Ronald Wilson Reagan (February 6, 1911-March 30, 1981)

 

From time to time, taint-ticklers like to ponder alternative realities.

By Chastity Morgan

The United States of America mourns the death of actor Ronald Wilson Reagan. His life came to a halt after John Hinckley Jr., in an attempt to catch Jodie Foster’s attention, shot the B-grade actor in Washington D.C. on March 30, 1981. Hinckley was not so lucky with capturing the admiration of eighteen-year-old Jodie. However, many unborn Americans are thanking him from the metaphysical plane.

Reagan got his acting debut in 1937 when he moved from Tampico, Illinois, to Hollywood, California, to pursue his dream of being a mediocre actor. He was a mentor to aspiring actors, reminding them that “producers don’t want movies good, they want them Thursday.” Such honesty served as a gentle reminder that ambition is highly overrated. His words of wisdom had long lasting impacts in Hollywood. To this day, we continue to celebrate mediocrity in the form of actors such as Seth Rogen, Bill Paxton (1955-2017), Rebel Wilson, and so many more.  

Reagan’s “good enough” mentality carried him through the ranks of government where he eventually became the Governor of California in 1966. He was versatile and able to acclimate to any situation. He used his acting skills to win the hearts of the wealthy and international dictators, but he was able to stay true to his core by ensuring that social services operated with the minimal amount of resources necessary.  

In 1981, his wife, Nancy Reagan, became fortieth President of the United States. (Ops, I mean, Ronald Reagan was the president.) While Nancy was promoting her naïve “Just Say No” anti-drug campaign, and reinvigorating Richard Nixon’s War on Drugs, Ronny was a having a secret love affair with high wealth earners throughout the United States. 

As Jodie Foster mourns, the millions of people who were spared incarceration due to nonviolent drug offenses celebrate. Community clinics throughout the United States are welcoming the much needed federal funding from the overturn of Reagan’s repeal of The Mental Health Systems Act of 1980, signed by President Carter. 

In other news, a plot to assassinate Egyptian President, Muhammad Anwar el-Sadat has been stopped.

James McMurtry, The Horses and the Hounds (New West Records 2021)

by Kloghole

There is a deep and profound emotional exhaustion that haunts me, and unlike most, it is not the result of the current pandemic. I am struck, however, by how the new James McMurtry record captures this melancholy and psychic desperation.

I recently took an online stress test and scored 38 on depression and 40 on stress. I have tried all manner of techniques to try to alleviate some of the worst physical and mental effects of the more than decade-long trauma I have endured. This past week, I tried listening to the new McMurtry record in the same way I would devour a new CD when I was 22. To get to know an album intimately, I would just play it over and over and over, pouring over the lyric sheet. There are still songs that pop on my random player that I immediately know all the words.

It was different with McMurtry. Although I listened to the album repeatedly, I simply do not have the time to focus on the songs. I am answering emails or crafting classes. I rarely sit still unless glued to a computer monitor. Eventually, I did get to read all of the lyrics, but not as the song was playing.

What I was left with is the sense that his new album is good, but there are not those songs that grab me that I ache to hear when I am away from the record for a while. Sometimes, I feel, the mark of a really good album is the fact that it does not have one or two memorable songs and a host of forgettable ones. The Horses and the Hounds is a solid album throughout with a great deal of consistency. There are dark lyrical turns that tug at your heart strings and just enough ambiguity in the poetry to keep you unsure of the inspiration driving the story.

I am drawn to the crunchy hook of the title track. It is probably the closest to a song that rises above the engaging sanguine lilt of the rest of the album. He does keep a bit of space for his endearing sense of humor with the line, “I keep losin’ my glasses.” Since I have a pair of cheap cheaters in every room, I can totally relate.

I should really take my geriatric dogs out before I head to bed. They need their pot pills, and they will most likely wake me up in three or four hours having to pee or, the youngest’s favorite trick, nibbling on her poop and spreading it helter-skelter like someone shoved a firecracker in a turd.

I feel as though I have emotionally lost the ability to evaluate music even if I like it. I have played James over and over, and keep playing it, but I sense something missing. I am not sure if it is in me, or I am longing for the feelings I have from his earlier albums. There seems to be some resonance with his line from an earlier song, “I don’t want another drink. I just want the last one again.”

Because there have been few albums that have made me want to listen to them repeatedly lately, I am going to give The Horses and the Hounds three sweet sticky balls.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers!

The Day Alice in Chains and Michael Jackson Met in My Ass

 By Null

Per the normal procedure, I had taken off all of my clothes, except for my polka-dotted socks, and put on the hospital gown, open in the back. I then slipped on my “COIVD masks,” which consisted of a surgical mask underneath a black-and-white cloth mask. After putting the loops over my ears and readjusting my eyeglasses, I laid down on the hospital bed, which contained a strategically placed “incontinence pad.” It was my big day, as I would soon be on my fiftieth trip around the sun. Thus, I had to get my first colonoscopy—the time-honored tradition wherein a person fasts for at least 24 hours before drinking a gallon of liquid magic that turns one’s anus into an angry water faucet, thereby completely emptying the colon so that the doctor can insert a camera in one’s large intestine to check things out. While I’ve never been called a tight-ass, and the pad was there for possible leakage, it thankfully was not needed. 

On this special day, I was in the surgery center, because even though one isn’t under the knife during a colonoscopy, an anesthesiologist is needed as one is put under for about 30 minutes, not all the way, but more like in the “date rape drug” kind of way—just below the surface.

At any rate, I digress.

Katie, the nurse attending me, walked into the curtained off section where I was waiting. We engaged in a bit of small talk, along with some questions and answers regarding the procedure. At one point, I asked her about her accent. “Is that a Southern accent?” 

Katie laughed and replied, “Yeah, I don’t know why. It just won’t go away. It’s Arkansas. I moved to Colorado 3 years ago.” She seemed a little embarrassed.

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it. I think it’s great.” Why does someone expect to lose their accent in 3 years, and why would they want to?

“There’s a lot of rain down there, and heat,” she said.

“And armadillos,” I said in my best Southern accent, pronouncing it “armadillas.”

We continued to chatter. I was already smitten with Katie. She was funny, wasn’t taken off guard by my off topic questions and comments, and, most importantly, she was very relaxed and chilled out. Considering that everyone in the hospital was wearing masks, I could only see her eyes, and they were pretty, kind, and sympathetic. I have no idea how old she was. As I get older, I find it almost impossible to guess the age of most people. I can recognize children and teenagers as such, as well as people in their 90s, but everyone between those age groups is a crap shoot. As a 49-year-old man, I continuously view people much younger than me as my peers.  It’s weird. They’re clearly not. Regardless, I’m gonna say Katie was in her late 30s, but I wanted to call her “mom.” I guess context is important.

“The anesthesiologist will be in to talk to you in a few minutes. We are going to put you under for about 30 minutes. They use Propofol,” Katie said, as she wheeled her chair over to hold my hand as she searched for a good vein for the IV. She continued, “It’s really great. It puts you to sleep in a matter of seconds and then you wake up really quick right afterwards.” She had a sparkle in her eye that made me question, just for a second, if she had a Propofol problem. I immediately discarded the thought from my mind; however, I quickly recalled how this sleeping drug killed Michael Jackson. I didn’t mention it, because, ya know, mentioning Michael Jackson is akin to opening a can of worms. Besides, I didn’t have time, as the anesthesiologist walked in and said, “Hummm, Alice in Chains. They didn’t even have masks back then.”

I had forgotten that I was wearing my Alice in Chains, Rainier Fog face mask that I had picked at the beginning of the pandemic. From a distance, it looks like a black and white air filter. The anesthesiologist gave me the rundown of the procedures, asked me about my medications, and mentioned he’d be using Propofol. Fuck it. “Isn’t that the drug that killed Michael Jackson?” I asked with a chuckle. 

He replied, “And that is why it should be administered in a hospital under the watchful eye of an anesthesiologist and not at home.” He nodded, smiled, and finished writing down a few notes. 

Having secured my IV, Katie squeezed my hand, looked at me from her chair, and in a compassionate voice, which betrayed any sense of irony, said, “Michael Jackson really needed to get some sleep.”

I refrained from laughing out loud due to her empathetic tone. I had to wonder if the consensus in Arkansas was that all of Michael Jackson’s problems boiled down to not getting enough sleep, or if this was just Katie’s summation. I looked at the anesthesiologist to see if this was also his take on the matter, but he had finished his paper work and left the room.

After the doctor entered the room and went over the procedure with me, it was time to get the job done. I was wheeled into the operating room. I was instructed to lie on my side. The lights were killed as to better view the monitor that would project the feature film that would star my colon.  The anesthesiologist put his hand on my shoulder and informed me that the he would administer the Propofol in a matter of moments. Suddenly I heard “Man in the Box,” the big hit from Alice in Chains’ first album crank out of speakers that seemed to be situated throughout the room. Is the doctor okay with this? He never mentioned my mask? Was this the anesthesiologist’s idea? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I heard a voice say, “You’ll start to feel sleepy in a few seconds.” My fading thoughts were as follows: “These guys must be pretty cool. They’d be cooler if they played something from the new records. It’s no big deal. It’s just a colon exam. Put on some rocking tunes. Alice in Chains. Michael Jackson…needed sleep.”

I began to fade back into consciousness, aware that some time had passed. I was sleepy, but awake. The room was still dark. Am I supposed to be awake? Should I verbalize this thought? I noticed two things simultaneously. The first was that a well lubricated, slightly vibrating object was in my butt. It didn’t feel unpleasant. The second thing was that now a different song was playing from Alice in Chains’ third album. Still not the new stuff. It was a good song though. I can’t remember which one exactly. I only knew what album it was from. I felt really good vibrations. I mustered up the energy to speak, “I’m awake.” 

“I know.” 

I faded away again.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the original room I was in prior to the procedure. Katie was there. She said, “See, you wake right up afterwards.” It took me a few moments to collect my thoughts and realize she was talking about Propofol again. Michael Jackson definitely got some good sleep on that shit. It does the job. I felt like I had been sleeping for hours; I was well rested. After putting my clothes back on, the doctor came in to go over the results of the colonoscopy. When he finished he was about to walk away, when I stopped him.

I said, “Was it you that picked out the music.” He lost his air of authority and gave me a slightly embarrassed look. He said, “Yeah, did you like it? I try to play music for patients some times and I’m not sure if it….”

I interrupted him. “It was great. I appreciate it. Thanks.” 

A big smile appeared on his face and he looked relived, “You’re welcome.”

I was going to mention the new albums, but I decided to just go home knowing that, to some degree, he must have had a little music junkie in him too.

Foreigner, Head Games (Atlantic, 1979)

 

By Null

I’ve never been a Foreigner fan. Even when I was a young kid in the late 1970s, the only impression I got from the band was sweaty polyester, testosterone-driven, mediocrity. If stinky jock straps in a high school locker room had a sound, and not just a smell, they would sound like Foreigner. The cover of the album Head Games did little to dissuade my opinion, as it looks like an advert for a slasher/rape scene. SoDak and I wrote a review of weird albums covers a few years ago and we included Head Games in our list for this very reason. You can check out that review here: https://tickleyourtaint.blogspot.com/search?q=album+covers.

Now, I don’t want to come off as a jerk. Maybe the guys in Foreigner are great people. I don’t know. Usually, I can find something interesting even in music I dislike. In addition, sometimes, a band I can’t stand has a few decent songs based purely on a memory of a specific time and place. Thus, I have a confession here. The Foreigner song, “Waiting for a Girl Like You,” on the Footloose soundtrack is okay. It makes me feel nostalgic and sad, like a puberty heartache, or something. It’s got a gentle atmosphere about it. Foreigner also reminds me of being a small child curled up in the back seat of the car, driving many miles through the country on cold dark nights going to my older step-brother’s wrestling matches. This was something I didn’t look forward to, or enjoy, but I guess I was too young to leave home alone at the time. Foreigner was all over the radio back then. The other exception, and I hate to admit this, is that if I am driving alone somewhere and “I Want to Know What Love Is” comes on the radio, I don’t change the station and I get a little emotional. I don’t know why. Don’t tell anyone. Anyway, that came out years later, right? Was it 1984?

Anyway, I digress. The point is I hate Foreigner. You may ask, then why did you listen to Head Games? The answer is that sometimes I make bad choices. The album was on my radar after SoDak and I reviewed the album cover and I just happened to be in a used record store and saw the LP for a buck, so I thought, “Ya know I should listen to this just for good measure. Just to experience the horrors that lie beneath the retched album cover.” I had never listened to an entire Foreigner album before.

So, I listened to it. It wasn’t worth the buck I paid. What a horrible record. It is exactly what I expected and only solidified my decades long opinion of the band.

The album starts off with “Dirty White Boy,” which is a song that just makes me think of gross hyper-sexual guys in my high school PE class who talked about “pussy” constantly. Gross.

The next song is “Love on the Telephone,” which makes me want to hit myself in the head with a hammer repeatedly. Boring crap.

By the time I got to the third song, “Women,” I realized that I may have been mistaken when I have stated that Kiss are the worst lyricist of all time. It’s actually Foreigner. 

What follows are the lyrics to “Women.” I have them here in their entirety so you can get a sense of the horror that goes on for a full three and half minutes. 

Women behind bars

Women in fast cars

Women in distress

Women with no dress

Women in aeroplanes

Women who play games

Women in uniform

See that woman with her clothes torn

Women who satisfy

Women you can’t buy

Like women in magazines

And women in a limousine

Women who sip champagne

Women who feel no pain

Women in a disco

And women who don’t wanna know, know, know

Oh women wanting sympathy

Women feeling ecstasy

Women who live in fantasies

Bringing man to his knees

Women who fall in love

Women who need a shove

Women who can’t be beat

Get that woman in the back seat, yeah, yeah

Women in the U.S.A.

Those women steal your heart away

Women into rock ‘n’ roll

Women who steal the show, go, go, go

Women that you write songs about

Women that turn around and kick you out

Women you dream about all your life

Women that stab you in the back with a switchblade knife

Oh women, ooh, ooh

Talk about women

Around the world

Yeah women

Oh no, it goes

Talkin’ ‘bout women

C’mon baby

Holy crap.

I suffered through the rest of the album like a paint-by-numbers hair-shirt exercise. The song “Head Games” eventually shows up on side 2. However, by that point I couldn’t even wax nostalgic for the long drive in the cold, backseat of a car rumbling down country roads.

This album is awful. I don’t even want to talk about it anymore.

Memoriam, For the Fallen (2017), The Silent Vigil (2018), Requiem for Mankind (2019), and To the End (2021) (Nuclear Blast/Reaper Entertainment)

 

Review by Null

I found a great band.

First, I will provide some foundational background: Karl Willetts, the singer of Memoriam, started the band as a tribute to his bandmate, Martin Kearns, the late drummer of Bolt Thrower. He enlisted Frank Healy, the bass player from Benediction, Scott Fairfax on guitar, and Andy Whale on drums. What followed was a string of three incredible albums from 2017 through 2019. Before recording their latest release, Andy Whale was replaced by Spike T. Smith, whom has played for Morrissey, Killing Joke, and The Damned. Andy left the band as friends, simply stating that he needed to spend more time with his family. Other than this lineup change, the band members have remained consistent.

As I am not a metal aficionado, my references and attempt to explain Memoriam are limited to my own experience, which is one of the things that makes writing about music so much fun. Our musical landscapes differ depending on where we come from and what were have been exposed to through the years.

I stumbled across Memoriam by accident. I took a chance by picking up The Silent Vigil on cassette tape. All I knew about the band was that they referred to themselves as “old school death metal.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, as I am not a huge fan of “death metal” per say, despite my deep love of Cannibal Corpse. However, after giving a first listen to Memoriam, I was reminded that Cannibal Corpse is known as “extreme death metal” for a reason, and it queued me in on what “old school death metal” means.

The first thing I noted was that Memoriam were slower and created more space in their songs. They were a bit more akin to Black Sabbath than Cannibal Corpse. There was also a clear absence of “blast beats.” Forgive me, as my frame of reference for the unending categories of metal is quite limited. There are entire universes between Cannibal Corpse and Black Sabbath, but you know what they say, “write what you know.” The other noted difference was the vocals, even though on the Memoriam album they are somewhat “rough” they are not the “cookie monster” style that is characteristic of so many death metal bands. One can hear the words and the humanity in the singing. I instantly liked it.

Next, I watched a few Memoriam videos and interviews. What I found intrigued me even more. The videos seemed to have some political content that, as an old punk rocker, made me very excited. I watched the video for “Failure to Comply” and was reminded how soft so many of the “mainstream punk bands” are these days. The video stood in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter protests and the condemnation of a violent police state. Memoriam even has a t-shirt that is an homage to the old Crass t-shirts. Next, after watching a few interviews with the band, I learned that they were born out of punk rock as much as metal. Karl, who used to sing for Bolt Thrower, a band I had never heard, stated that he found a new freedom in Memoriam to sing about politics and real life, which were not part of the lyrical stylings and restrained subject matter of his previous band. Memoriam provided a new lease on life for these guys. The band provided a place where these old-timers could stretch their wings and move beyond the stylistic trapping of preconceived band concepts. 

I immediately bought all of their albums. Though there are differences between the albums, there is also a consistency. They are all fucking great. 

The most wonderful thing about the band is that they feel fresh and new. Even though the band is filled with members who have been around the block a few times, they embody the energy of a gang of punk rock teenagers who just burst from the garage. However, their age does shows up in quite moving ways. Not only are the songs antiwar and political, but they are also quite emotional, as they address such issues as mortality and ageing. The first album, For the Fallen, is actually quite sad, and the newest release, To the End, contains a devastating, doomy song entitled, “Each Step (One Closer to the Grave).” Karl sings, “Live every moment like it’s your last.” The weight of the words is palatable. As someone nearing 50, who has witnessed his fair share of death in his life, this song hits me on a deep emotional level.

I could listen to Cannibal Corpse’s George “Corpsegrinder” Fisher sing the ingredients on the sides of cereal boxes all day, and I would love every minute of it. However, Memoriam is a softer and gentler death metal that speaks to my everyday life. Make no mistake, they are heavy and doomy, with crushing riffs to spare, but they also reek of humanity. Sometimes, they remind me of the last Dio/Black Sabbath incarnation, Heaven & Hell, The Devil You Know, which I still maintain is the greatest metal album ever recorded. Other times, I hear the slower Motorhead tracks in these albums, or the dreariness of the last three, post-Lynne, Alice In Chains albums, albeit, Memoriam is quite a bit heavier.

Memoriam are current, timely, and just what the world needs now. They burst out of darkness obliterating the bullshit. For a band that covers many real and sad subjects, they feel like a breath of fresh air and a new spring. Their albums bristle with the creative energy of a young band. Indeed, it is as if the band takes its own advice and plays each note as if it could be their last.

I guess what I’m trying to say is Memoriam is my new favorite punk band. Listen up youngsters, and pull your heads out of your asses. 

Fuming Mouth, Beyond the Tomb (2020)

 

By SoDak

Fuming Mouth’s Beyond the Tomb is a three-song, twelve-inch EP that demands attention. The title track, which opens the record, oscillates between relentless, hard-driving parts and slower, moody sections. Fuming Mouth does not linger too long on any part. A variety of vocal textures are present, making the song dynamic. I find the back-and-forth aspects of “Beyond the Tomb” to be quite captivating. It remains my favorite song on this record. While Fuming Mouth is generally considered a death metal band, I think their sound is broader than just this. In fact, on the title track, I only hear little elements of death metal, sprinkled throughout the song. Instead, during the fast, intense moments, there are exciting burst of hardcore punk rock. The slower moments have wonderful metal flourishes. The second song, “Master of Extremity,” seems more rooted in death metal, with its slow to mid-paced punishing riff, especially at the start of the song. But as the song progresses, Fuming Mouth incorporate other styles, which open up the music and keep it interesting. When the song slows down and guitar notes are held, there are aspects of High on Fire. At times gruff vocals dominate, then switch to vocals, where the words are plainly audible. The drumming is excellent. With each listen, I find the song more interesting. The closing song, “Road to Odessa,” is more straight forward with its slow, grinding tone, with a touch of propulsion, pushing everything forward. The gem in this song is the additional guitar lead that starts around one minute and forty-eighty seconds into the song. Its brief appearance adds some great texture to the song. Beyond the Tomb is a great follow up to Fuming Mouth’s debut full-length record. I am eager to hear where they go on their next release.