Fishgazing

By SoDak

        With her head resting on crossed arms, Diane sat at the kitchen table, staring into a fishbowl. For the past two years, a pair of goldfish had been her source of comfort. At least once a week, she would just watch the fish, trying to clear her mind. The fish bobbed in the water, regularly breaking the surface to obtain food and some fresh air, given the slight murkiness in the bowl. Diane sighed as she watched this action repeat itself over and over. It was rather hypnotic, distracting her from the fight she had with Greg.

The larger goldfish swam deep into the fishbowl, exploring the corners of this trapped environment. When it reached the bottom, the fish quickly darted upwards, pushing the smaller goldfish to the surface. For the most part, this action was smooth, taking place in a single uninterrupted motion. Every now and then, the larger goldfish would linger on the underside, and slowly nudge the other one to the surface. In these cases, it appeared that the big fish was juggling an orange ball, as if it hoped to receive a treat for its actions, like dolphins at Sea World that are forced to do tricks for someone else’s entertainment. But this relationship was quite different. The action was not done for amusement. Diane did not laugh; the fish did not anticipate any rewards. 

Diane was feeling more morose than normal. Watching the fish did not clear her mind. She worked through the events that led to another fight with Greg. She repeated the words that they said to each other. Greg seemed intent on initiating and winning a fight. From time to time, Diane blamed herself for letting their relationship develop in this direction. But the truth was that she did not know what had she done to contribute to this dynamic. She just figured that she must have done something, otherwise Greg would not be so mad so often. Some nights she was able to avoid a conflict by going for a walk with her friend who lived down the street. But she could not escape every night. Plus, she wanted to spend time with her husband, hoping they could enjoy each other’s company and rekindle the feelings that brought them together. Afterall, they had made promises to each other at their wedding. 

Tonight, staring at the goldfish, Diane could not dispense the hurt. She remembered that Greg had given her these fish following their first major fight. He was pissed off, because he did not want to go to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving. It seemed like such a small request, but he was enraged. As he yelled at her, she cowered on the sofa. She was petrified by his flailing arms, which only stopped when he paused to throw back a shot of whiskey. This incident marked the beginning of screaming matches and sleepless nights. The next day, Greg brought home a fishbowl and two orange goldfish in plastic bags. Diane hesitantly accepted this peace offering, hoping the night before was simply a one-time thing, as it was unexplainable. She hated stories about men bringing home roses after they had acted like assholes. She was not sure what to make of the gift of the goldfish. Perhaps, it was possible to put things behind them. Greg had never been spontaneous regarding gifts, so he must have felt badly about how irrational he had acted.

Several nights later, Greg erupted again, yelling at her, after Diane questioned his purchase of a sports coat. They were trying to save money, so she could go back to school to get an elementary teaching degree. They rarely went out to eat or to the movies. Greg was a manager at Safeway. He made a decent salary, but buying a house and car kept them in debt. At the grocery store, Greg wore a button-up shirt with the store name embroidered above the pocket. He had no use for a sports coat, so Diane asked why he would buy such clothing. The explosion of curses had venom. He complained about not getting any moral support. He told her “to sleep on the fuckin’ couch” before he stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. 

        It was after this fight that Diane started her routine of staring into the fishbowl, as well as internalizing the blame for their fights. She could not figure out what was causing Greg’s anger, but she figured that she had failed to make him happy. The next day, Greg brought home a plastic house for the fishbowl, starting his pattern of buying figures, such as treasure chests, ships, and people for the fishbowl. These gifts did not heal the wounds from the fights. The plastic world that was accumulating could not fit in the fishbowl, so Diane had to interchange the objects from time to time to make it appear that she appreciated Greg’s acts of reconciliation.

After a fight, a month ago, Diane sat at the table, gazing into the fishbowl. She noticed that the smaller goldfish seemed to have an infection, a whitish spot, on its tail. Also, the larger fish kept nibbling at the tail of the smaller fish. It appeared that the one was eating at the other. Diane was confused. The fish simply entered her life when Greg brought them home. She stared into the bowling, trying to figure out what was happening. Was the infection on the smaller fish caused by the larger fish? Was the bigger fish nibbling at the smaller one because of the infection? She searched for information regarding goldfish—do they ever eat each other? How often did she need to clean the fishbowl and provide fresh water? Maybe it was normal for fish to nibble on each other? 

        A couple of weeks later, Diane was once again sitting at the table, looking into the fishbowl. The smaller fish’s tail was completely gone; there was just a white nub, as the orange scales were missing, at the butt-end. This fish was no longer able to maneuver itself around the tank. This was when the pattern of the larger fish pushing up the smaller one to surface of the water began. Once they were both at the surface, the big fish would plunge to the depths of the fishbowl, moving between the trinkets Diane begrudgingly placed in there earlier that week. Meanwhile, the smaller fish would slowly sink in the water. Its pelvic fins were extended, trying to balance the descent. The nub moved from side to side, failing to propel the fish in a particular direction. When the small fish had sunk halfway down, the larger one would quickly dart into position, pushing the tailless fish to the surface. Diane watched this pattern fascinated by the assistance the larger fish was giving to the other. She thought the big fish was acting gallantly, coming the rescue of the smaller one. She half-chuckled at this show, but also felt pity for the little fish, assuming that it was going to die, as this pattern could not persist for too long. 

In the days that followed, Diane watched this performance repeat itself over and over. She called Greg into the kitchen several times to show him the fish, but he always shrugged his shoulders, filled his glass with whiskey, and went back to the living room to watch television. The intriguing situation and relationship slowly become a painful tragedy that would not end. Each morning, Diane would walk into the kitchen expecting to find the smaller fish floating on the surface of the water, but instead the same routine was taking place.

Tonight, Diane sat watching the fish, no longer thinking about her latest fight with Greg. Instead, she replayed the previous events, contemplating the history of the fish, the fishbowl, the plastic castles, the larger fish nibbling on the other one, the appearance that the big fish was rescuing the little fish from death, and all the fights over the last two years. While the origins of these events could not be identified, the degradation of life was apparent. Diane rose from the chair and took the fishbowl in her arms. She reached into the bowl, with a cupped hand, removing the smaller fish with no dorsal fin. She placed the fishbowl on the counter, walked to the bathroom, put the fish in the toilet, and flushed. She walked back to the kitchen, scooped out the larger fish, raised it above her head, dropped it into her mouth, and swallowed the goldfish. With a slight smile, she walked to the bedroom to get her suitcase.

Iron Maiden: Senjutsu - The Writing on the Wall (2021)

by Kloghole

I recently ended a book chapter with this, “We are locked in a cage with a tiger, and if the claws do not get us, the teeth will.”

The Writing is on the Wall.

As COVID was spreading across the globe, I joked with my tattoo artist that the nightly news resembles the beginning of an apocalyptic movie where brief news flashes highlight economic chaos and looting, civil war destroying civilian populations in small nations, looming pathogens and overcrowded morgues, bloody clashes with riot police, and emaciated polar bears.

My tattoo was meant to convey a moment in the future where we abandoned the geometric linear architecture and trinkets of the industrial age. Nature reclaims the refuse of our failed experiment in modernity. As COVID interrupted my tattoo sessions and the pandemic settled in, the concept began to take on darker tone. I emphasized the presence of nature, but as fascism and the pandemic became resurgent, the absence of people moved from the background to the foreground of the image that now has come to dominate the majority of my back.

I joked with SoDak that I am rooting for the Yellowstone supervolcano lurking below the geothermal West. He interjects that he would be instantly vaporized, but I countered that I would die in the pyroclastic flow. Though we may have disagreed on who would suffer the more grisly death, the end of this “civilization” cannot come soon enough for me.

Our glory is built upon the blood and bones of the vanquished. All empires overstretch themselves to be gobbled up by the next parasitical force in humanity. Once begun at the dawn of horticulture, the cycle appears to be endless, terminating only when life as we know it is extinguished.

To prop up the malignancy, those with the power to do so pit one against the other in a cannibalistic frenzy. Our struggle for freedom only appears to make the bindings tighter.

The lyrics of “The Writing on the Wall” resonate:

Across a painted desert lies a train of vagabonds
All that's left of what we were, it's what we have become
Once our empires glorious but now the empire's gone
The dead gave us the time to live and now our time is done
Now we are victorious, we've become our slaves
A land of hope and glory, building graveyards for the brave

Have you seen the writing on the wall?
Have you seen that writing?
Can you see the riders on the storm?
Can you see them riding?
Can you see them riding?

The tiger is coming, and we are naked in it presence, having collectively summoned the beast ourselves. With suicidal glee, we worship those who bring the tiger within our midst believing it to be our savior when it will devour us all. Only a few wise stand at the margins gaping in horror, knowing the fate that awaits us, powerless to change its course.

The song continues:

Holding on to fury, is that all we ever know?
Ignorance our judge and jury all we've got to show
From Hollywood to Babylon, holy war to kingdom come
On a trail of dust and ashes, when the burning sky is done
A tide of change is coming and that is what you fear
The earthquake is a coming, but you don't want to hear
You're just too blind to see

Have you seen the writing on the wall?
Have you seen that writing?
Can you see the riders on the storm?
Can you see them riding?
Can you see them riding, riding next to you?
Have you seen the writing on the wall?
Have you seen that writing?
Can you see the riders on the storm?
Can you see them riding?
Have you seen the writing on the wall?
Have you seen that writing?
Can you see the riders on the storm?
Can you see them riding?
Can you see them riding, riding next to you?

Ignorance is exalted in our age. Blind, stupid rage directed at unsuspecting and blameless targets. Those of us who know see the writing on the wall. They treat the earth like an exsanguinated victim, senselessly believing they can figure increasingly absurd ways to force the blood in faster than it is gushing out.

The youth stare helplessly at their compromised future, their directionless rage building. The old stubbornly refuse to look back at the decimation they have left behind. Their only concern is wringing the last bit of nourishment left in a system desiccating beneath their feet.

I have seen the writing on the wall, but I still fight for a brighter future I know I will never see. I cannot explain it. I want to die in a bright flash, sitting with my dogs and my partner doing nothing important. Evaporating into the ether, together, not strung out each tortuously ripped away from me like all the others, victims of the byproducts of the malignancy dragging us all to ruin.

The Writing is on the Wall.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers

Mark Lanegan (1964-2022)

By El Jefe

Mark Lanegan passed yesterday: 22-2-22. His words and melodies moved me to face some of my most intimate feelings. His music defined sincerity. Dark Mark had a way of telling his story that made me sympathetic to his nightmares, understand him, and learn about myself in the process. For me, he represented a generation. He stood out, even in his modesty. He inspired, even with all of his flaws and indiscretions. 

He had been preparing for this day for years, watching so many of his closest musical comrades drop, feeling like the horses where at the door, as he said, “to take him where he shouldn’t want to go.” There are too many references to his impending death to note here in this short reflection. But, sidestepping it numerous times, he knew it was coming. 

His recent album tells all the tales of a hard life. It surely is “a sweet straight song of sorrow.” The album has a way of going back to his roots, his life story, and forging a new musical direction. It represented an approach to music for Lanegan where he opened up creatively and uniquely. I felt like I knew him better after listening to it, and listening to it, and listening to it, especially during tough and heavy times.

Living in Europe now, I have been waiting for him to tour. He has a larger following and often focused his tours here. The only time I saw him live was with the Screaming Trees in NYC in the early 1990s, standing with his foot on the base of the mic stand, peering while belting out songs from Sweet Oblivion. It may sound exaggerated, but I saw this as one of the perks of living here: I would see Lanegan again. I never did. It tears me up.

I could write forever about Mark Lanegan and what his music has meant to me. I will say only that his work and career taught me that being honest and sincere means that there are no easy roads for making a meaningful life. Genuinely and humbly looking at yourself can make you look ugly at times. But, there is no real gratification in insincerity. There is no victory in self-deception. A life worth living is not easy or uncomplicated, or always (or mostly) beautiful or righteous. There is no joy without despair. There is hope for contentment in honesty, courage, and determination. Thank you, Mark. I feel like a lost an old friend today. Goodbye.    

The XCHW Looks Back on 2021…Strange Tunes for Strange Times

By The XCHW

The year 2021 was an odd one in many ways. Halfway out of the pandemic, halfway still in. We had a sane president, but the country still seemed crazy. My musical associations for the year were equally scattered. Some of my favorite artists put out albums that I didn’t really care about. I found myself obsessed with songs and bands that came out ten or more years ago. I started listening to genres of music that I had dismissed 10 years ago. I fell in love with an artist who never recorded. As the late, great Hunter S. Thompson said, “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Volbeat, “Still Counting.”

I had never heard of these guys until a buddy asked me late one night, “Hey man…you wanna hear something?” He put on the video below and I was instantly hooked. I kept being confused. It sounded funky, but heavy. The lead singer had his hair slicked back like a greaser from the 1950s and sung like someone obsessed with Elvis. Yet they were playing heavy rifts and yelling about the circle pits. I started listening to more. Volbeat is a Danish band that’s been around for 20 years. They sound like what would have happened if Metallica stayed in The Black Album phase (which was their peak—yes, I will fight you on this point!) and started listening to a lot of Stray Cats and Gaslight Anthem. I’m still not sure if it’s good, but it’s a damn catchy formula and I’ve been listening to a ton of it.

Modest Mouse, The Golden Casket.

I was late to the Modest Mouse party. It wasn’t until Good News for People Who Love Bad News and We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank came out in the mid-2000s that I started listening to them. However, once I started listening to them, I was a pretty quick convert. I’ll put The Lonesome Crowded West into the discussion about greatest albums of all time. Modest Mouse has a unique sound, with echoes of The Pixies, but a much wider, richer sound. However, their last two albums have been distinct disappointments. Strangers to Ourselves just bored me. I listened to it a few times and just never had a reason to put it back on. The Golden Casket is similar. There are a few decent songs, and a few catchy parts of songs, but as a whole it’s an incredibly underwhelming effort, and a huge disappointment coming from a band I love so much. The sound is crowded, like their trying to compensate for a lack of inspiration by layering on more uninspired ideas. It also sounds overproduced. “Transmitting Receiving” starts off haunting, but never moves past the promise. The ever-present chanted meaningless vocals just end up washing out any melodies. Possibly the best track on the album is “The Sun Hasn’t Left,” which has an epic Modest Mouse chorus. However, even on that song, the overlayered vocals and dense production just leaves me feeling like I’m listening to Imagine Dragons. Overall, a very disappointing effort for a band with such an amazing discography.

Pearl Jam, Gigaton.

So Pearl Jam is one of my all-time favorite bands. I was 14 when Ten first hit the airwaves. While most of my friends preferred Nirvana’s darker edge, I loved Pearl Jam’s swirling, funky guitars and extended solos. I could hear elements of my parents’ vinyl collection and the San Francisco psychedelic scene making their way through the corners of the tracks. They’ve been a steady presence in my musical rotation, and I’ve enjoyed growing up with them. While I’m a Pearl Jam classicist, even some of their later, weaker albums still produced the occasional diamond in the rough (see: “The Fixer” of “Sirens” below), so I was pretty darn excited when I saw they had a new album coming out. However, after listening to it a number of times, I can’t label this album anything but a disappointment. There’s not a single song on it that I want to sing along to. There’s not a single guitar solo that makes me pause and listen. I couldn’t tell you a single lyric off the album (unlike Versus, which twenty-plus years later I’m still pretty sure I can recite from front to back). While I’m glad Pearl Jam is still together and making new music, when I see them next I hope they don’t feature this album too strongly. They have too much stronger material. 

The IDLES.

I started playing music with my new friend Dan last year. We’re having a blast learning and writing new songs, but we’re also having tons of fun introducing each other to new songs and bands. One of my favorite bands that Dan has turned me onto has to be the IDLES. They’re an old-school punk band out of Bristol, United Kingdom. They have incredible energy (check out their NPR Desk Concert) and a ton of punk angst. However, unlike so many punk bands, they also possess a strong musicality. They understand dynamics and space, and work both into their songs. They’re not just a wall of noise that hits you in the face and doesn’t stop. Instead, they draw you in with an element of quiet vulnerability, and then hit you in the face with an explosion of sound. I’m still getting into their discography, but so far Ultra Mono has been my favorite of their albums. If you like your punk sprinkled with a bit of rock, Celtic folk, and psychedelic prog, this might be your new favorite band.

The Lowdown 91.1 [Grand Theft Auto V].

So there was another late night with some good friends and we were talking about all manner of things unimportant and I was feeling good. The music playing in the background was like the soundtrack of a 1970s crime thriller. There was soul, funk, jazz, and even some disco. It has a low-fi, warm quality that just left me feeling good. At one point I asked my buddy who was manning the music, “What are we listening to?” He grinned in response and told me it was one of the stations from Grand Theft Auto V. I was floored! We were listening to the background music from a video game? Wasn’t that the one where you beat up prostitutes and ran over children with a school bus? My friend’s grin just broadened and he nodded enthusiastically. It was awesome. It was sultry R&B, low-groove hip-hop beats and rhythms. It made me think of some of the Beastie Boys’s instrumental pieces off Ill Communication and Paul’s Boutique. They even have a “D.J.” voiced by Pam Grier along with occasional (and hilarious) advertisements. There aren’t songs on this list that particularly stand out to me, but if you want to put on some great background music during your next party or gathering, give this station/album a listen.

Marc Rebillet (https://www.marcrebillet.com/).

I have no idea how to describe this man or the music that he creates. The same friend who turned me on to The Lowdown, played one of his streams for me one night and I haven’t looked back since. Marc is now one of my favorite go-to musicians (if that’s even the right term to use for him). Marc Rebillet is to music what great improv is to comedy. His schtick is that he just constantly makes music up. He uses a keyboard, loops, drum machines, and a microphone to create his own samples and build songs on the spot. Everything he does is improvised and overwhelmingly most of it is genius. He does a regular stream where he’ll just spend two hours building a few songs, taking suggestions from fans for content and themes. He wears funny robes and usually loses them at some point during the stream. The music is R&B and hip-hop flavored, but by no means constrained by those genres. At one point he’ll be frantically rapping about being a “bad bunny bitch” (during his Easter stream) and twenty minutes later he’s improvising a soft, gentle jazz piano piece over a sparse backbeat. He’s recorded three studio albums, but I think his strength lies in his improvisation. It’s all just music in the moment. He’s had some great guest on his stream including Wayne Brady, DJ Premier, Brady Watt, and Emily King. I don’t know exactly what he’s doing but it’s something new and creative and I love it. I can’t wait to see him on tour. Until then, he’ll continue to dominate my weekend morning soundtrack.

Parov Stelar (http://www.parovstelar.com/).

So continuing the theme of sharing music that I have no idea how to classify, I want to leave you all with Parov Stelar. This is an Austrian band/DJ that a German friend of mine turned me onto. I’m normally not that interested in house, dance, or most forms of electronic music, but this is something different. I’ve only watched live shows on YouTube, but I constantly find myself being drawn in and captivated. The music is some combination of jazz, house, industrial, and big-band swing. The live version of the band heavily features a horn trio. The music bounces around different genres and moods. At one point you’re listening to a funk-rock, slap bass solo, but then the next moment it seamlessly shifts into a sparse, jazz vocal piece. Then (still not stopping), the electronic beat builds and you find yourself bobbing your head to something close to what I assume is played in dance clubs while the horns blare out over it. What makes it all so alluring is how well the divergent elements fit together and complement each other. I don’t know where this music fits in, but I highly recommend you give it a shot. Check out one of their live shows and just let them take you somewhere.

The Intergenerational Appeal of Meat Loaf

By Five-Inch Taint 

Musicians have the capacity to transcend themselves as individuals and provide connections between different generations. Here’s the rub: they’re still people. SoDak asked me to write a paragraph on Meat Loaf. No doubt, this is due to my awe-inspiring rendition of Bat out of Hell in the car as we traveled to see Iron Maiden in North Carolina a decade ago. As I have sat here over the past few days reflecting on Meat Loaf’s death, I have been tempted to write a scathing missive on the disinformation, anti-intellectualism, and reactionary tendencies of a man who doubted and questioned public health measures. While that is relevant to Michael Lee Aday, the individual, it provides us with scant insight into the larger force that is Meat Loaf.

To me, and I’m sure others of a similar age, Meat Loaf was both a cultural bridge to my parents as well as an icon of my own generation. Bat out of Hell was part of a soundtrack of many road trips driving down I-95. It wasn’t just the joy of belting out the lyrics of “You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth” with my parents and brother that helped us bond. It was also the cheeky moments of connection as I learned, at probably too early of an age, the metaphor of what rounding the bases meant. As my dad in particular listened to that part of the song, I could see him looking in the rearview mirror to see if I picked up on its hidden meaning. Once I was able to understand what Phil Rizzuto was really talking about on that song that metaphor became an insight into my dad’s sense of humor. By no means the most important connection, this Meat Loaf album was part of a rich tapestry of familial bonding.

Fast forward a few years to my first exposure to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. My mother introduced me to this movie in my early teens. In a film of iconic moments none was more iconic to me than Eddie, a madman, breaking out of his freezer on his motorcycle and busting into the song, “Hot Patootie-Bless My Soul.” The man exuded rock and roll. It took me a few viewings to realize that Eddie was Meat Loaf. The Rocky Horror Picture Show helped me see a twisted-side to my mom, which I have always appreciated.

Meat Loaf wasn’t just of my parent’s generation. Robert “Bob” Paulson, bitch-tits and all, was one of my favorites. In an anonymous mass, he stood out, and his name was Robert Paulson. At this point, Meat Loaf became mine, in a sense, free from any connection with my parents. 

There is something transcendent about Meat Loaf. To me, Meat Loaf is not an anti-vaxxer who most likely succumbed to his network of disinformation. He is a bridge, connecting generations; a cultural thread through the lives of many. 

Hot-Patootie, rest your soul, Meat Loaf.

Burke Shelley of Budgie (1950-2022)

 By SoDak

Like many teenagers in the United States in 1987, I was introduced to Budgie via Metallica’s The $5.98 E.P. – Garage Days Re-Revisited. My favorite song on this record was the cover of Budgie’s “Crash Course in Brain Surgery.” That summer, I kept trying to figure out who the fuck Budgie were. Their records were not readily available, especially in South Dakota. In fact, it was only in December 2020 that I was able to complete my Budgie collection. They recorded eleven studio records, seven of them were released in the 1970s. Their mix of hard rock, prog, and metal is quite unique. There are touches of Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, and Rush, but Budgie generally sounded raw and dangerous. Burke Shelley’s bass playing is excellent and anchors the songs. It is aggressive, serving as an important driving force. Fortunately, it always stands out in the mix. The rumble of his bass is a great contrast to his high-pitched vocals. One of my favorite Budgie songs remains “Breadfan” from Never Turn Your Back on a Friend.