Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B’s 2019 Musical Obsessions

By Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B:

Writing the end of the year obsession list is always a difficult task. I keep track of purchases in a spreadsheet, which should make it simple. But, compiling this list means two things. First, pulling records off the shelf and spending days reacquainting myself with music I bought early in the year. Second, I worry that I missed something important, and I always do. Anyhow, here is what I came up with.

De Lorians, De Lorians (2019). 

I was in a record store in Eugene, Oregon, and this album was being played by the righteous dude in charge that afternoon. Another guy and I were chatting about Les Claypool, when we heard the amazing prog sounds of De Lorians; we both nearly shit ourselves. The other guy beat me to the counter to reserve the store’s last copy. Luckily, he was even more a record junky than I am, and he found too many records and had to abandon De Lorians. I won the musical lottery, and bought one of the great prog rock/jazz fusion albums of the year.

Billy Cobham. 

I have known about Billy Cobham for a long time. He was in John Mclaughlin’s Mahivishnu Orchestra. For some reason, I always ignored his records in record stores. In 2019, I made the leap, and bought four of Cobham’s albums. Cobham is a great drummer, and his musical genre is jazz fusion. He is a fusion master. As a side note, I was in a stereo store talking to the manager about stereo gear and music. He took me into a side room and played Cobham for me on a $30K stereo system. It was fucking awesome.

Brain Tentacles, Brain Tentacles (2016). 

I am a huge Bruce Lamont fan. He is (usually) a saxophonist and was the heart of the Chicago metal band Yakuza. Lamont is a hard man to keep up with. He seems to be constantly recording. One of his recent projects is Brain Tentacles. I was really bummed out when Yakuza called it a day. But BT is a damn good substitute. It is aggressive metal with noisy sax parts. Dale gets a special shout out for helping me find this album. He kept telling me about a bunch of Relapse bands so when I visited the label’s website, I found BT. Thanks Dale!

Consider the Source, You Are Literally a Metaphor (2019). 

Consider the Source is from the East Coast, and I had been wanting to see them for years, but they never seemed willing to tour nationally. That all changed two years ago. This year they played Eugene, Oregon, in support of their brand-new album, …Metaphor. Mrs. B and I made the trek, and the show was great. For those who don’t know, CTS plays rock fused together with jazz and eastern music. They may be one of the most talented trios touring today—this is not the first time they made my year end list.

Sons of Kemet, Your Queen Is a Reptile (2018). 

I am really not sure why a queen is a reptile, but I also don’t give a fig! Sons of Kemet play a very accessible New Orleans style jazz that gets your head bobbing and your feet tapping. I described them to SoDak as a high-school jazz band gone rogue. This is a rather crass description, but there is an element of truth to it, but only because of the tuba. I can count on two fingers how many jazz recordings I have heard with a tuba (the other tuba album also made this list). This album has some good politics as well. It reminds me of some of the 1960s freedom jazz recordings.

Theon Cross, Fyah (2019). 

This is the other album with a tuba player. He is in fact the tuba player from Sons of Kemet. Either Cross is an absolute genius or I have underestimated the tuba. The man plays a lot of notes and forces that tuba to make odd sounds. It is awesome.

Max Roach, Max Roach’s Freedom Now Suite: We Insist (1960).

I am always resistant to listening to the pioneers of modern jazz. I find much of it to be boring, John Coltrane for example. But I was intrigued by the title of this record so I bought it. This record is fucking great, and so are the politics. If you are hankering for some freedom jazz, this will tickle your taint.

I consider these next four picks to be comeback albums of sorts.

Sean Noonan, Tan Man’s Hat (2019). 

Anyone familiar with the kraut rock band CAN has heard of Malcom Mooney. Mooney was CAN’s original vocalist (it wouldn’t be appropriate to call him a singer). I figured he was either dead or retired, so I was ecstatic (I may have orgasmed) when I found out he was featured on a Sean Noonan record, and it is a fantastic record. All fans of CAN should buy this one.

The Huntress and the Holder of Hands, Avalon (2017). 

One of the great folk/bluegrass/pop bands I have seen live was Brownbird. I saw them open for The Devil Makes Three, and Brownbird blew the Three off the stage. Brownbird was a male and female duo who were romantically linked. One-half of the band was Dave Lamb who perished after a bout with cancer. MorganEve took a few years off, and then began her recording career anew. I believe she did another album besides Avalon, but I have not yet chased it down. Avalon is hauntingly beautiful and it is clearly MorganEve’s attempt at putting her grief into words and music. I teared up listening to Avalon.

Saint Vitus, Saint Vitus (2019). 

Yes, I know Saint Vitus has been putting out albums in recent years, and aren’t really a comeback band. But, in another way they are on the comeback trail. This album is missing Scott Weiner, and the sound is much closer to the Born Too Late album from the 80s. They have returned to the sound that made me love Saint Vitus in the mid-80s. Welcome back Saint Vitus.

Meat Puppets, Dusty Notes (2019). 

This album saw the Puppets reunited with their original drummer. I expected something musically resembling 1982 Puppets, but this album is like no other Puppets record. It is mellow, and experimental at the same time. With time, this could become my favorite Meat Puppets album

Here are a few other great records I bought in 2019, but my hands are cramping from my verbosity so I will be brief.

Orville Peck, Pony (2019). 

The songs on this traditional country album are a little hit or miss, but the hits are jaw droppingly good.

Goatman, Rhythms (2018). 

This album sounds like Goat, and Goat kicks ass.

Don Cherry, Brown Rice (1975). 

Experimental jazz from a master trumpeter.

Johnny Flynn, Silion (2017). 

Have you watched Detectorists? Then you know Johnny Flynn. He performed the theme song. I can’t get enough of his voice.

Dommengang, No Keys (2019). 

Great rock album.

Vanishing Kids, Heavy Dreamer (2018). 

I have said on this blog before, and I will say it again, Nikki from the Vanishing Kids has a stunning voice. The Kids have a great catalog, but this one may be their best album yet. Check it out.

Scott’s Best of 2019

By Scott

My year was a little thin, music-wise, so I’m sticking with the top-five albums plus a concert:

Opeth, In Cauda Venenum (2019).

This is Opeth’s fourth album since they discarded the death metal elements in their sound and became a heavy prog band. The previous three albums have great moments and superb playing throughout; I enjoy them all, but they can feel disjointed and a little under cooked. In Cauda Venenum is confident and coherent all the way through, with a momentum that the other albums lack. Plus, it’s great to hear Mikael Akerfeldt singing in Swedish, although there’s also an English-language version for all you cultural imperialists out there. 

Bruce Cockburn, Crowing Ignites (2019). 

There are instrumental songs scattered throughout Bruce Cockburn’s vast discography, and he collected many of them on the 2005 album Speechless. But here is a new album of original instrumentals, all signature Cockburn, capturing many of the tones and moods that he’s expressed in around fifty years of songwriting, although the emphasis is on the somber and occasionally eerie.  

Budgie, Never Turn Your Back on A Friend (1973), In for The Kill (1974), and Bandolier (1975). 

I’ll count all three albums together because I got them as a set. I regret not getting into this band years ago. I knew they were an important influence in the early days of heavy metal (mostly via, I’ll admit, Metallica covering their songs), but that sometimes implies historical interest outweighing the innate appeal of a band—not true, in this case! And, now that I know what a “Budgie” is (which, I didn’t), the following album cover makes a lot more sense. 

Gary Burton and Chick Corea, Crystal Silence (1973). 

This is mood enhancing music for me, just Burton’s vibraphone and Corea’s piano, mostly improvising around themes. You can relax to it or you can pay close attention to the intricate playing; either way, it’s refreshing every time I listen.  

Dr. John, Anutha Zone (1998).

It’s a regrettable fact that, sometimes, when an artist dies, it becomes an occasion to get better acquainted with their music. For me, such was the case with Dr. John, who died this year (see also: Leon Redbone). I spent some time listening to his run of classic albums from the late 1960s and early 1970s. But Anutha Zone, from 1998, I found myself returning to more often—a mostly laid back, occasionally spooky, great-sounding album that finds Dr. John more contemplative than theatrical. 

Favorite concert: 

In 2019, I fulfilled a longtime wish to see Mark Knopfler. I might have preferred a smaller band, a smaller venue, and a different set list—more solo work and less Dire Straits—but hey, I’ll take it. An unforgettable highlight was “Speedway at Nazareth,” a simmering song that Knopfler and his band brought to a full boil. 

Hinkleyhadavision’s Musicial Obsession

By Hinkleyhadavision

Colter Wall’s song, “Sleeping on the Blacktop,” blew my mind this year. The writing, solo kick drum, guitar work, and, of course, his voice make this a perfect song in my opinion. This young man is already a master of his craft. He is a real gem. 

He played close to my town this past summer, but I was not able to make the show. Maybe he will come back someday.

Festivus Musical Grievances 2019

While the list of grievances related to life and the world is quite long, several taint ticklers have kept their musical grievances short. Enjoy. 

Anita Papsmear: 

The Republican Party, the puffy Cheeto and many of its supporters.

Dale M.:

Fuck me, my tolerance for un-original, un-inspired crap has reach a point of no return. Enter Baby Metal—I know this “group” has been around for awhile, but if you haven’t heard this “band” I consider you fortunate. Melt Banana meets Miami Sound Machine anyone? This “is pure fuckery” and is “metal” musicians with k-pop or j-pop singers, which equals I would rather masturbate in public with a cheese grater or wipe my ass with wax paper than listen to this shit. Just to add insult to injury they have collaborated with Rob Halford to cover “Breaking the Law.” Mr. Explosive Diarrhea can file a hostile work place grievance against me for playing this nonsense for him. Furthermore, I will tender my resignation for knowing what j-pop and k-pop is.

Back in 2010, one of my grievances was related to the need for fossil rock bands to hang it up; today the need is even more so. I liken it to that person at work who can retire, but won’t because the only reason they haven’t is because work is their only purpose in life—and they more than likely pass away shortly after retirement. Today, I still have this same feeling but towards some of my favorite bands from back in the day. For example, take Slayer with its “farewell” tour, is it really? Slayer hasn’t released anything interesting to me since Seasons. Those people I mentioned last time, I referred to as clingers. This label applies to these bands who keep going on and on. It is a vicious cycle of the ones who made it big who continue to release overproduced excrement, while others who didn’t make it blame the ones who did for their own failure. The latter continue to release the same garbage juice as they did in the beginning. When I hear news that “insert band or group name here” will be breaking up, I rejoice, only to have a red hot fire poker shoved straight up my anus as I hear they are going on another tour or going to release another oily discharge bowel movement.

Mashups. Who’s fucking genius idea was to mix two already shitty songs into one unbearable song? Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” mixed with some Billie Ellish “song.” While you are at it, you might as well throw in some Christian song into the mix. Fuck.

80’s Hair Metal, X-mas songs, and Christian music, enough said—these genres will always be a grievance.

Skip’s CD World in Eugene closing this past summer/fall. 

Null:

1. Digital music: I still hate the idea of digital music. Nothing’s changed. I’ve gone so far as to start listening to, and buying, used cassette tapes. Complete defiance. And, yes, cassettes still sound like shit.

2. Morrissey: I have loved The Smiths all of my life and will continue to do so. I also loved Morrissey’s solo output. However, as the years go by Morrissey continues to baffle me with his elitist pull toward fascism. It is unbelievable to me that in this day and age when we need his witty mouth and vitriol on our side, considering the rise of nationalist and fascist movements around the globe, he has the fuck-nut idea of sporting a nationalist pin on his jacket. Fuck him. I’m tired of making excuses for him. He has turned into the nightmare he warned us of in his youth. To be honest, his last great album was 2006’s Ringleader of the Tormentors. I was always under the impression he was anti-fascist. Fuck him. I’m done. His plane went down over Germany in 2006.

3. Apathy of mainstream artists: Though there are many underground bands spitting rage at the state of the world, I am so disappointed at the lack of anger expressed in popular music these days. It’s strange to have Taylor Swift’s moderately liberal statements constitute the most controversial things happening in popular music. 

4. Lagwagon’s new album cover: Lagwagon had a really stupid album cover for their new album, Railer, this year. It has been great to see this band lyrically mature over the years, and their last couple of album covers reflected this slow change. I don’t mind humor in my punk rock, but I do demand a lot of purpose. However, this album cover looks like it could be the album cover for a “punk band” started by the kids of Blink-182. I ordered the album and it never showed up in the mail. I still don’t have it, so I can’t comment of the whether or not it stands in opposition to the album cover. Still, it’s stupid.

PaulySure:

While 2019 was in my opinion just a decent year for music, most of my grievances came less from band/releases (some things I absolutely loved, while some tried and true bands fell kind of short), but from elements of the industry itself. All three of my grievances this year are connected. So let’s get into it, shall we?

First off, not to repeat my first grievance from last year, but the big issue was the fact that the record store location that I called home, finally came to a close. On the last day, of the first month of 2019, the location closed its doors. It was the true end of an era. And while in last year’s grievances, I mentioned that the closure was temporary, it has been moved to an indefinite relocation. Funds keep needing to go other places for other things, like Record Store Day, and the rents in the city itself keep increasing primarily due to out of state investors. I was relocated to another location, so fortunately, I still had a job, but it just isn’t the same. The clientele are not nearly as friendly, and generally are downright rude. So I stepped down from a management position, to part-time, and now find myself in the world of finance. 

Secondly, I have resorted to signing up for the fairly dreaded Spotify. This is due to a few reasons, the largest of which I will outline in my final grievance (and frankly ties in with the first too). The first reason, it feels like streaming has become a bit of a necessary evil. The second is that with fewer new releases coming into many of the local shops, due largely to the final grievance, I am forced to seek out and listen to new releases some other way, and streaming has become the quickest, most efficient, and feasible. It’s not to say I am done buying music, far from it, I just need access to new bands/titles/etc. and thus my hand was forced.

My last grievance comes from major labels and distribution in this industry. I’ve been hearing about this issue for about the last 4-6 months, and each time it keeps getting worse. Now, some of the general public has more knowledge of this issue because of an article that Pitchfork posted the other day (https://pitchfork.com/thepitch/a-major-music-distributor-has-stifled-vinyl-sales-for-record-stores-and-indie-labels-sources-say/). This year, many of the major labels, but primarily Warner, signed a distribution deal with Direct Shot. This was supposed to make things somewhat more streamlined and easier, but actually did just the opposite. It is almost as if that bully kid stuck a stick in the spokes, and things are starting to crash. The above article mentions that the issue effects vinyl, but it actually effects music on all formats. Where a record store used to be able to purchase new releases and restocks on CDs, and return around 70-80 percent of said product to get credit for more new releases and restocks; working with Direct Shot has changed that to being only able to return roughly 25 percent of said product. This causes a huge strain on an independent record store. It is forcing them to only carry what they know will sale, which in this industry, changes regularly. It is also making it so that orders do not show up complete, or are delayed sometimes a week or months at a time. Now some of the issues come from Direct Shot. But some of the blame should lie with the major labels as well. Why? Because many of them do not actually want to press physical releases of anything anymore; they see no value in it, and it hurts us the fans, the people who want to support artists, and the people who care about hearing the whole album, not just the single. It’s awful, a music industry, not wanting music. It actually really harshes my mellow.

Scott:

This one’s easy. After a thirteen-year gap, Tool finally released a new album, Fear Inoculum. I don’t dislike the music, which is mostly fine (although it isn’t an especially memorable collection of songs, and more like a series of exercises in the Tool sound, or sounds, but that’s another issue). My gripe is with the packaging. The only physical format available was a gimmicky, super-duper multimedia CD that came with a little screen and speakers for showing, I don’t know, videos or some shit. It was expensive. And even if you wanted to fork over the money, it sold out almost immediately (and thus began the inevitable price gouging, for a time). Looking now, I see that you can also get a cheaper version that looks like a book and comes with 3D pictures of aliens and geometric shapes or whatever, which is still 30 bucks. Next time, skip all this silly bullshit!

SoDak:

Losing over 180 records due to flooding in the basement. The lack of seal around the water line, which was behind the wall, so it could not be seen, allowed rainwater to enter the room. One of my record shelves absorbed the water, which then spread through several rows of records. Earlier in the year, I had started to put plastic sleeves on records that did not have them, but I started on the top shelves rather than the bottom. I am resigned to the loss, but still depressed.

Morrissey. See Null’s comment above. 

Rob Miller (Amebix and Tau Cross). Rob lost his fucking mind, becoming a supporter of Holocaust denialism and other crazy shit. Tau Cross is no more, as the other members quit.

Idlewild, Interview Music. Production is good, but the record is forgettable. I had come to expect wonderful records from this band, so this one surprised me. 

A missing song on each of the first three Iron Maiden records that were reissued this year. Given that these were were remasters of the UK version, they did not include the singles, “Sanctuary,” “Twilight Zone,” and “Total Eclipse.” Damn it. 

black midi, Schlagenheim (2019)

By Jack Rafferty

My first encounter with black midi was a performance recorded by KEXP. The first thing that is revealed as the camera fades from black and the band is introduced is…some kids in a hostel in Reykjavik. They look no older than fourteen. The listener is barely given a moment to take in the room, the words Iceland Airwaves furled in the curtains, the vague disembodied heads and obscure figurines on the shelves, the duct-taped guitars and new sneakers mingling with multichromatic pedals on the floor. Then the first discordant, oddly strummed distorted scrapings of their music leaps from their scrawny forms. Before I could notice much else, I was drawn to the drumming, and how immaculate it was. It was immediately clear that this rolling and crashing, yet technically proficient, aspect of their sound would be at the forefront, that it would be the foundation around which the gorgeous disharmonies of the guitar and vocal melodies would arrange themselves. I also took note of how much space in the mix they gave to the bass, something I deeply appreciated, as it is lush and works as an adhesive to the otherwise unruly chord progressions and notes being played. The vocals also must be noted, for they are unique to my ears. At times muttered to the point of being indistinguishable, at others shrieked. While every member except the drummer provides vocals to some degree, it is Geordie Greep, the band’s front figure, who I want to focus upon in this case. At times sounding like a creature chanting incantations in a dark forest, others like an ancient tinker peddling mystic miscellany, it is freakish and intriguing in all the best ways. He is (in tone) like Jello Biafra at his most satirically demonic and beguiling.

Fast forward a bit. It is mid-summer and I have been aware of this band for months, but haven’t heard much since this performance. Thankfully the algorithms that so keenly observe my doings and interests in the overtrodden digital void of the internet took care of me for once, and recommended midi’s debut album, Schlagenheim, when it dropped. I eagerly delved in as soon as I could, hoping that the energy and character of their sound would not be lost or diluted in the studio. I won’t beat around the bush or ask any paragraph-concluding hook questions regarding my feelings on this album. It is brilliant. In a year when Lightning Bolt releases an album, and it isn’t my favorite experimental/noise rock album, that’s a big deal. Schlagenheim is bizarre, eruptive, mysterious, and subtle where it needs to be. 

The overall avant-garde approach that black midi takes to their music could easily be misinterpreted as structureless and meandering chaos to those less inclined to enjoy experimental music, but while they may come off as improvisational at times (the track “bmbmbm,” for example), one of the things that strikes me most about this band is how exceptional their songwriting is, especially considering how early in their music career they are. They have a deep understanding and feel for pacing with each of their songs. They know how to articulate and adapt within the specific character of each song, while also maintaining a consistent thematic sound throughout the album. While manic at times, Schlagenheim always remains compositionally dense, and never ventures into levels of masturbatory technicality or experimental noodling. It is easy for anyone to simply play disharmoniously, but it is damn difficult to compose that type of sound into organization. To reel in something as chaotic and energetic as that is enough for it to walk that fine line of being simultaneously strange, gentle, howling, eerie, aggressive, and music that is enjoyable to listen to is rare. 

Intent is displayed pretty on-the-nose here, as the name “black midi” is a rather esoteric genre consisting of exceedingly complex amounts and arrangements of notes. Zappa has tangled with this genre before, which is appropriate, as he comes to mind at times when listening to them. However, black midi is set apart from the genre they take their name from, as complexity is not the priority here. At times, especially in the vocal delivery and the overall weirdness of the sound, I am reminded of Primus, though only in minor ways. I am also hearing a lot of King Crimson and Talking Heads comparisons being made. Regardless of this, midi remains entirely their own entity. 

Another highlight of this album is the lyrics. Admittedly on my first few listens I was too enraptured by the music and I paid little attention to what was being said. While many of the lyrics throughout can appear repetitious on the surface, when applied to midi’s songs they gain a certain verbal formula, as though an invocation that lends to the more mythic tones of what is being conveyed and felt. There are single lines peppered throughout that are also damn good. One of my favorites being “He’s got a coat of nine tails and fresh leather shoes/ Straight from the cow/ But my shirt is so un-ironed it could be a mountain range/ My shoes, the rotting flesh of mange” from the track “Reggae.” There are also more politically charged lyrics, like those in “Near DT, MI,” about the structural racist assault on the health and lives of the people of Flint, “There’s lead in the water and you think that I’m fine/ I’m stained by the water and only the water/ I’m drained by the water, are you losing your mind?/ Dead in the water, dead in the water.” One of the more overt lyrical oddities on this album is the deranged delivery of a single idea on the track “bmbmbm,” where Greep fixates upon a woman who “moves with a purpose” then applies improvisational variations in tone, cadence, word arrangement, etc. throughout the track. It is playful, the pacing builds wonderfully, and the climax of the track is fucking manic and one of the most satisfying on the album.

I must praise once more the percussion on this album. Morgan Simpson is utterly brilliant. The drumming is air-tight, yet still has a vibrancy and energy that staves off any misconceptions that such precision is lifeless or overly technical. I mentioned Lightning Bolt above, and Simpson’s style at times is reminiscent of Chippendale, which is a high compliment. My initial impression that he would be the foundation is only reinforced now. He is the driving force of this album. This isn’t to say that Matt Kwasniewski-Kelvin’s guitar work alongside Greep’s are not to be regarded. On the contrary, this album would not be what it is without the atonality, or at times elusively gentle, eccentricity of their style. It would be easy to forget the bass amid such competing sound in most cases, but Cameron Picton’s playing is stellar, and the production does a good job keeping it present in the mix. The introduction of piano, synths, accordions, and other instrumental additions also provide new layers of intricacy to these tracks, without drowning out what makes them great. The toppings are never overladen. 

Overall, black midi does right in understanding that when it comes to noisy, frantic, experimental rock music, the intensity originates most in the passion and emotion that is conveyed, not the blistering presentation of talented musicians. The latter only serves to aid what becomes the heart and soul of what you are creating. Schlagenheim is disheveled, sinister, visceral, groovy-yet-off-kilter, eccentric yet not pretentious, and boldly uninhibited. It’s mathy, jazzy, proggy, noisy, and a true joy to listen to. The maturity in songwriting quality is staggering when considering the band members are just out of high school and that this is their debut. Strongest of recommendations for this one. I look forward to the new visions that will bloom from these creative minds. 

Love Letters to Records: AC/DC Live

By Jack Rafferty

Preface

This series will be ongoing and will touch upon records that have changed my life in some significant way, and more importantly they will be records that I have a deep, intense love affair with. The following is the first, and therefore it is fitting that it be about my first record. That being said, those that come after will not necessarily adhere to any sort of particular order, especially chronological. Love and music are nebulous. They are beyond order, which I state happily in contradiction of the end of the year lists that I make. I hope that these letters will bridge the distance that can exist in the sterility of list-making. It’s time to get intimate. 

Love Letter: AC/DC Live

When I first stepped into the record store, the only feeling I could remember rivaling such a sensation was produced by libraries. I had heard music, undoubtedly, but narrowly so. I had yet to grasp even a fragment of the understanding of the role it would play in my life going forward. Yet once I had walked through those doors, with the money given to me by my father (the meansto begin this journey), the pieces that would form such understanding were revealed to me. 

I gawked at the shelves lined with sleek plastic cases. Like the stunning atmosphere of a library, I was presented with the overwhelming sensation of possibility. Indeed, the alluring restriction of only having enough money to purchase one of so many potential experiences immersed my young mind in a physicality of choice. I felt as though I had literally journeyed to the threshold of a crossroad. The choice that I was to make next could define the way in which certain aspects of myself would develop. In fact, it was almost assured that my selection would have reverberating influences that would permeate deeply and inwardly, in addition to opening up doors that would lead to multiplied doors leading to further multiplied doors ad infinitum. This moment carried weight. 

I browsed the intimidating shelves, looming above my limited stature, the varied sheens of artwork from numerous genres enticing me as I went. My father had given me fifteen minutes to find something before he would come pick me up, and how insufficient that amount was shined in greater clarity to me as each moment passed. There was a powerful feeling of inadequacy in the ignorance of my appraisals. As people walked by, I thought them to be towering giants, who were so much more knowledgeable than me. I felt small, but my desire and curiosity gave breath to my courage. I realized quickly that I did not have nearly enough time required to look at everything I wanted to. To hold each case, look at the exciting images, read the words. I decided that I must rely and act upon a more generalized notion, a gut feeling, at least for now. 

It is for this reason that, when I came to the edge of the third shelf, I froze once I glanced at the bottom corner under a black tab with white lettering entitled “Rock.” There, in light emphasized like some Baroque chiaroscuro, was the cover of AC/DC  Live. In the foreground I witnessed Angus, not jumping, but in the process of descending from a jump, sleek with sweat, taut with energy, filled with movement. Clothed only in black shorts and shoes, his face full of aggression and ecstasy. I had never seen anything like it. 

I grasped it, held it, felt its weight in my hand. This was it. I carried it as carefully as a pallbearer would escort a coffin to the register. The person working at the register had blue hair, tattoos, piercings all over the face, and dark clothing. I felt intimidated only because I looked upon the person with a certain sense of reverence. This was like the librarian of the record store. This was the sentinel, the guardian and keeper, of this panoply of sacred noise. I shyly handed over the record when it was my turn in line, the person looked down from the counter at me, then at the record, then back to me, and then smiled, asking warmly, “You like these guys?” 

I stumbled upon my thoughts before responding.

“I’ve…this is my…never heard them yet…my first one.” 

The smile grew larger, and the clerk responded, “you have good taste.”

I might as well have been knighted. I beamed outwardly and without shame. After the money was exchanged and change was counted out, I received the record. I nearly hugged it on the spot, but I checked myself. I needed to appear collected, in control of this important moment. I thanked the worker and walked toward the exit, but not before glancing back once more. 

I strain to think of a time when I ran faster and with more abandon then when I returned home that afternoon. I fumbled my way up the stairs and found my CD player. I retrieved the disc with strenuous care, then I put the headphones on and pressed play. At first, I was confused, not knowing AC/DC Live meant a live album and not knowing what a live album was. A crowd emerged from an ether of silence, materializing from blackness through the slow swell of their collective clapping, chanting, and cheers. An ominous sound of thunder commenced. Then another. I felt as though I stood upon a mountain precipice, becoming enshrouded in a dark cloud of storm. The drum cymbals begin a rhythm that is joined by the clapping. Then the subtle hiss of a guitar through an amp. A deafening and triumphant cheer. The opening riff to “Thunderstruck”begins. 

Chills emanated from my body in places I wasn’t actively conscious of. The newness and severity of this experience was unmatched. As if I had grown up blind and this was the first time that light had entered my vision. It felt as though I had returned to a home that I didn’t realize I had after a long and wearisome journey. The growling chorus of vocals joins, sinister and thrilling. Then the bass drum accompanies the two-stroke THUN-DER. I thought I would faint. Brian Johnson starts screaming like a rabid dog that had just swallowed gasoline. Malcolm’s rhythm guitar produced the sensation of a roller coaster careening my body through sinuous rails. Cliff’s bass seemed to replace my blood and coarse through my veins, with Slades’s drumming pounding my chest like granite. 

Before I could recover from the conclusion of “Thunderstruck,” “Shoot to Thrill”sounds off. I felt actually scared by this album. Scared in a way that inspires further curiosity, like the fear produced by mysteries that we can’t understand. Fear that makes us crawl further down the dark tunnel, unable to resist the possibility of discovering what lies within. And the lyrics! 

“Shoot to thrill, play to kill
Too many women with too many pills
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will”

I felt like I was breaking rules holy and sacred listening to such things, and that I would be imprisoned for it. All this just made me love it more. How forbidden and dangerous this new power was. It felt volatile as a bomb in my hands would have. By the time “Back in Black”had started, I was up, holding my player in one hand, eyes closed, boogying wildly in a small three by four foot space in my room. I didn’t even need to know what “headbanging” was before I did it. The movement and the sounds that caused it were as natural, as essential, as speech or hunger. 

Everything seemed to be whirling. I was placed into a reality completely separate and distinct from what I was accustomed to. Songs like “Dirty Deeds,” “Hells Bells,” “High Voltage,” “Whole Lotta Rosie,” “You Shook Me All Night Long,” “T.N.T.,” and “Highway to Hell,”each and every one was actively and directly altering my life and how I viewed it. This was a renewal. A revival. A complete reimagining of everything. It was as though I had lived ten years in those two hours. The religion my father tried so hypocritically to shove down my throat didn’t have fucking shit on this. This was the closest I had ever been, or ever wanted to be, to a spiritual experience. If listening to this music meant that I was going to Hell, it wouldn’t take five minutes for me to make a decision. This was going to be my life. And I knew that I would so passionately and obsessively immerse myself in it, that if damnation was the cost, I would meet it with a big fuckin grin. This was the beginning.

“Hey mama, look at me

I’m on my way to the Promised Land”