Fuck The Kiss Army

"Kurt Cobain—no, that's one or two records, that's not enough. Amy Winehouse—that's one or two records, that's not enough. What, just 'cause you died that makes you an icon? No, no."

That's a quote from Chaim Weitz...a no talent schlock master, a perennial suckwad.. and the only person on earth with more ego and worse hair than Donald Trump. His "act" (certainly not a band) Kiss was just inducted into the 2014 class of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I couldn't be more crushed, not because those ridiculous brain dead, nacho eating, acid washed jeans- wearing, knuckle dragging lowest common denominator tool and dye guys called the Kiss Army voted them in this year.....But because they'll be inducted on the same night as a game changing, legendary band like Nirvana.

See the above quote again. This act is a product, a sham, a revolving door replaceable- membered caricature of itself existing only for product placement(get your Kiss tampons, here ladies!!.Comes with the same blood packets Chaim uses on stage!!!) and background music at back alley strip joints and bowling leagues. For Chaim Simmons to open his mouth to even have the Schwetty balls to mock Nirvana as not worthy(did the same with Foo Fighters)..is pathetic heresy..and should be punishable by having him stick that pointed tongue of his right up his own quivering, pouting, almost geriatric asshole an hour after catered burritos at a Kiss show on a hot July day. Right after he takes his squirrel wig off.

This is manufactured group that stole Alice Cooper's entire act,   gave us 2 and a half chords per song and prize winning lyrical content like "Lick it up, Lick it Up...Oh, Oh, Oh,"....and who could forget their earth shattering endeavors like "Music From the Elder, "God gave Rock and Roll to You" and Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park..a movie even Ed Wood would laugh at. Speaking of laughs..if you want a few..check out Stanley(Paul) Eisen's classic phoned in stage banter HERE: https://soundcloud.com/christopher-armes/45-minutes-of-paul-stanley


They've had more members than both the Polyphonic Spree and/or the Vienna Boys Choir and claim that once Chaim and Stanley get too old, even they will replace their characters with new members, finally becoming the first act to become a tribute act of themselves.

You wanted the best, you got the best, Rock Hall of Fame! Deep Purple, Yes, Thin Lizzy, King Crimson, The New York Dolls, The Runaways, Devo, Motorhead, and Iron Maiden thank you.

      

The 10 Best Albums of 2013 (using the word BEST so more people will link to this) (more like the 10 Most Tolerable)

For most of the year, as with every other year the grumpiness that rained down on my already wet head was caused by the musical distaste in my mouth. This taste was akin to a curdled milk sandwich on a hot day after ten beers. A real yumfest. I could not shake the displacement between me and most of the critics out there. I've read a bunch of year end best of lists...and I'm stunned into either silence or rumbly guffaws from the couch. Eh. I shouldn't be surprised. It is revolting and sad that the bulk of these alleged tastemakers get their opinions to stick..ripe and rote for the people who want to dance more than they want to listen, and for those who habitually compare their personal misogynist goody bags with those of the fool- aid drinking Yeezus sect.The critics are getting younger every year, and feel inclined to bring along assloads of entitlement and disdain for the so called dinosaurs. These hipster pundits are so young that they don't even notice the blatant derivative dreck dredged up and spat out from oft- lauded bands like Vampire Weekend and Parquet Courts and Savages and Best Coast and on and on. And yet the blogosphere is abuzz.,like a bunch of blind bees in a dead field.  The gap between mainstream media hype and real talent gets wider every year. And though I continue to give myself a break and try out a few musical pur..suits every year and the end result always seems to look like a big man in a little shirt. It don't fit. And it feels like shit.

I like what I like. I've never subscribed to anything "best". Its a beat up, empty, bargain bin word. These are merely suggestions that ain't any better than anyone else's out there on the internets or in dead tree media. But they're mine. They got the most spins in my household. I didn't need to multitask while listening to them.
What a shock. When's the last time you "listened to music". I mean, just sat down and listened with no distractions, no miles to run, laundry to fold, car to pass, When did music stop earning your undivided attention like fucking Homeland or The Voice????
May these humble choices inspire you to do something other than fill yourself with faux empowerment, dance like everyone's looking and jack yourself off by taking a mental tally of your accoutrements.


#10) The Next Day- David Bowie
#9) Whales and Leeches- Red Fang
#8) Ultraviolet-Kylesa
#7) Southeastern-Jason Isbell
#6) Ready to Die- The Stooges
#5) Ghost on Ghost- Iron and Wine
#4) The Bronx IV- The Bronx
#3) Black Pudding- Mark Lanegan and Duke Garwood
#2) The Worse Things Get, The Harder I Fight, The Harder I Fight The More I Love You-Neko Case
#1) Earth Rocker-Clutch

H.M.- Civil Disobedience For Losers-Indian Handcrafts
          Moistboyz 5-Moistboyz


Biggest Disappointments after MANY listens:

1) Like Clockwork-QOTSA- would've, could've should've but didn't.
2) 13- Black Sabbath. Meh. Lots of living and dying lyrics, horrible drum production.
3) Amok-Atoms for Peace- How about a song one of these years, Thom?


Would rather be curbstomped after being caned than to ever have to listen to again:

1) Days are Gone- Haim-
2) Yeezus-_____ _____
3) Modern Vampires of the City-Vampire Weekend
4) Mechanical Bull- Kings of Leon
5) Trouble Will Find Me- The National
6) The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here-Alice in Chains
7) Silence Yourself-Savages
8) Light Up Gold-Parquet Courts
9) The 20/20 Experience- J. Timberlake.....Take off that stupid hat.

Lanegan

The trees are still albeit for a few coughed out gusts blowing back a branch or two. They look like they have been dodging buckshot, anchored to the forest floor, patches of nude leafless extremies adjacent to the fledgling orange and rusted presentation of Autumn. The rain has dried up to a mushy dampness, the clouds chock full of chalky grey, glued together in a stoic laziness over the neighborhood. They pose no threat until the next front meanders in like a bully on a full playground.

It is a perfect day to saturate with the songs of Mark Lanegan. This soundtrack will be the last perfect ingredient in my cauldron of unabashed joy, that will simmer all day until the murky cusp of the evening, upon which I will breach the winded path of aimless motorists, hitting the city to see the man himself in concert. That day has finally come.

Mark Lanegan's music has been more than an occasional sonic bullet point, more than a fixation or phase in a long life of listening. His voice and lyric have taken shape as the vessel, the escape pod, the parachute, the remedy, the accidental elixir, the lubricant, the glass punched through in case of fire, the jump start, the come down, the virtual warm blanket, the dim beacon, the conduit, the flint, the skeleton key, the antagonist, the soothsayer, the tarot, the rhyme and reason to many a heavy moment in my life.

Ive seen him in concert before, yes but for some reason today feels more right, the conditions seem precisely optimal, the yin seems more lego-ed into the yang.

This mood is what music to me is defined by.

"What is this that stands before me?"

I had the privilege of seeing Geezer Butler, Tony Iommi, and a phenomenal drummer named Tommy Clufetos the other night in Philadelphia. There was also a front man who waddled around in a stupor(sober as can be) singing Black Sabbath songs along with them, inbetween endless head dunks in a water bucket and a handful of teleprompted cliches. His name was Ozzy. Lets just say(then go on to comment in torrid detail) that the only song he should be singing is "Mama, I'm Coming Home. Home to rest. Rest up, drink tea and watch the History Channel until the bats crawl up into the belfry one last time.

Ozzy Osbourne has lived many lives and survived several deaths and conquered many arenas of heavy music and high pharma in his 64 years. He, along with Keith Richards will outlive all of us to entertain the advanced strain of cockroach left after the next and last apocalypse. I mean, the guy just got out of his 30th rehab and makes an album and decides to tour. But even after all of the hype of a true Black Sabbath Reunion, and the Bill Ward in/then out drama, and the Tony Iommi health issues, I decided to go and see the old gang.

Tony Iommi has cancer. Tony Iommi went back and forth from England to Los Angeles this past spring to work long hours in a studio on one end of the trip and take a chemo drip on the other end. Tony made the call to move on after Bill Ward's non committal stalemate took hold. Tony wanted to beat the devil. Finish the album. Tour the world maybe one last time. Tony came on to that stage the other night with something to prove to himself, to his fucking disease and his fans.

Mission accomplished. The SG blazed. The capped fingers flew. The tri- tones triumphed. The problem was not the problem. His health was a total non issue, even evident from the ridiculously overpriced nosebleed vantage point. The victory was spoiled. The man in trouble is not Tony. The man in trouble is Ozzy.

Ozzy can't sing anymore. Yeah. Yeah. We expect Ozzy to be the spectacle.The shaky prince of darkness that he is at this advanced age, and after all of the damage. But this is deep doo doo, for 50 dollar cheap seats and the darkest of dark dark blasphemy for the 100 floor seats.  But why take the piss on us Yanks? Either there was no possibility he was tour ready, or there's just plain no possibility at all anymore.  He was off key so bad during War Pigs/ Into The Void/Under the Sun/Black Sabbath/Behind The Wall Of Sleep and N.I.B. that my thoughts went from giggly anger to blatant concern. I kept thinking his old mates Geezer and Tony(as amazing as they were) just didn't have the nuts to throw a flag somewhere on this tour, let alone that night. Disclaimer: I've perused footage from the other tour stops with carbon copy set lists, and the Ozzman doesn't Cometh. The Ozzman Isnt Eventh Therefh. Ditto, people.  Back to Philly though:  He pulled out all three of the standard stops on the mic between songs ad nauseum to the point where I kept thinking "I wanna see your hands!!!!" and "We love you motherfuckersssss!!!!" were the only things non- teleprompted that he could think of to say. The waddle, the clap-stomp, all in force and enforced in drunken robotics. Sharon gets more dog jewelry, I guess.

Sad Shite. Sabbath Cruddy Sabbath. And I'm feeling a bit fleeced.  Even the outstanding out of body- like drumming of Mr. Clufetos(very you tube worthy) and the most brain- cuddling contact high I've
 had since my mullet was in check didn't change my sentiments.

And no new tour t shirt sold by any band (geriatric or not) is worth 40 bucks, even if they were made from black headless goat hair and printed with bat blood.

so faux so foe

Precious minimum of care. Repercussions like land mines in the sand next to my toes on a phantom vacation. On every other day the spirit leaves, the spirit comes back to a larger room with the soul hollowed out just a little more. Just a little more. A little more to give, to wring out of the day, like a bloody towel used to wipe up the puddles of blood beneath the thrashed . A little more to take. Take cover take charge. Take cover take charge. Bide time . Bid on extra years for improvement, bid on the priciest wet bag of lies in the silent auction. Screen your callers. Reinforce your pillars, so faux, so foe?

Please don't line up the candles. Trade ten of mine to give her a decade more to get her house in order, to strip the blame from her husbands mouth, to shame the mother into proper exile on an isle of lepers and lifers. To thrust this beast I do the dirty spoon with into oblivion. Instead, we wallow in the wreckage , the shadow stealer and I bring the rear up to new lows . we wade through puddles of dust rapel down cliffs of frozen blood. we land on the moors of the annointed forgotten. we rub bones together for fire.I pitch the shards and shrapnel as a screenplay to myself. I wear the pigs head. Fully catered with yesterday's bones and gizzards and smut gluttony to set a course unpaved and ahead, behind, beside, beyond, within.

Where to go from here but another dog eared page in the beat pleading for contact, kneaded wafer thin in need , cooked on the corners, raw in the middle of nowhere. Ah the laughter cued up, aligned with the film, cooked into melted focus by the burn of the bulb. A quick edit, a stealth exit. Whipsmart agony  from dragging the deep forbidden lake , sizzled in the coals rake.

The endless serenade. The quelled chorus, the heady refrain. Cheer up Charlie, your golden ticket is one way, southbound, hot to the touch. Window seat please.

Ghosts with the skin peeling off in the napalm mist, in their molten grip, they hold your boarding pass.

Free at last.