Thursday, June 23, 2011


You know, with all the tech death that I've been listening to lately and the Origin show that I went and saw last week, I've been awash in a sea of note diarrhea.  I love note diarrhea, but it wears on the old ears from time to time.  I mean, how many times can Paul Ryan sweep pick a major triad in one album?  How many times?  Wow, that's a lot.  But over the course of the last couple of weeks, I've been combating the wank with a little bit of musical Kaopectate.

Listening to some DOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

I sometimes talk about the olde tymes when I write here.  They sure feel like olde tymes, but when I actually go to date myself, it makes me feel like a total n00b.  I consider Indian to be "my" doom band.  They were my first real exposure to doom metal, and they are the bar by which all other doom bands are measured, and there are only probably a couple that can compare to Indian (Thou and the local ATX band The Roller).  In a tyme ov olde (which, embarassingly enough, turned out to be only three years ago), I was perusing the music selection at the local Borders in Bakersfield, CA.  In those days, the music selection at that Borders held surprisingly kvlt gems of brutality, if only you had the fortitude to comb through all of the Phil Collins records to find them.  I had read about Indian's previous record in Decibel, and one day I was combing through the glut of crap in the music section, lazily picking through looking for something to pique my interest.

Then I saw it: Slights and Abuses/The Sycophant.

What an odd title.

I immediately purchased the album and took it over to my friend Scott's house to do some hard listening and some even harder drinking.  Those were exciting times, where I would get off work around 3 in the afternoon after a solid 11 hour day and immediately go to a friend's house and start knocking back beers and playing billiards.  Though I do miss my comrades in Bakersfield, I have to admit that there is a certain charm to waking up and not being terribly hungover, especially when you have to go drive someplace and do heavy lifting.

Also, I stink less these days.

I took the album to Scott's and immediately threw it on, waiting for the music to transform my life the way that Decibel promised it would.  Scott's reaction was this:

"Do you actually like this?!?"

The answer was "yes."  The unabridged answer was "Shut up."

I had finally found some doom that I could hang my hat on.  It was a liberating experience, though all of my friends marveled at how shitty my taste in music had become.  We had to turn off the album and listen to a 2pac album instead.

It's a good thing I love "Shorty Wanna Be A Thug," so much.

Guiltless does for me what Slights and Abuses/The Sycophant did for me all those (three) years ago.  The slow burn of the crushingly heavy songs remind me that, though I've never gotten into doom metal (too much mongo-style clean singing and meandering song structures for my tastes), I know that it can be done correctly.  It's like having Mexican food in Indiana, and then you make a trip out to Southern California, where Mexicans aren't just on television stealing other peoples' jokes (I'm looking at you, Carlos Mencia) or just generally being not funny (that one's aimed at George Lopez).  It turns out, there are some that make food so good you'll eat it until your butthole literally bursts into flames!  Suddenly you're like "Holy fuck!  Mexican food rules!  Why does all the Mexican food where I'm from taste like they fished it out of the toilet and this tastes like God's unending love with a side of refried beans?!?"

That's my feeling with doom metal.

If you're into fiery pterodactyl vocals and slow burning, suffocatingly heavy songs with sometimes misspelled titles ("Benality" is a little bit confusing to me, but maybe there's a pun buried in there somewhere that I'm to false and ungrim to see), you'll be into Indian, and you'll especially love Guiltless.  It is fast, violent relief from the raging river of note diarrhea caused by tech death.  Just look for the distinctive art style and the picture of the pope eating a dove's head!

Fuck it.  Steal it.

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