hair (still do: metal) and looked like a heroin Wal-mart. But I knew better, kept the Stuff at the friends' pad on Euclid. Had to walk fast down the 12th street hill in the wee hours, though, the hookers got aggressive on a slow night. I would listen on my way, pre-ipod, to the only song I liked, really, by Soundgarden:
sprinkling of Melvins to keep me honest. See a be-hatted guy swerving uptown on Bway in his doc martens, shouldering into left-side-walking tourists for the fun of it, and you've got me, walking back into the belly of justice for hardly anyone.Labels: DC, Dead Child, metallica, Soundgarden, Sword
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