Admiral, Admiral (Soul Force Records, 1990) and Revolving and Loading (Ebullition, 1991)

By SoDak

June 30, 1990, I was excited to see Dead Silence, from Colorado, play another show in Rapid City, South Dakota. They regularly passed through town and served as a major inspiration for many of us in the local punk rock scene. As always, they were incredible. Green Day, who had recently released 39/Smooth, were also playing. They were enjoyable. The other band that night was Admiral, from Pennsylvania. I had never heard of them. They played second, following the local band Xclude. From the very first song, I was awe-struck by Admiral. The four members were dialed-in, delivering an emotionally intense set. I was not sure what the words were, but the vocals had a particular gravity to them, which was matched by the music. I sensed personal conflict and struggle, mixed with desperation and angst. I had goosebumps and was actually moved to tears, which seemed to emerge from a mix of sorrow, joy, and inspiration. Their music was reminiscent of Dischord bands from Washington D.C. in the late 1980s and the start of 1990. By the end of their set, I was exhausted, yet felt cleansed. The performance was absolutely beautiful and powerful. Everyone in Admiral was extremely nice. Some of the members even joined in the dancing, when Dead Silence played later that evening.

Admiral only released two seven-inch records, consisting of six songs in total, which barely covers the songs that they play that night in 1990. Their self-titled record, recorded at Inner Ear Recording Studios, remains a favorite, as it is so closely tied to their performance. It is raw and has an unbridled intensity. All the instruments can be heard clearly. The guitar and bass are very distinct in each song. On “Brother Can You Spare a Dime,” there is a pop in a bass note from time to time, which adds a little magic. The guitar propels the sound forward, with a great tone where there is a touch of distortion and cleanness. The breaks in the song add to the tension, making me want to dance in place, or to join a circle pit, where everyone is celebrating the moment together. When Sean Linwood, the vocalist, sings “Now words upon words / They don’t make sense / Word, word, word / Have you heard / That I and you / Can’t comprehend / That words have no end / Because you see I can’t read / I can’t write,” I get chills. “Horns Lay Silent” starts off very mellow, and then it kicks in with a powerful build. There are backing vocals, singing “woah,” which sound similar to those on some songs by Fuel, another band that existed in the sweet spot, influenced by D.C. bands and Verbal Assault. The closing song, “Seasonal,” feels very meditative, especially during the part where Sean says, “Let the leaves cover me / No, no more they change / Bleeding together rearrange / Say my name, my long-forgotten name / Let it hit your lips as the seasons change.” It closes with a great drum part, as the words, “I remember” echo over and over.

The second seven-inch record, Revolving and Loading, is much cleaner, as far as the recording is concerned. There is more separation in the instruments, and the vocals are more forward in the mix. At first, it took me a little while to get used to it, as I had internalized the sound of the first record. But I quickly settled into this record as well. It retained the intensity. The emotional resonance of the vocals might be even more effective here. The title track is brilliant, reminding me of their performance, where sweat and tears mixed in a feeling of musical ecstasy. “Fit” verges on the point of losing control—“It doesn’t fit you.” The closing track, “Meter and Rule,” offers a chance to breath with its more sweeping guitar parts.

I really wish Admiral put out more records. Nevertheless, their two seven-inch records are gems from this period of hardcore history. I feel very fortunate to have seen them perform, as I love those moments when a band that I have never heard of completely captivates me. 

Midnight Oil, Resist (Sony, 2022)

Reviewed by Null and SoDak

“If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.”

—Emma Goldman

Much like the recent scientific reports about global climate change, there has been little attention given the new Midnight Oil record Resist. It is their first proper album in 20 years, when they went on hiatus following the release of Capricornia. In between, they did a random gig here and there, until they fully reformed for a world tour in 2017. The two of us were lucky enough to see them on that tour, fulfilling a long-time wish, as we are both lifetime fans of the band. The show was amazing. We were moved to dance and sing the whole set, occasionally shedding some tears. Their music does this, uplifting us, while hitting our hearts. It is quite remarkable. Fortunately, the tour inspired the band to record new music. They started by putting out a collaborative EP, The Makarrata Project (2020), and then delivered the full-length Resist in February 2022.  

The Oils have always been a pretty consistent band. Yes, their sound fluctuates some between albums, but they are almost always catchy, instantly recognizable, given their sound and the vocals, and political, particularly when it comes to environmental issues, indigenous rights, and a critique of colonialism. We still get chills and goosebumps when listening to all of their records. There are so many songs that are often running through our heads, such as “Outside World,” “Short Memory,” “US Forces,” and “Power and the Passion,” and those are just from one record from the early 1980s. Thus, there is often some hesitancy when a defining band releases a new record, only because it is hard to come back after twenty years and to make an album that is urgent and sonically propulsive, which in turn is also as beautifully delicate as their legend demands. Yet, the Oils fully delivered. They came roaring back with one of their greatest records. We are still marveling at the excellence of these songs. 

Resist is a phenomenal album in which each member of the band brings their A-game. It is a distillation of everything great about the band: the anger and guitar-driven punk urgency of their early years, the bass and drum propulsion of their middle period, and the acoustic strumming and tenderness of their classic album Breathe (1996). The emotional journey, created by the music alone, is truly stunning. The bass and drums are often hypnotic, at times they are foreboding, complementing the lyrics that speak to the climate emergency. At other points, the music swells hinting at the possible rising, an emerging revolution that needs to create a new world, beyond the nightmare of global capitalism.   

Upon first listen, it is astonishing how young and vibrant the band sounds. The Oils are not standing on their laurels or taking a moment for granted. The production is warm and gut punching; the lyrics are filled with hope and vitriol. The Oils are not sidestepping the climate crisis or playing nice with the powers that dominate the planet. They are grabbing industrial capital and one percenters by the throat, marking the lines for battle.

The opening track, “Rising Seas,” begins as a mournful epitaph before it kicks into classic Oils rock. It starts, “Every child put down your toys / And come inside to sleep / We have to look you in the eye and say we sold you cheap / Let us confess / We did not act / With serious urgency / So open up the floodgates / To the rising seas.” With these lines, we sit contemplating the seriousness of the moment and implications that are continuing to play out in everyday life, as the world is on fire, as depicted on the back cover of the record. A minute into the song, the guitar, bass, and drum lock-in, powerfully driving the song forward. We crack up the volume, feeling the power. We start doing involuntary Peter Garret angular dance moves, as he sings about the “temperature rising,” “climate denying,” and “Wall Street…jumping” as profits are climbing. It is almost too much tension by the time the chorus kicks in “We’re all refugees / And in many countries they adore celebrities.”

The second track, “The Barka-Darling River,” begins with a killer guitar riff, reminding us that the Oils have always been a punk rock band. We turn the volume up louder. The windows of the house are shaking. Peter sings, “Standing in the house of the founding fathers / It’s a house that has not been well looked after / There’s a fatal flaw in the mighty rafters / There’s a rule of law, written by the cotton masters.” These lyrics are so profound, lingering in relation to a song that seriously rocks. Then the song takes a sudden turn toward a torch-waving ballad, as Peter sings, “Who left the bag of idiots open? / Who drank the bottle of bad ideas? / Who drew the last drop from the bottom? / Good people are forgotten.” We are reminded that we are part of a long, serious struggle: “Let’s shake some truth out of the jar / Let’s kick some crooks out of the kitchen.” The song ends with a refrain, with strumming guitars, a delicate piano part, and rising voices, focused on remembering all the nameless folks throughout history who have struggled and died in the hope of making the world a better, and saner, place.  

Resist continues in this same vein, moving back and forth between tender melodies as odes to a fragile world to propulsive and urgent rockers. Often these two elements find a home in the same song. The personal and political are often intertwined, reminding us of how beautiful and fleeting our lives are. “Tarkine” offers a touching memory regarding a disappearing forest, which once provided refuge and solace. 

“At the Time of Writing” starts with a saxophone accompanying a driving guitar line, creating an ominous feeling. By the time the chorus arrives, we have goosebumps, as we sing, “At the time of writing we were in our heads / At the time of writing we are good as dead.” This song stands beside “Forgotten Years” and “Dead Heart” as far as a classic anthemic chorus by the Oils. The words are rhythmic, reflecting on the tendency to distance oneself from responsibility. It eerily captures our current moment.

The record is filled with killer riffs and bone-chilling lyrics. Much like New Model Army, the songs simultaneously hold a mirror up to the bleak reality, while also creating a spark of hope, a light, in a darkening world. In the rockin’ song “Nobody’s Child,” Garrett sings, “Beauty, love and compassion / Spread it everywhere / ‘Cause nothing else will do.” Near the end of this track, he pushes his vocals to a point where he almost sounds like he is desperately screaming. It is quite moving.

Jim Moginie, who plays guitar, keys, and sings background, writes some of the most biting lyrics on the record. The song “Reef,” about the global demise of coral reefs, opens with, “We’ve got the green light / We’re gonna dynamite / A world heritage site / Scientific recourse / Try to keep them so short / Hey, never read the details / Says it needs protection / But we’ve got elections / Coal-fired erections / We’re gonna make it pay / We’ll do it our way / So how about a railway.” He captures how capital is driving the extraction of coal for power plants simply to expand profits, while “trashing our ecology” and imposing “environmental injury.” The needs of capital exist in complete contradiction to what is required for a sustainable society. As Karl Marx emphasized, “Even an entire society, a nation, or all simultaneously existing societies taken together, are not owners of the earth.” He stressed that human society must preserve the conditions that support life as good heads of the household in order to bequeath the earth to “successive generations.” On “To the Ends of the Earth,” the opening lyrics are, “People of the world rise up / We have been unconscious for too long / Every creature drinks from the same cup.” This haunting song warns that we are “Canaries in a fossil fuel gumbo / 450 parts per million CO2 / Industry can’t give you a clean bill of health / Politics has sold its soul by stealth.” Despite the threat, the Oils stress that “we seek a new creed” in this shared history, where we will fight until the ends of the earth for a new future. 

Continuing with this theme of struggle and resistance, Jim writes in the tension-filled title track, “Putting flowers into guns / This is not the summer of love… / Free market and labour rights / women’s vote and hunger strikes.” As the old folk song pronounced, “There is power in a union,” in this case a global movement against capital and its war on people and the earth. 

Every song is filled with memorable melodies, urgent and dramatic emotions, and insightful lyrics. This is truly an album for our times. Listen to this record, with lyrics in hand. The Oils directly speak to what so many of us are thinking. As Emma Goldman noted, the revolution is also about embracing life and joy. The Oils capture this beautiful, this power, while also honing our sights on the powers that be, as a social revolution is absolutely necessary. This record is one of the timeliest and most important albums the Oils have made, by a band that has consistently accomplished this task time after time. We wish many other artists could accomplish similar things on this front. The Oils are on a mission. Resist is a masterpiece. Sing, dance, and engage in the struggle. The time is now. 

Big Red Machine, How Long Do You Think It’s Gonna Last? (Jagjaguwar, 2021)

Reviewed by Null

Big Red Machine’s How Long Do You Think It’s Gonna Last? was on my Musical Obsessions of 2021 list published on Tickle Your Taint Eclectic Music Reviews last December. I wanted to briefly return to it for a short review to explain how and why it became one of the records I listened to the most last year.

I don’t remember how or why I was guided to this unique record, but it was partially due to my ignorance that it became such a mysterious curiosity. I had no idea at the time that it was, in essence, and “indie-folk” super-group with a semi-revolving door.

First, let us note the elephant in the room, or should I say, not explore it…just yet. Taylor Swift does sing lead vocals on one track, but I will deal with that distracting detail later. Let us begin by returning to my ignorance.

Big Red Machine is primarily a duo made up of Justin Vernon and Aaron Dresner. I was unaware at the time that Justin Vernon was Bon Iver, or part of Bon Iver. Furthermore, I had never heard a Bon Iver record, so I wouldn’t really know what significance that would have on the record. I knew that Aaron Dresner was a member of The National, but my knowledge The National was next to nothing.

As for the semi-revolving door mentioned above, here is a list of all the people who contributed to How Long Do You Think It’s Gonna Last? notwithstanding those previously mentioned: Anais Mitchell, Fleet Foxes (Robin Pecknold), Ilsey, Naeem, Sharon Van Etten, Lisa Hannigan, Shara Nova, La Force, Ben Howard, and This Is the Kit. Who are these people? Granted, I had heard of Fleet Foxes, but did not know their music at all, but that was about it.

The first time I listened to the record, it was amusing, fresh sounding, sometimes off-putting, and genuinely moving in turns.

My immediate take away was that there were three absolutely brilliant songs on the album, which is the reason I kept going back, “Latter Days,” “Phoenix,” and “New Auburn.” These songs alone could have been my favorite songs of the year. The album is bookended with its two best songs. It opens with “Latter Days” and closes with “New Auburn,” both of which have Anais Mitchell at the helm.

“Latter Days” is an incredible song about the current and forthcoming catastrophic events brought on by climate change. However, it is dealt with on a personal, subjective level, which makes its power and relevance that much more jarring and immediate. The beat has a mellow, melancholy fumbling effect, as Dresner’s nostalgic upright piano sound sets the tone. Mitchell’s voice is beautifully haunting as she begins,

“How long?” is what you ask / “How long do you think it’s gonna last?” / You, at the corner store / You were stocking up before the storm / Stacked yourself against the odds / Talking back to “an act of God” / You and your clever mouth / You were laughing when the lights went out.

This first verse sets the stage for the ignorant and quick-witted cynicisms toward environmental issues over that last half century, as well as a portrait of the real response of the “everyman” in the grocery store.

In the chorus that follows, they are “found” presumably after the storm, with “our arms around each other…in the latter days.” The images this song paints in my mind are haunting.

The next chorus asks a similar question at the water’s edge; “How high do you think it’s gonna get?” The lyrics then fall back into childhood memories, of drinking too much from plastic cups and passing out on your childhood bed with dreams in your head. 

Clearly, those days are over, but the trajectory was present all along, as in the next chorus the person is “found” where they lay, “as you called out for your brother / In the latter days?”

Shortly after, the song ends with another chorus about “sheltering in place,” until there is “no hiding place,” and the only recourse is to call each other brothers, but is too late…in the latter days.

This song seems to sum up all my worry and anxiety about climate change in just a few minutes. It is at once soothing, but devastatingly resigned. It’s a glaring portrait of inaction.

Like the first song, the closing track, “New Auburn,” is sung by Anais Mitchell with Dresner on his upright piano. However, it is more lower key and gentle than “Later Days.” The lyrics tell the tale of traveling out of the city to a rural lake without cell phone towers or radio reception. In essence, it is a road to freedom. However, it is also a familial place as the lyrics point out specific landmarks along the way. This path has been traveled before. Though the lyrics are clearly the subjective recollections of the author; the landmarks are drenched in sentimental meaning and memory, which the listener cannot begin to understand specifically. The result is that listeners fill in that space and the weight with their own memories. This is the true universality and magic of music, as I cannot make it through this song without crying. As a child, I would often meet up with my father’s side of the family on an island in Lake Vermilion in northern Minnesota. It was isolated notwithstanding the anticipation of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Those memories are some of the greatest in my life. As many of my family members, including my father, are dead, this song is nothing if not an epitaph to my childhood and those times that are forever waning in my memory. It speaks to the larger experience of life itself. At one point the song asks, “Who am I to listen? / Who am I to see? / Who am I to notice which way a tree / Falling alone falls silently?”

It is so random and unique to be alive at all; one is often baffled at this brief moment in time before all returns to dust. What is it for?

It is the last lines that split the heart wide open, as the question is posed again, but this time with an answer: “Where do we come from? / Out of thin air. / I hear you whisper in the back of my hair.”

That is the best and only answer one is going to get. “New Auburn” is a gorgeous and devastatingly beautiful listen every time. I have a long list of songs that slay me, and this one is near the top of that list.

The other song that rose to the top is the third track on the album, “Phoenix,” which is sung by Pecknold and Mitchell. It is the bastard child of The Band’s “The Weight.” It even evokes the “weight” in its lyrics. Pecknold takes the verses and Mitchell comes in for the choruses. Pecknold’s voice reminds one of the Dylan period after 1966 – think John Wesley Harding, Nashville Skyline, and Self-Portrait. It is of a much lighter affair than the aforementioned songs, and I’m not sure what it is about, other than something to do with power, or responsibility, or ivory towers, or “gripping the wheel to tight” on the journey through life…or something. Maybe it is about all of these things. I don’t know. I will say that one day I listened to it on repeat all the way to work and all the way home, which is about 10 times. Something about this song is melancholic, yet a comforting lubricant to the previous songs. I must also send out props to the drummer, JT Bates. He plays on many tracks on this album, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by electronic drums, but he has a signature sound wherein he casually moves around the floor toms like slow, rippling water over rocks in a stream. I adore everything about this track. Another magical aspect of this track is the subtle and tasteful horns in the background. It’s a masterpiece.

What does the rest of this album sound like? Well, I am an album guy, as opposed to a Spotify single-track, type of person. As these three brilliant songs are part of a much larger story, I did eventually fall in love with the whole album, but the relationship was confusing and rocky at first. There are several songs with weird, syncopated drum beats that quickly become infectious. From a percussive perspective, they are beats that keep on giving due to their complexities. These are often aligned with, who I later learned, is Vernon, who sounds like he sings drunk with cotton balls in his mouth. Often his lyrics are also syncopated, which is unsettling at first but quite captivating in the long run. Eventually, I came to understand his style of singing and mistook the “drunken cotton balls” for a warm baritone. He sings a song called “Mimi” with a woman named Ilsey. Her voice is crystalline. At one point in the chorus they sing different lines at the same time and it is irresistibly beautiful and catchy. Later, Dresner chimes in with a different repeated refrain. It’s magical. I think the song might be about smoking pot or making love in a garden, but probably not.

Vernon also sings the song “Reese,” which is instantly likable. There is a subtle, wailing guitar mixed into the background, which is a secret ingredient.

The other issue I initially struggled with concerning Vernon’s tracks was that fact that half of the time he has a weird electronic distortion on his voice. I fucking hate auto-tune, but I’m not so sure that this was what he was using. As he does it so often, I eventually got used to it and it became a hallmark of the album as it presented a nice juxtaposition with the more naked tracks. Part of the time his vocals are used as an additional percussive instrument with the already multi-tracked syncopated drum patterns. It seems that many of the things I didn’t like about the album at first, I eventually loved, as they became part of the journey of this most peculiar album.

Vernon has the most prevalent voice on the album and even sings background on “Latter Days,” and “Phoenix.” Though his songs tend to be the most abstract, they eventually grow on you and leave an emotional residue of their own.

The other big player on the album is the aforementioned Dresner. He sings several songs with a gentle delivery accompanied by his acoustic guitar strumming or the upright piano, which makes an appearance on almost every track on the album. He is the opposite of Vernon in every way. “Ghost of Cincinnati” is an acoustic gem about living on the brink of a mental break:

‘Cause I’m over myself / I’m over the hill / I’m Over-the-Rhine / For the millionth timе / I’m overspеnt / Overworked / Overlooked / I’m Over-the-Rhine/ For the millionth time

“Brycie” is a heartfelt song about brotherly love. Dresner’s songs are often mantras to get one through the day.

Now, back to Swift. She sings the song “Renegade,” which is a fine song that fits well within the album; the only problem is that she’s Taylor Swift. As SoDak has noted, she is more of a capitalist than a musician. So, even in this strange sequence of songs, she sticks out by her very presence. I initially experienced this album as an odd amalgamation of voices and sounds for which I had no name or place. I had no idea who these people were. It’s like having Michael Jackson at a birthday party. Even if he doesn’t do anything weird; he kind of ruins it by being there. It just fucks with the album a bit. Swift also sings background on the song “Birch,” and it is beautiful. She is a great accompaniment. As I said, I do like the song she sings, but it makes the album less mysterious because of her presence. It should be on her own album, but in the end, it would probably be strange if it were missing now that I have internalized the record as a whole.

Overall, this album is a strange, emotional, sonically psychedelic dream made up of various flashes and vignettes. It is filled with the reoccurring themes of familial and brotherly love, family dynamics, mental health struggles, and emotional loss and pain. However, it leaves one feeling resilient and slightly uplifted, as it has an overall healing quality. It is also a one-of-a-kind album that will never be replicated, as the band is primarily Vernon and Dresner. This particular make up of guest artists is reflective of this moment in history. It’s just another thing that makes this record unique and special. It’s both familiar and new sounding. I absolutely fell in love with it. I often treat it as medicine.

Due to this record I have also become a big fan of Mitchell and Pecknold. I have no plan to dive into Vernon’s body of work despite how much I like what he does on How Long Do You Think It’s Gonna Last? I first listened to this album with knowing little about the people who made it or play on it. I kind of want to keep it that way. I’ll check out the next Big Red Machine album, and maybe the first one. I’ll also keep my eye on Dresner. He is the sound of weakness straightening its back. How Long Do You Think It’s Gonna Last? spoke volumes to me this last year. I still love it dearly. I’m sure I always will.

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.