Bob Marley and the Wailers, “I Shot the Sheriff” from Burnin’ (1973)

By The XCHW

This song goes rather unnoticed when people are talking about subversive protest songs or anti-authority music in general. It’s easy to write off Bob Marley and the reggae music he helped pioneer as stoner background music. Too often, it is simply something people listen to when they’re hanging out around a campfire at a music fest, or playing hacky sack and waiting for Phish to take the stage. But those associations obscure the social and political depth of Marley’s music and writing. Marley’s songs have always contained an element of rebellion and revolution (the man survived a politically motivated shooting and played to 80,000 people two days after being wounded!), and “I Shot the Sheriff” is one of his finest.

It took a long time for me to learn to appreciate this song. I’m sure that I had heard it on the radio and in movies, but I never really paid any attention to it. Honestly, it might have been all the falsetto singing that led me to dismiss and disregard the original. Clapton’s version wasn’t any better, with just as much silly, high-pitched singing and a whole lot of self-indulgent guitar soloing. The song just seemed…silly. My tastes ran toward louder, faster, more aggressive music. I was interested in songs that rocked, and the versions of this that I had encountered on the radio did anything but.

The first time I really paid attention to the song was when I playing music with my parents. My mom wanted to give it a try. We would play in the basement as a three-piece. My dad on guitar, me on bass, and all three of us singing (poorly). My dad and I sat down to figure the song out. Initially, I was hooked by the music. The chords were odd. A lot of minors. It was very different from the 1-4-5 blues progressions that most rock songs revolve around. It felt almost jazzy. And the turnaround rift was brilliant! It was almost Beatles-esque in its genius and simplicity. A simple six notes descending down the minor pentatonic scale with a slight hiccup halfway through, followed by a tiny, one-measure pause, for a drum fill. Since we didn’t have a drummer, we made my mom play the fill on the tambourine. The song was unlike any of the music I had learned or listened to…and it kind of rocked.

I drew lead vocal duties for it. First off, I did away with any and all falsetto singing. I sang it the same way I tried to sing Rolling Stones and Pearl Jam songs, low and angry. And it worked for the song—it worked for the vibe and the lyrics. As I learned the words, I became enamored by them. They tell a story, like Bruce Springsteen or early Bob Dylan. The content could be lifted right out of one of John Steinbeck’s shorter novellas—Tortilla Flat or The Pearl. And the story is explicitly one of social justice and rebellion against authority in general, the police in particular.

In the song, the sheriff is hopelessly corrupt. He kills the narrator’s crops before they even have a chance to grow. Then he comes to kill the narrator, who shoots him down in self-defense. The “moral” for how to respond to a repressive regime or unjust police force couldn’t be clearer. Marley is quoted as having said: “I want to say ‘I shot the police’ but the government would have made a fuss so I said ‘I shot the sheriff’ instead…but it’s the same idea: justice.” The song’s story is a clear statement that justice is not always found by following the rules and working within the system. Sometimes the good guys need to work outside of that system, or even attack it directly to make things right.

One of the things I like best about this song is how well it makes a bold statement against oppression (How do you respond to the man keeping you and your family down? You shoot him in the face, that’s how!) while maintaining a deeply sympathetic awareness that not all people in positions of power are bad or corrupt. (The narrator is very clear about how he didn’t shoot the deputy, who seems to have never done him wrong.) I have friends and family members who have served or are currently serving in the military. I know that a number of my students will go on to serve as police officers. I would have trouble embracing a song that seemed to vilify them or advocate for violence against them purely on the basis of their vocation. I understand that pointing out systemic issues and problems associated with either institution is not an assault on the character of those individuals who work for them. When reading stories and having discussions about systemic racism in our country’s police forces, it can be tempting to adopt an extreme position. We love to see the world in black and white and talk about good guys and bad guys. But the more you look, listen, and learn, the more you understand and appreciate what a complicated world we live in. One in which any type of knee-jerk reaction is likely to be misplaced. Bob Marley understood that, and he wrote a song that embraced that complexity. (“If I am guilty, I will pay!”) He was saying that in the pursuit of a fair, just world, there can be no compromise. However, he left quite a lot of room in his song for complexity and nuance. That depth is a big part of why I still love playing and listening to this song to this day. 

Billie Holiday, “Strange Fruit”

By SoDak

In 1939, Billie Holiday started performing “Strange Fruit.” While she feared backlash, she was committed to singing this song, which often brought her to tears, that condemned racism and lynching. Abel Meeropol, under the name Lewis Allen, penned “Strange Fruit” as a poem, after he saw a photograph from 1930 that depicted the lynching of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith in Indiana. After he published the poem in 1937, with the title “Bitter Fruit,” he put the poem to music. It became a popular protest song in New York City. But it is Holiday’s version that stands as legendary and still speaks to issues today. 

Holiday asked Columbia, her recording label, for permission to record “Strange Fruit.” The label refused, indicating that such an incendiary song would result in negative reactions and loss of record sales. Holiday persisted approaching her friend at a jazz label. They worked out a deal with Columbia, which released Holiday to record for one session with a different label.  

“Strange Fruit” is immediately chilling, as Holiday sings “Southern trees bear strange fruit /

Blood on the leaves and blood at the roots / Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze / Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.”

In 1895, Ida B. Wells published The Red Record, detailing how a system of racial hierarchy and inequality was enforced through a system of lynching in the United States. Lynching became so normal that there was an accepted lynch law, where blacks were simply killed. Large white crowds gathered to participate and observe. There was no fear of reprisal, as there were no inquiries or investigations into these incidents. Postcards were made and sold depicting these horrors (see https://withoutsanctuary.org and watch the short film), further normalizing such violence and hatred. In documenting and exposing this violence, Wells wrote, “Perhaps the most characteristic feature of this record of lynch law for the year 1893, is the remarkable fact that five human beings were lynched and that the number was considered of so little importance that the powerful press bureaus of this country did not consider the matter of enough importance to ascertain the causes for which they were hanged. It tells the world, with perhaps greater emphasis than any other feature of the record, that Lynch Law has become so common in the United States that finding of the dead body of a Negro, suspended between heaven and earth to the limb of a tree, is of so slight importance that neither the civil authorities nor press agencies consider the matter work investigating.” Wells devoted her life to opposing racial capitalism and repression. 

Through the decades, this system of violence has continued—hangings, burnings, beatings, shootings. Holiday marks these ongoing horrors: “Pastoral scene of the gallant south / Them big bulging eyes and the twisted mouth / Scent of magnolia, sweet and fresh / Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.” In this short song, in anguish and defiance, Holiday powerful concludes: “Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck / For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck / For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop / Here is a strange and bitter crop.” “Strange Fruit” is now recognized as one of the important songs of the twentieth century and remains Holiday’s biggest selling record. It produces goosebumps and tears on every listen. 

Lynching was so widespread and common that Mark Twain, in disgust, in 1901, indicated that the country should be known as the “United States of Lyncherdom.” In the 1940s, Oliver Cromwell Cox, in Caste, Class and Race, stressed that the threat of lynching was embedded in the state, “in the whip hand of the ruling class,” serving as the means to impose racial oppression and to maintain the status quo of white supremacy. A militarized police force, as part of national policy, terrorizes people of color. As Cornel West recently explained, the murder of George Floyd by police is “a lynching at the highest level.” The list of victims is very, very long. “A strange and bitter crop” is still present and sanctioned by the state.

Here’s to the rebellions and protests against racial oppression, police violence, and the neofascist Donald Trump. Justice now!

A Boy and His EdPhones

By Null

I was a kid of the working class. In my forty-plus years of being a music fanatic, I’ve never paid more than 20 bucks for a pair of headphones. Why would I? I developed my deep love of music through some of the most shoddy and shitty stereo equipment ever made. A hi-fi sound system is never a necessary vehicle to becoming a music lover. Just ask dad, who listened to AM radio stations blaring 1950s and 60s music out of the single speaker centered in the dashboard of his pickup truck. For me, that will always be the “supreme” delivery system for The Supremes.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want a super shitty stereo system, but I’ve never really bought top of the line gear. More power to those that do, but that isn’t me. I do need some decent speakers, though. I need to be able to hear everything clearly vibrating through the air in the room. I’ll tweak the bass and treble until everything is just right.

However, when I was just a kid and got my first Walkman, that’s a portable cassette player to you youngsters, which came with a crappy set of headphones, music became an interstellar, outer space, psychedelic experience that was so intimate. It changed my life forever. I always payed close attention to music, but when I had headphones on I had access to the intricate details of a recording and heard all the slight and nuanced sounds that were not always apparent when music was being vomited through a set of speakers into an open space: the sound of the guitar pick on the strings, the whispered background voices, and the subtle panning of echoes. It was as if I was in the music. It made me interested in the production and stereo mapping of the music, like painting or experiencing a living picture of two canvases, one for each eye and one for each ear coalescing in the brain.

The other great thing about headphones is that one doesn’t have to crank the music to get inside it. I have been known to play some punk rock in headphones pretty loud, but even in middle school I was always mindful to protect my ears and moderate the volume. I remember thinking, “I need to be able to have this relationship with music when I’m an old man. I can’t fuck this up.”

One day, while hanging out on Iron Maiden’s Official website, as one tends to do, I came across their EdPhones. This, of course, is a play on words, as “Eddie” is the mascot of the band. I had discovered that Steve Harris, Iron Maiden’s bass playing and songwriting mastermind, was working with some “stereo system geeks” to design a set of headphones with a wider dynamic range, as apparently, Mr. Harris was unsatisfied with what was out there. He wanted some headphones that would be the best ones with which to listen to Iron Maiden or other metal. Now, I like a lot of different kind of music, but if Steve Harris is trying to make some kick-ass headphones, wouldn’t everything sound good through them?

I contemplated buying some. They fucking looked cool. There was a great picture of Eddie on them surrounded by swirls of blue smoke. The cord was weaved with some sort of fabric, so it wouldn’t get tangled up. Genius. My heart began to race. They looked well-made like a mac truck. I began to rationalize wildly, “I’m 47 years old. I’ve loved music my entire life. I love headphones. I’ve never had a good pair. I’ve dedicated my life to music. I should do it.”

My next step was to look at the price. OK. This set me back a little. Did I tell you I’m a working-class kid who never paid more than 20 bucks for a pair of headphones? However, I’ve seen some high-end headphones and these were cheaper than some of those. I proceed to investigate and learned that they were on sale. Fuck it. I bought the EdPhones.

When they were delivered, I opened the box with great palpitations. The box even looked cool. They had their own little travel bag. Holy shit. One could even lay them flat on a table, as the speakers swiveled.

I walked over to my little CD player and plugged the fuckers in. “What if they don’t sound very good?” I thought about what CD I should put in to listen to first. I knew Iron Maiden would sound good in them. How could they not? So, I went for the next obvious choice…Michael Jackson’s Thriller. As the music started, my head was sprayed with multicolored glitter. I first noticed that the high end was incredibly clear. I had never heard anything like that in headphones. The bass was present. It was like looking through crystal clear water for the first time. I grabbed several albums of various genres and sampled them all evening—jazz, country, death metal, pop. It all sounded fantastic. I did notice that some older punk rock and albums from the 1980s that sounded tinny in their original CD pressing were a little harsh, but the simple remedy to that was turning the volume down slightly, which made the bass more prominent. 

Holy fuck. These were the greatest headphones I had ever heard. I immediately called SoDak, a fellow reviewer on Tickle Your Taint, and ranted and raved for about 20 minutes. I cannot express how much I love these EdPhones. I don’t want this to be a commercial, or some gimmick to get people to buy them. As a matter of fact, don’t buy them. They will be my little secret. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with panic. Should I buy another pair and bury them in the backyard? What happens if these break or something? 

I sleep with these next to my bed at night. I’m not even kidding. 

Night Hike on Rattlesnake Hill

By SoDak

Turning off of Highway 44, in the Black Hills, the Ford Bronco spits gravel as we make our way down the forest service road. Like so many other times, Jerry, Mike, and I venture out for another night of hiking. An old cassette tape by New Model Army accompanies us, serving as one of the soundtracks to our lives. Above the song, “Green and Grey,” Mike notes that “Mars will be visible tonight.” I wipe the grime of cigarette smoke off of the back window to look towards the sky, hoping that the clouds have cleared off so we can have a clear view of the stars. It looks promising.

Jerry slows the truck after a half mile down this dirt road, and parks in front of a forest service gate that closes off the area from vehicle use for several months each year. Stepping out of the truck, we look at the pinhole sky above, as points of light emerge from the darkness. I breathe deeply, taking the cool April air into my lungs, and I feel at home in these woods with my friends.

After gathering backpacks and gloves from the backseat, we pause for another moment. Jerry lights a cigarette, then unzips his pants to pee on the tire of the truck. Encouraged by the action, I relieve myself on the road as I stare at the Big Dipper. As quick, as I button up my pants, we set off on our hike. I walk around the gate, while Jerry jumps on the metal bar and leaps into the air, tackling Mike as he emerges from underneath the bar. We chuckle at each other, as our routines are deeply established after so many years going on adventures together. Our lives, our friendship, and the Black Hills are intertwined. We hike as many nights as we can every week. Every Sunday, we go hiking during the day. Tonight is just one more night, a chance to share each other’s presence. We joke around and wander from subject to subject without much concern for a connecting thread.

We follow the road for two miles, then head up the hill. The unused dirt road is barely visible, given that the new moon was two nights ago. The darkness produces a sense of comfort, a time and place to unwind from the stress of daily life. We share reflections from the day—Jerry is an electrician, Mike is a reporter, and I am interviewing homeless folks for a research project. We are familiar with the grind and the challenges that each of us confronts.  

“I would love to change careers. Carrying a heavy tool pouch up and down ladders and stairs all day is wearing out my knees. I feel much older than I am.”

“What else would you like to do?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“I don’t know what I want to do either. It seems that any full-time job amounts to sacrificing one’s life.”

As we climb upwards, our conversation drifts towards discussing friends, love, and future plans. Each of these nights, our lives unfold. Reflections and dreams become inseparable. We actively analyze our lives and create the intricate threads that hold us together. We feel fortunate to have each other as close friends, and we relish each opportunity to share our lives under these stars, in these hills, and among these trees.

The darkness provides the space for our creativity, as concrete objects lose their definition. Trees, plants, rocks, the hills, and the road are present, but the boundaries are not as sharp. Our imagination expands. We create faces in the branches of the trees; we imagine huge vistas as we look over rock outcroppings; we listen to the water flow over rocks, but we envision the ripples and current as we stare at the blackness that separates the stream from the banks where dried winter grass and the sprouting foliage of spring are mixed together. The night is a collage, a space for expression and freedom.

I love the night, especially when I share it with friends. I am filled with a yearning, a desire, for that moment to go on forever, that nothing would change. It is one of the only times I feel complete contentment with life. The night is an embrace, arms that comfort the heart, providing an opportunity to collect my thoughts. On these nights, I may dream of a new day, but it is actually this space and time that is perfect and what I desire the most. It is here that I am exploring the world, away from an alienating job, and creating memories. Under the cover of night, we are who we desire to be, as we share these hikes. We bring out the best traits of each other, hoping to carry our humanity into the next day. There is a peace, a calm, that is one of the greatest pleasures that I know. Yet, at the same time, underneath this happiness, a sadness exists, because I know this moment will not last. The revolving stars in the sky, which bring me such joy, also usher in the dawn. My comfort under these constellations will always be interrupted. My contentment and my sorrow are inseparable. While contradictory and inevitable, I want to seize every moment that I can to experience this.

Walking this primitive road is easy. I don’t even watch the ground to see where I am stepping. I survey the blurred outlines of the trees and hills on either side of me. All forms seem to be variations of a silhouette. As I piece together the map of the Black Hills in my head, I realize that I have never been to this area during the day. I suppose that this is not really a surprise, given the majority of our hikes are at night, but it still seems odd, considering the miles we have traveled together through the years. “Have you guys been out here during the day?”

“Corny and I used to go four-wheeling out here,” says Jerry.  

Mike adds, “Plus we went sledding back here a couple of years ago with Troy, Maggie, and Jason.”  

Jerry continues, “This area is not one of my favorites, but it is nice for an easy night hike.” Suddenly, thinking about the day of sledding, he adds, “Oh yeah! That was the day I cut my leg on a rock. I got a big scar from that wreck.”

Laughing, Mike replies, “You just had to make a ramp to catch some air.”

“Damn right. Had to show you how it was done.”

“But you wrecked!”

“Just part of the experience.”

I simply nod, thinking about the years of hiking in the Hills. Bit by bit, we are piecing sections of the Hills together, as we explore canyons, gullies, and ridges. We walk, often with no particular goal or destination. It is just spending time together that we seek. Nevertheless, through this process we are connecting the different sections of the Hills on our adventures. We continue to find new ravines and ridges. A deep satisfaction is present knowing that we will live our entire lives in the Hills and never cover every inch of it. The Hills remain our world of discovery, and the night enhances this, as the moon, in its endless revolutions, casts different shadows, or not, depending on the phase, across the landscape. Each hike is a new world, a new exploration. The Hills are our unending quilt, as we forge our friendships on its fabric. I am moved to tell Mike and Jerry that I love them, but they already know this because I tell them often.  

These nights and these hikes make me very emotional. With tears in my eyes, I scan the hillside, only to be surprised by my next step into fresh cow dung. “Goddamn it!” The squish is audible in the still air. 

“Fuckin’ cows on public land. I bet this is part of what pushes the deer out of the woods and into the city.”

“Better watch your step, I think I can see more piles of shit on the path.”

“Goddamn. Cows are already grazing in the Hills. Soon it will be shit everywhere. So much for clean water.”

“Hey Mike, whenever I step in crap it makes me think of our trip to the Grand Canyon when you kept slipping on the ice and landing in the mule shit.”

Mike laughs. “You kept trying to catch me, but I had shit all over my backpack, so you got filthy. That was one hell of a great winter trip. We should go back there and hike from the South Rim to the North Rim.”

“I would love to, but sometimes I worry I wouldn’t make it out of the canyon.”

“Oh hell, we all could make it. We would just take our time. What do you think Jerry, would you like to go someday?”

“Not anytime soon. I don’t have any money, and I am too far in debt. Plus, I couldn’t get the time off of work.”

Our everyday lives never truly leave us when we are in the woods. We drift between stories about work, family, and politics. Our daily lives remain an essential part of who we are and influence what we can do—what we have time and money to do. We strive to find affirmation in life through the struggles we undertake as we eke out a meaningful existence through our work and daily relations. Yet the realities of our working lives also crush some parts of our dreams and hopes of freedom and a future together. Of course, this situation should be expected, as it is an unavoidable part of life. Nevertheless, it is maddening. I am sure that this is just one more reason why our night hikes are so important, as we are able to have these discussions and reflections without the distractions of televisions and telephones. The land is open and provides a space for us to move, as we explore the world beyond our little boxes with windows, doors, and belongings.

Without a word, we depart from the road, walking through the short grass, which the cows have chewed down to the nub. Tonight, we have a destination, so we start the final ascent up the hillside. I forgot how long and steep this hill is. I am sure we will stop several times along the way to catch our breath. Breaks provide more opportunities to appreciate our time together and the beauty of the Black Hills, as we scan the rolling hills against the night sky and make plans for future hikes. This place has marked me. It resides in my heart.

On the steep slope, Jerry and Mike look at me and start laughing. “I remember the night that you ran down this hill in a full sprint, jumping and screaming as you went. You scared the hell out of me, but you almost made me fall over laughing as I watched your arms flapping all about you.”

Eight years ago, on a warm summer night in July, we hiked up this hill to watch a meteor shower. On the way down, I took small steps trying to keep my balance to avoid sliding down the slope. Mike was ahead of me, but off to the left. Jerry, as usual, was already half way down the hill, running and jumping, having one hell of good time, in a way that only he can do. Mike and I watched Jerry, marveling at his balance and good fortune, as we carefully negotiated our way around a patch of bushes. Suddenly, I heard the distinct sound that I used to hear when I would be visiting my grandfather’s ranch. The rattle of a snake pierced the silence of the night. It was somewhere by my feet. I could not see the ground below me, and I had no idea where the hell the snake was. I leaped into the air, propelling myself down the hill, yelling and screaming something along the lines of, “Fuck, fuck, a fuckin’ snake, shit, oh shit, be careful, ah!”

Due to the steepness of the slope, I was able to make large gains down the hillside in a few bounds. Rather than stop, I kept going, hoping that I could get to where Jerry was at the bottom of the hill without further complications. Mike followed at my heels, but at a much more relaxed pace, as he was stifling his laughter from watching the spectacle of me screaming and springing down the hillside. We regrouped by Jerry, to catch our breath and to tell different versions, based on vantage points, of my encounter with the snake. From that point on, the hill became known as Rattlesnake Hill.

Tonight, we retell this story, while listening for any sudden sounds from the ground, despite the unlikely chance of a rattlesnake this early in April, especially given how cold it is. This story leads to many others, as we recount so many events from our lives for each other. Jerry recalls how common rattlesnakes were when he was a child. His parents lived on the edge of town, so their house was surrounded by fields. Whenever he had to mow the lawn, he would discover rattlesnakes in the tall grass, usually after the lawnmower blades had shredded them. Mike’s parents also lived outside of the city. His father used to kill rattlesnakes, mainly because the cats would get into fights with the snakes, and the kitties would generally lose.  

For me, snakes and death danced together. They are connected to fear and memories of my father. He grew up on a ranch and killed rattlesnakes as part of his daily chores. He carried this routine into his adult years. While rattlesnakes were less common at this point, living in the city, he would come across them while driving down gravel roads. Doing his inscribed duty, he would stop the car and pull out the pistol from underneath the seat. From the backseat of the car, I would watch through the window. He would shuffle and two-step on the road, sparring with the rattlesnake. The snake would repeatedly lunge at my father, as he brandished his gun preparing to shoot. The tension was too much for me. I was paralyzed, thinking that my father was going to die. These memories have stayed with me. The sight and sound of a rattlesnake sends chills up my spine, despite my respect for the creatures. Our lives are so fragile. And the same goes for rattlesnakes, as my father crushed their heads with a tire iron, cutting their tails off as mementos. Right or wrong, these are the lessons I learned from father, who spent half of his life on a sheep ranch. The rattles are still in a box hidden in the bottom of the closet. 

These stories carry us to the top of the hill. The valleys look much deeper than they really are, as darkness envelops the meadow below. Jerry and I stand silently, enjoying the view.  Mike, who is always prepared, at least when it comes to keeping warm, due to the lack of meat on his bones, pulls out an old, wool army blanket to spread on the ground and wrap around us. Jerry and I laugh, not at Mike, but because we never can remember to pack anything that will keep us warm. With a huge grin, Mike pulls out a pair of mittens and a wool cap.

“Goddamn, I’m going to be nice and comfortable as we watch the sky tonight.”

“How many layers do you have on?”

“Three shirts, long johns, and two pairs of socks.”

Steam is coming off of our bodies, due to the arduous climb up the hill. It won’t be long until it starts to chill us, so we join Mike on the ground. I rummage through my backpack to find the thermos filled with ginger tea. As I pour a cup, I can feel the warmth of the tea through the plastic. I take a deep breath, inhaling the stem rising from the cup. Jerry shakes his head, telling Mike and me that we are getting wimpy, yet he thinks a sip of tea sounds pretty damn good.

We scan the sky, searching for Mars. Once we locate the red planet’s position, we settle on top of the blanket, leaving enough of it to wrap over our laps. We lean back, finding support against the same bare log that we sat on eight years ago. As we pass the cup back and forth, Mike tells us that Mars will progressively get brighter until June. None of us knows much specific information about the night sky, except for a few constellations, but we mark the passing of the months by the cycle of the moon, and, as often as we can, we share our lives together.

Golf Dolls, Die Trying (Upper Midwest Jr. Art Assassins, 2020)

Reviewed by Null

Golf Dolls are DIY punk band from Madison, Wisconsin. Now, when I say “punk,” I don’t mean the homogenized, over-produced commercial punk that we get shoved down our throats these days, nor do I mean hardcore punk like Minor Threat, whom I love. Instead, the Golf Dolls remind me of the golden age of punk in the 1980s. They sound a bit more like mid-tempo Dead Kennedys, Doc Corbin Dart, The Wipers, or even The Buzzcocks with a little Devo thrown in minus the electronics. This album could have easily appeared in a 1984 Alternative Tentacles catalog. Trying to describe music is hard.

However, I will tell you this: from the moment I put this record on, I was bathing in the glorious sounds of killer riffs, super-catchy melodies, and lyrics that are filled with social critique wrapped in satire, humor, and unapologetic good time fun. It is rare to love an album on first listen, but these guys are so talented and this album is so good that I wanted to get naked and rub it all over my body. I was blown away. If any of this sounds good to you, then don’t hesitate and pick it up at:   

https://golfdolls.bandcamp.com/album/die-trying

It is available in both digital and CD formats. I suggest getting the CD, as the art work is very reminiscent of classic Winston-Smith. Besides, music downloads suck.

Love Letter: Veil of Maya, The Common Man’s Collapse (2008)

By Jack Rafferty

While I am currently fine-tuning the daunting task of writing a love letter to my favorite metal album of all time, which will be finished in the good time it takes to do it justice, I thought I’d take the opportunity to write a shorter love letter to another metal album that is dear to my heart, Veil of Maya’s The Common Man’s Collapse. 

No other album sounds like this. Veil of Maya crafted such a wonderful niche for themselves during the height of deathcore. While many other bands of the same genre at the time were trending in the direction of “who can down-tune their seven-string lower and chug riffs slower,” Veil of Maya took the refreshing approach of using a standard-tuned six-string guitar, with the odd twist of a seven-string bass. In addition to this, Veil of Maya leaned more heavily toward melody in their riffs, driven by a highly rhythmic, percussive sound. They keep brutality in the vocals, which establishes a satisfying contrast to the central melody, and steers Veil of Maya away from the tediousness of an overtly heavy genre becoming oversaturated with elements that negate its identity. 

Perhaps Veil of Maya’s greatest strength is the tightness of the execution of their playing, coupled with the sharpness of the production. Every sound is brilliantly distinct and fresh in the mix, which is a feat when considering they still manage to be heavy as fuck. Another very important factor to note is the magnificent talent of guitarist Marc Okubo. Apart from mere technical proficiency, some of the reaches in chords and note progression that Marc is able to accomplish is reminiscent of Hendrix at times in the seeming impossibility of it. 

All of this would be for nothing if the songwriting was shit. Luckily for us this is not the case. I’ve always found the pacing of Veil of Maya songs in particular to be excellent. You always felt carried along in a very unpredictable, yet simultaneously logical sequence of shifts throughout each song. Never knowing where you’re going, but fully knowing that it will be a place you like. 

Another important aspect is their ability to cultivate character in each track. I never have trouble with mixing up Veil of Maya songs, because each song breathes its own life, while never straying too far from a central sound enveloping the album in its entirety. 

Most importantly, though, Veil of Maya is just fucking fun. Their music is fun. It is high-energy, heavy, melodic, groovy, and always makes me want to either throw down or dance. I struggle to even pick three, let alone one, track to highlight, as all of them truly maintain an exceptional level of quality. All of this with the neat bow of a thirty-three-minute run time on top. So many bands these days that play at this speed overwhelm the shit out of their audience by being ignorant to, or willfully neglecting the fact, that less is more. You never want to give too much of a good thing that overstays its welcome. Bell Witch can pull off a song that is an hour and a half because the style and atmosphere of their music allows for it. But bands that don’t have sonic styles justifying such length need to be smarter about how they convey their work. Understand the medium through which you express art, damn it; Veil of Maya does.

All right, enough rambling. I would do Veil of Maya a disservice to end this love letter on such a note. So, in conclusion, The Common Man’s Collapse is an extremely well done, mature, blood-pumping album, made all the more impressive that it was the band’s debut. I have spent many hours of my life moving my spindly anatomy to it, and will continue to do so for many more.