Detachment, Liberation and Transcendence in the year of the Water Tiger...

 "A Chinese guy tells his wife -tonight I want a 69! The guy's wife replies: so, tonight you want Beef and Broccoli?"

                                                                                          -Jackie "The Joke-man" Martling

(No one ever gets it when I tell that dumb Jackie joke. Meanwhile, I think it's hysterical)

                                         

For I, your Droog and narrator, Lord and Master, to not promptly end the year with a drunken wrap-up post, or even to commence the new one with declarations of war against the zeitgeist as well as against my "old self" (tirades clearly born of my hung-over belligerence) is an oddity and a serious breach of format. That's a good thing I think! To me, it is evidence that art is beginning to imitate my life, smashing the template continuously... whether by choice or by force. I mean, sure, all of my past year-end review/"Fuck-New-Year" rants typically have ended up in the trunk of a car with duct tape over their sutured mouths, promptly getting erased once a day or two had passed and I finally would circle back to my post and in full sobriety realize exactly what it was that I had posted, therefore avoiding serious problems for me that would be facilitated through the Patriot Act. Still, they were a nice excuse to put up content. (Well, actually, if you dig through the archives, there is one that I never erased, on principle, still lurking and infecting the web with cyber-gonorreah. Also, at the end of the day, a writer needs something to write about, right?!) 

Well, its the 20th of February, and I am chiming in now for the first time since October of last year when I posted about my thoughts regarding the great NY band Into Another and their Ignaurus LP. The reason for all of this procrastination is a joyous one, being that the Misanthropaganda offices have moved to a swanky new location (in a not-so-swanky zip code) and in all of the craziness of the move, along with its subsequent celebrations and eventual debauched christening, writing has been put on standby. Hey, I have earned a little break -I mean, what the fuck?! After all, I've put in work in the last two years. 

"A hand with no fingers is nothing less than a perpetual fist"

                                                               -Franky Teardrop 

                                                              

We here at the Misanthropaganda Wolfpack are settled in now, and its back to business as usual. (The Royal we: Me, Myself and I.) There is another novel in the works, this one is titled Acid War Hippie, which has been meandering at only 5,000 words deep since December. In all fairness to me, the glacial progress of Acid War Hippie stems from this one requiring some considerable research to write which I am compiling in real-time, as I write the thing. Also, the plot keeps changing on a weekly basis since I first dreamt it up. I haven't assigned an official Misanthro' catalog number to it because I may (have to) put out some work before then. Acid War Hippie is long game, and I need to put out work, for my own fulfillment, with timely consistency. Its a need at this point, to create, to produce, to complete, so that I can ultimately inflate my deflated and needy ego. There are a handful of Misanthropaganda projects on backburners currently, some in progress (Acid War Hippie, TearDropOneIsms, this blog, Hermit's Woods Mystical Skateboards, Inc.) and some being merely titles/ideas floating in "me gulliver". 

(Learn Nadsat motherfucker!) 

This month's post will be brief, random and somewhat aimless, not just simply as an homage to my sex-life, but also to mimic the unmethodical charm of old school fanzines. My New Year bout with COVID gave me ten days of quarantine to sit on my couch and swallow up old print issues of Maximum Rock and Roll, as well as back-issues of my own zine, Tales Of Perversion, (plus an old mailorder catalog from Taang! Records) and it made me long for the "good ol' days" of overexposed Xerox and choppy, sketchy cut-and-paste. (By the way, not to toot my own horn, but my old zine T.O.P. was once reviewed by Decibel magazine, issue #91 I think, where it was described as "an engaging and hilarious cut-and-paste monstrosity.") The truth is, that underneath all of the layers of sediment that I am buried under, just below the façade of sophistication that I try to generate, I am just an old 90's Hardcore kid/Fanzine-editing nerd, one that was trained by the DIY Punk journal giants (Slug & Lettuce, Profane Existence, Anti-Matter, Hardware, In-Effect, Inside Front, Feast Of Hate And Fear, Githyanki by Jew Scott... you name it!) I don't know if kids today in the cellphone age can appreciate the look and feel of a fanzine. Sad! I have always found them intoxicating to hold in my hands, to flip through, to soak my eyes in the black and white photocopied and overexposed images of young Punk bands playing to ten people in a garage or backyard. That is why I was sucked right in, having learned that even a shithead like me can put work out on the DIY tip just like it. Who knows, perhaps the next Misanthro' joint will be a fanzine... So, with my little preamble out of the way, let the festivities begin! Its the belated Misanthropaganda January Extravaganza brought to you damn near the end of February... 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Man... every word I say should be a "Hip Hop Quotable"

                               -Posdnuos, De La Soul, ("Stakes is High")

And now, some words from the ever-so-quotable ME, the boss...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

                 

 Diazepam Dreams, my first novel and release number 001 of this "literary label" (chuckle), is still available. The story is reality-based fiction, an emotional rollercoaster of a character-study set in the beginning of the pandemic (just as the backdrop but not as part of the plot). With this novel, it isn't so much about what the plot or story is, it is more about how the story is written. If you are the type of person that appreciates nuance and style, then give this a viddy, oh my brothers and sisters. Copies of the novel are $10 plus postage (payment through Zelle). To hook up, just shoot a nasty e-mail threatening my life to misanthropaganda@yahoo.com.

Also, I still have like twenty or so copies of Death Metal Phone Sex, a collection of two-year's worth of poems that were written during the darkest chapter of  my life, in its 'Zine' format. Those are free but I do have to hit you up for postage, and again, payment needs to be through Zelle...

Here... I'll tickle your ass with a feather a little bit... Let me shoot you a little taste... Here is a random selection from some of the shenanigans you may find lurking in this bad-boy -a grimoire of sorts which our own Brooklyn, NY correspondent Killer Kim has described as "some dark shit infused with some weird voodoo, hoodoo energy in it", a reference to one particular poem that literally drew her blood onto the page via a loose staple. Coincidence? I think not!

(a more "humorous" selection from Death Metal Phone Sex)

Conjuring the Daemon of Irritation

At every turn and every corner, on streets that split into pathways and alleys that lead to pitchforks in roads no matter which way you carry your life’s load lurks a hungry entity, the very personification of the spirit of aggravation. His name is ire. His name is wrath. I’ve jovially dubbed him Mr. Irritation...

Mr. Irritation is the patron non-saint of displeasure, the unfriendly ghost of vexation whom works his demonic demagoguery to make me particularly bellicose and ornery at human scum whenever contact has come close. So I have to show teeth to some, I have to growl at others so that they stand clear and over-stand that I’m no keeper of my brother, I bear no love for any other. Social distance is the first tenet of my religion –it’s no great asceticism, it requires no effort on my part, it is just my commentary on my repugnance for priests and pundits and politicians by the hundreds, for the rich scum who sip their Bowmore 1957 to calm their nerves because just below the ivory tower the Niggers and the Spics with liberals and anarchists in their mix are fighting the power, they watch us all sink as they pour the next drink, now THINK… Who’s filthy and stinking yet bankrupt and such? Who is poor and devoid of moral currency when urgency is given to form over substance and rhyme over reason when bending their knees for the worship of that Jesus horseshit – they’d commit treason for the finder’s fee.

The other end of the spectrum is no better to me. Last night around 2AM I took a night-skate down southwest 8, east bound past avenue 27. Ignorance is bliss or so they say that’s why this intersection is the piss-infested stairway to section 8 heaven. If I was low on words, this little ride would ignite the furnace and make me wish I could just burn this slum to the fucking ground but then the cockroaches would scurry to my part of town. Send eviction letters to these ham-and-eggers and insurance scam limp-leggers, poor trash who have adapted economic status as an apparatus of their low-budget thinking that is partly warped by the drinking of their low-budget ales and lagers brewed specially for cretins and simpletons because it gives them slacker swagger... Because, I see them… I see them at the market with a 12Pack in each hand, standing in line with stupid fitted caps –big ass ears tucked into them and gross smelly beards. Standing rooted into crusty, smelly bootleg FILA flip-flops and dry, fungal feet; or they’re grown men in Capri pants or tight jean shorts two inches above the knee sporting tribal tattoos that look like Anthony Kiedis vomited on their arm or like the D-graded art project of a half-blind mongoloid... I see them... With wives waiting their turn, can’t stand still because a UTI burns in dollar-store Lycra tights with the leopard print. Blamed it on his dirty, uncleaned foreskin when really it’s from un familiar, unwrapped dicks getting forced in… and by the way of course they always vote Republican.

This entity that presides over the winds of exasperation brings these things into my laser focus for my consideration, for my obsessive meditation. Take for instance when I walk the line sideways through corporate corridors that are just the pathways to my morning horror –the very same hallways that I must crawl across to beg for my pittance where virtual illiterates -literal idiots- are paid to pose as orators, and me, I get to take their orders, for a small royalty. They use their lingo and terminology that makes no fucking sense to me, they speak so loosely that the words drop like loose leaves prior to the dead of winter and then their verbiage splinters when it hits the floor, “hey stupid that’s not what that word is used for”... They go hip-hip-hooray when it was a good day for the company, another billion to accompany the trillion from last month, Hey Ted how are the numbers? --you preppy St. Thomas University cunt-- Pray tell how Capitalism once again prevails! This principality of Irritation has an eye for fashion that inflames my passionate opinions, like one in particular concerning endomorphs in tight ill-fitting garment. A surgeon could not remove those smelly yoga pants that broads wear everyday even though they’ve never once pressed a single ass cheek to the mat in Sukhasana, gym membership expired during the Clinton administration. Still, somewhere in that broad’s imagination she finds it okay to wear a belly shirt while her Chernobyl muffin tops hang in the breeze and her flabby, dimpled ass down behind her knees. The personification of pissed comes to me without warning or conjuration. Anything I say can be an invocation to make him rise from the sigil. Hand in hand he walks me from pacified to petulant, negligent of anything other than what represents my discontent, like mumble rap, Christians and Muslims, Democrats and Republicans, daycare daddy who is a hen-pecked husband, hypocrisy, humans, life, society, sobriety, institutions, constitutions, resolutions and mass confusion sewn by the same that get paid to throw their own two cents into the truth before contaminating the mainline which is the idiot box at prime time. Life itself an annoyance that if clairvoyance was a real thing I could have seen it all coming and would have asked for a refund – a raincheck on this avatar, just send me to hell –it can’t be far… I don’t want to reincarnate, fuck humanity, I’d rather stay a cadaver, I could have stayed in the ether, instead I’m imprisoned in the flesh that I didn’t want either. In search of truth I continuously encounter parody on the faces of the ignorant whose existence shouldn’t matter to me. Life, in and of itself, the most horrible of tragedies…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

 

I Picked the wrong incarnation in which to give up on Straight Edge

(To all the kids that chose the short way home just to give Kevin Scott daily ass-whoopings, karma is a bitch, and in some way, shape, or form, we are all reaping those seeds now...

... no one hears us!)

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Burning Strong. Miami Hardcore. 1994. Burning Strong was my first proper band. 'Proper' just means that we actually played venues, jumped in vans, and eventually recorded a demo that never saw the light of day. Shown in this picture are Tom Rankine (founding member)on Bass in the foreground, myself in the center on vocals, and 'Fab from the Lab'(Out Of Spite)on guitar above me. The drummer, Chris Velasco (also of Out Of Spite)is not shown here. This show was our last stand, at Churchill's Pub as per usual. That night we played with Brethren, Tension and Strongarm. I found a cool blog post a couple of years back that someone had written about us and it was flattering aides from being the only documentation that I have ever found on us. Apparently, the blogger had found a copy of Burning Strong's infamous 10 song warehouse rehearsal tape and reviewed it. Our proper 4-song studio tape ("Chalk Outline", "Silenced By Fear", "Pride Is Burning" and "Falling Down") never got released, but we had a warehouse rehearsal tape recorded right off of a tape deck that made a few rounds and somehow this gavone got a copy of it.(How the fuck?!) Hit this link!!!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(This is my next personal graphic for the Hermit's Woods Mystical Skateboards project. Originally, I started Hermit's Woods in 2020 as a fun little father/son project to bond with my kid; but printing up your own decks is so much fun that I took it up a notch and printed an absolutely gorgeous 8.5" popsicle as a Christmas gift for our Brooklyn, NY correspondent Killer Kim (bustin' shells), thus my decision to explore this little venture deeper.

Killer Kim's "Amethyst Assassin" deck

 

To date, I have pressed four graphics, two of which with some GNARLY marketing ads (very much in the vein of old World Industries ads.) These include my very first graphic, which was just my name in script encased over the Hermit's Woods logo, my son's deck (whose graphic is way sick in its own right), the Killer Kim deck, and my latest shown next down here...

I don't know that the Hermit's Woods motif is an aesthetic that I would pursue if I were to dare attempt making a living by selling decks. Mainly, because Hermit's Woods doesn't really have an aesthetic per se (just a GREAT name); but also, if I did actually start a brand, I would like for the theme to have an on-point, hometown vibe. I haven't found one yet. Miami has been slept on a lot in skateboarding lore and it just can't be due to a lack of talent (um, Zion Effs, Lester "El Pingu" Cepero, others). There hasn't been a Miami pro since Felix Arguelles (early 90s); and even he wasn't 100% Miami, going back and forth from here to NY. I can only speculate this scarcity/neglect has been due to a lack of a strong, properly marketed local brand that can actually afford to employ skaters full time. California is home to a million brands, New York houses a handful of influential ones, now Miami needs a good one with a nuclear warhead of marketing (like me) at its tip. 

In the meantime, while I concoct the next million-dollar idea that will transform me into a four-armed expansion of Sri Lord Steven Salvatore Rocco in the material world and revolutionize skating, I will keep on printing Hermit's Woods decks for shits and giggles from CCS. Check them out if you've got your own art you want to slap on a deck. Their boards are just as good and durable as any name brand and usually have really beautiful staining that just screams for clear grip-tape. The 8.5"s have a really gnarly shape with a wide, broad-curved round nose. I personally prefer a more square-like "shovel" nose myself, but CCS blanks last, feel really good thanks to the mellow concave and the shapes look gnarly under your feet. It's also extremely fun to skate your own graphics. Plus, CCS is a literal institution in skating, going back to the eighties. If you're middle aged like myself, and skated in the late 80s, chances are one of your first three pro boards came from CCS, which back then was known by its full name -California Cheap Skates. Ah, the pre-internet days of mail-order, when you would send a check or money order and your board (or records) came two months later. (Hit the link...)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The destruction of the youth begins with the music that they listen to, so here are some quickie reviews to plant the seeds of moral decay in fertile minds...

Life's Blood -Hardcore A.D. 1988- Prank Records

My days of purchasing music albums are very possibly nearing their end. A large part of me knows that this is a shaky and almost hollow promise, but I did vow that once the final 8 inch gap in my third CD shelf is jammed it'd be a wrap. Because of this, I have been racking my brain thinking of absolute essentials that I would like to actually possess and hold in my hands. Life's Blood is one of those essentials. I have been chasing this thing on RevHQ for a year and a half and finally it became available again recently.

I'm embarrassed to say that I did not discover this band until hearing The New Breed Compilation in like 2005 or so. I know, I know! Like a hundred years after its release!

Life's Blood has one of the toughest, heaviest sounds that I have ever heard from a band coming out of that era. While many of their contemporaries were beginning to go further into the murky waters by incorporating a few tricks they picked up from listening to Slayer, Life's Blood never really dove in to those murky waters... they just got heavier than the rest. You can hear the intent under that gruff tone, but they stayed affixed to that old-time sound. They still come/came across heavier and more aggressive than many of their class that were incorporating Jeff Hanneman licks into their breakdowns. Note the pronounced appreciation for D.C. style songwriting in their bag of tricks. Incidentally, their recruitment flyer, posted on the bulletin board at Some Records in 1987 when initially seeking members, listed The Faith and Void as desired influences. 

I'm assuming that this 26 track CD encompasses all of their work, which would be the demo, compilation appearances (The New Breed, Murders Among Us and Where The Wild Things Are), the Defiance EP and their tracks from their split with Sticks+Stones. This is highly recommended to any NYHC enthusiast. If you don't own this in your collection then your shit is limping. So tough!

She Past Away -Belirdi Gece- Metropolis Records

Let's agree to not disagree with me and just label this as Post-Punk. It's a broad umbrella, I know, but quite frankly, I don't know the difference between "Cold-wave" and "Dark-wave", and the term (ugh) "Goth" makes me nauseous. So, for all intents and purposes of this review, we'll refer to this Turkish outfit as "very infectious, danceable Post-Punk". 

There are only two types of music reviews, good ones and bad ones. I only tend to write favorable ones for albums that inspire a second consecutive spin, but it is difficult to succinctly encapsulate an album that has not ceased to rotate, back to back plays, ad nauseum for a week. She Past Away is derivative of some other group I am sure, still, Belirdi Gece (Turkish for "appeared at night") is absolutely superb. That an album of music in a category that isn't my usual fare can suck me in so deeply is evidence alone of its power. Sure, I have a long history with The Cure (whom I think set the template for this kind of stuff with "A Forest"), plus old industrial, but I have never gone this deep into the rabbit hole. I suppose it was inevitable once my obsession with Belgrado (which fucking rules/ruled) began about three years ago.

I can almost smell the fog-machines, clove cigarettes and fresh coats of Manic Panic hair-dye when I listen to this. I cannot listen to this without wanting to move, or cut myself, but don't think for a second that this stuff is pop/synth garbage. She Past Away has a thick, moody sound with that deep, vampiric vocal tone (like Sisters Of Mercy -blech!) that can often be a hackneyed cliché of the genre though fitting here. (Think sexy dance party... in a mortuary!) I sense these fellas have an appreciation for Black Metal in their leisure time. I don't know. There's little things that I pick up here and there such as certain chord progressions and certain vocal tricks (and no it isn't shriek-vocals) that give me that vibe. Their sound is dark as per the institutional standard, but driving, energetic and compelling. The clean production on this will be deeply appreciated when the bass is pulsing in your chest. (Clean production can be a good thing sometimes... OK?!). I would love to be able to read some lyric sheets but unfortunately they would all be in Turkish so Thoth only knows what they're going on about. For the most part you can just imagine it's something morbid which works just fine for me. I've since picked up two other releases by this crew as well as a couple of other groups in this genre that I've just discovered.

 

Blitz -The Albums- Captain Oi! Records

I am of the opinion that Blitz was the best (nothing to do with my favorite) of the British Punk bands. To think of my favorite, or even top 5 would take some (not much) deliberation, but as far as who I feel is the best in terms of prowess and songwriting ability, I have to give it to them. 

As a Punk band, or an Oi! band (whichever tickles your fancy), they were anthemic. As the title of their first album Voice Of A Generation implies, Blitz really captured the spirit of its time and place with ale-pissed hymns for restless UK youths that were either smashing the system or smashing a face open during a football riot. Lets do a quick inventory, shall we? "Razors In The Night", "Warriors", "Someone's Gonna Die", "Never Surrender", all classic cuts that are instantly recognizable to anybody who is even slightly adjacent to the Oi! sound. Also, these tracks listed here helped Blitz to not only appear, but hold their own on the UK indie charts.

Then sometime in 1983 they put out Second Empire Justice, which was a major departure from their original sound. When Blitz returned with a Post Punk record with New-Wave leanings they were not well received by OG fans and subsequently their label collapsed after the record sales dried up. The thing is though, that even in their new form, Blitz was amazing. Second Empire Justice is so, so good. It just has this clanging, British peel to it... its so transporting. (The only other time I've listened to something that just reeks of English is when jamming Cock Sparrer which I have just recently begun to appreciate.) Sure, their aggrieved, knucklehead tone wasn't there anymore and so armies of Punks with charged mohawks and Skins in their Cherry-Reds were disappointed -understandable, to a degree. However, if this record were a stand-alone, with no precedent, then it would never have been slept on by the Joy Division crowd, which it has been for years until recent re-issues. They produced another record in the same vein in 1989 titled The Killing Dream which is just as good (if not even better in certain regards) than Second Empire Justice.

This 5 disc collection of re-issues is worth every penny of the $30 (more or less) that I paid on Amazon for it. Captain Oi! Records does a really good job with all of these cool mini-boxsets and this one is probably the crown jewel in their repertoire. I highly recommend this if you're a fan of early 80s UK Punk.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pazahora- s/t- Prohibited Projects Records

A very dear old friend (my oldest, in fact), one with whom I first entered the threshold of Punk with hand-in-hand, gifted me this release as for house-warming when he visited the new Misanthro' offices a few weeks ago. It would have been nice of him to also gift me the first Bloodlet 7" EP on Smorgasbord Records which he showed up with as well. (He also came bearing another gift, we'll get into that...) This cat discovered the Malaysian band Pazahora when he had moved away, about 10 years ago, to Singapore where allegedly by his accounts he was "dando pinga pura en Singapura", or 'slinging pure dick in Singapore', as well as legends of weekend getaways to Thailand where while in Phuket he simply said "Fuck It!", if you catch my drift... (Can't blame him!) Singapore is the home of Prohibited Projects, which is the label that put this out. Prohibited projects is also what I have in mind once I make it to Thailand. They say "when in Rome do as the Romans", so when in Bangkok...

He urged me to let this thing ride while he and I chatted it up to whiskey (me) and tequila (he). I figured that I wouldn't flinch while this thing was on and we carried on like two big Yentas; but I must remark that every track gave me dog-ears. Then once I spun it a couple of times while alone, I was blown away. This is their first full-length released in 2006. Upon first glance of the digi-pak I commented to him "oh this must be, like, on some Amebix tip", a thought that carried on as I listened to the clean guitar intro laced with political sound clips. It sounded like something right out of Amebix Sonic Mass record. Once the proceedings were well on their way, I realized that this band has just trace amounts of Amebix that really only manifest lyrically. (Well, actually, track 5 on the CD titled "No Peaceful Solution" does have a major Amebix influence.) Pazahora have a really cool new take on Anarcho-Crust (I guess), incorporating lots of Hardcore tricks here and there, like bouncy breakdowns and gang vocals. Yes, d-beat abounds here as well. Also, they utilize lots of big, stirring melodic parts that give them an almost epic (but still brutal) sound. They are like the ferocity of Wolf Brigade meets the melodramatic melody of early Shai Hulud (with Chad Gilbert on vocals). Weird mix I know, but these dudes make it work and their sound is really legit and super impassioned. 

You can launch 1,000 bands in this vein out of the U.S. or the U.K., and maybe they can all ape the sound convincingly but that doesn't guarantee an infusion of genuine rebellious punk spirit into the music. These dudes, however, when they hit those big-hearted, vitriolic melodies you can clearly note a true rage against the system and the state. This is theme music for a Black-Block to fall out of formation and unleash war in the streets. I definitely encourage giving this a viddy on YouTube, if not forking over the two bucks that you can grab a copy on Discogs with. (Hit that link!) In fact, here... hit this link too... It will lead you to a cut off of the record. As for me, I'll just listen to it ad nauseum and fantasize about launching Molotov cocktails at Metro-Dade police cars in the middle of a riot.

...now, about my friend...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We met in Elementary School. We had just discovered skateboarding and Guns And Roses, and were about to go through the leopard-printed, spike-studded door into Punk oblivion which we never came back from. In High School, we skated every single fucking day! Whether it was Downtown, the Beach, the old Coral Gables bus terminal, the curb at Eduardo's Furniture Store, or the spots in the FIU South Campus, it was a given that we'd be out antagonizing civilian calm and hassling shop-keeps. Later on, he would help me through a new gateway that I would never come back from... drugs and alcohol! We kept it Punk! We started with quarts of Schlitz Malt Liquor and fifths of MD 20/20, drinking in school playgrounds at night. My first everything occurred while in this dude's orbit- first drunken state, first joint smoked, first acid trip, etc. What a fucking enabler this guy! Now, this dude shows up in my wobbly adulthood and gifts me a flask as the other component to my house-warming gift that I had mentioned in the earlier music review. I don't drink everyday, nor weekly even, but when I do, I do it with the intention to get "fucked-the-fuck-up", not to become more social. Having a flask, however, is almost direct encouragement to engage in shenanigans and skullduggery with frequency. It is that one final accoutrement that completes this new persona which I have morphed into during the past two years of my life- the sophisticated degenerate. I mean, if you're going to be a scumbag, do it with style. You have got to do the damn thing with passion, man! 

That night, we drank till about 1AM. As he left the Misanthro' offices I put my new flask into immediate use. I scanned my small but sufficient liquor stock and chose to fill it with the last fourth of a bottle of Maker's Mark that I was working on. I was in by about five drinks of whiskey at that point, and now was going to put in work with my new flask. I took my first sip- clocked in now. 

The rest is a blur. The next thing I knew, I was emerging from the Clarion Inn at about 10AM on Sunday morning with a thousand dollars worth of counterfeit Ben Franklins in my wallet, my face smelling like boiled ham and latex, and quite possibly with a new predisposition to develop cancerous throat tumors in the future. Phuket! Thankfully, there was no anus pain that morning, so the very worst of scenarios clearly could not have occurred.

So, Conan, here's to you... as I always have... and clearly always will... not only do I love you, but still find my best (or most interesting) moments in life whenever caught in your toxic jet-wash.

  Te quiero...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

 

 

 

(In Hopes You Would Come) / (If... Or When...)

Art... The true beauty of it is not in the technique so much, I don't think, its in the intent. That's just me though. You know, despite the most horrifying section of my passage through this place, in which all I see -morning, day and night- is dark, ironically my eyes have sharpened to beauty. No, no, come on... I'm not talking about broads... well, yeah broads... but I'm talking about the beauty of being able to feel the intent of a work of art. As if, though exposed to art all of my life, I am just now discovering it. It's not just new dimensions for the admiration of art and chicks that have opened up, but just, like, flowers, and birds, and trees, and the beauty of the whole natural world is being revealed to me... 

The hypersensitivity that has become the norm since I have discontinued my loon-candy has become crippling, yes perhaps (physically speaking); but on the other hand, if these new eyes of mine are just some pleasant collateral damage from my abrupt, Fuck-You discontinuation of my 7 year relationship with Effexor, and Risperidone and a regular Ativan regimen, then I welcome it. Be it as it may, I feel as if I am more like 'myself' than I have ever been before. Too much so, in fact...

Or maybe these are my new eyes, seeing the world for the first time after having 'wiped away the goo, once having emerged from a cocoon'. (Major reference. Inside thing.)

I dedicate this post to the young lady who inspired it. I will not be so bold as I can sometimes be and call Krooklyn Kim a friend because often times guilt tends to transfer via association (though I would very much like to consider her one.)  Kim is a new acquaintance of the Misanthropaganda Wolfpack. She is a remarkable woman, a true artist, and an ill Brooklyn Punk chick, whom was kind enough to share this photograph with me. Through this simple scene that she assembled as a piece of temporary art, I was moved into action... into words. I found it instantly inviting, and then I identified with it -with the intent. Also, it brought back certain ritualistic memories of my not-distant-enough pagan past. I asked Kim, "do you have a title for it?" Negative response. "Kim, may I title it?" Affirmative response. 

So I named it: "In Hopes That You Would Come".

"Damn, that's appropriate!" Relief came over me that I did her work justice. Joy filled me that I connected with the intent. I took her reaction as evidence of that. 

Here is the original work that she submitted. In hopes that it can enrich someone as it did me, I have posted it, first, in its original form...

"In Hopes You Would Come" 

Thank you, Kim. Bolts!

The day that Kim shared her piece, I continually went back to my phone to view it, to reflect on it, and on the title that I immediately associated to it -my intent. I wanted to transfer my intent, in turn, in the only way that I have at my disposal and a poem came of it. Unbeknownst to her, I took some liberties with her image and gave it the Misanthropaganda treatment, not as an improvement of any kind, but rather as transference. I hope it's okay... because like anyone who would associate with Misanthro -Krooklyn Kim WILL stab a motherfucker! This poem is called "If... Or When".

(just because I was listening to Chet Baker's version of "Almost Blue" when I wrote this. If you'd like, I recommend you do the same as you read it...)

If Or When

If..

or when...

Just hang with me, OK?!...

(sigh)

[inhale]-[exhale]

wait...

FUCK!...

Now I can't...

It's just-

it all wants to come out at once, and I really need to get through this...

It's overdue...

(sigh)

I can't...

I've been hurting for too long...

It's all going to come out wrong...

If or when I do this.

If...

or when...

Just bare certain things in mind...

That I have been dreading this moment in time...

The time to lay all my cards on the table...

First the Hermit, then the Lovers, then the Fool, then Death...

If or when the prophecy comes to see its day...

Well...

We're the ones that make them be...

[unknowingly]-[but willingly]

If or when I ever tell you that this is the last goodbye,

then that may be the time to admit how much I've cried. 

More than a man should admit to before relinquishing all of his pride...

(sigh)

How I've cried, and cried, and cried...

If or when these thoughts ever reach you,

perhaps this will teach you to not be so cruel...

[unknowingly]-[but willingly]

How silly of me, I thought you were filling me

(while slowly killing me)

I am just your cherry-flavored savior in the oddest of ways, getting it all off of my chest...

hand on breast...

knife on neck.

This one blown, next life on deck...

If or when that day does come.

The Rise and Fall of the Mighty L.V.G. (La Vieja Guardia). Miami Hardcore's most quintessential unit...

Sitting at a bar, getting loaded for the first time since going med-free. I am at my third drink in, with half a 'milly' of Ativan in my blood, when all of the sudden The Dead Boys "Aint It Fun" comes on in my earphones -courtesy of my meticulously curated Pandora Bad Brains Station. I focus in on the line in the last verse that sings "Ain't it fun when you've broken up every band that you've ever begun?". I laugh...

I laugh for two reasons. First, because most cretins will not understand the subtle beauty of that line, it's implications of a Punk anti-ethos before there was such a thing, and the honesty put forth in the verse -a sarcastic yet sober summation of an anti-social/sociopath, laughing at his inability to play nice with his mates. Second, I laugh because Stiv Bator's words ring true in the heart of this particular anti-social, whom has broken up EVERY band that he has ever begun as well (even solo projects.) 

A third laugh, a small chuckle pregnant with contentment barely clears my breath. Then I remember for a second, that not everything that I have put forth into the material world has been chaff... There have been some moments of artistic integrity and accomplishment, interspersed among all of the failures and greatest misses. There was a time that I had a purpose, one that solidified into a defining work of art, in this case -a piece of music, a benchmark that would never, ever be approached again. I am very proud of my old band -my most recent attempt at being a musician, that went nowhere fast; but that's okay, I would have killed it at one point or another. I suppose it is better that I doused it in kerosene and then applying a flame before the band ever had any real glory to hang on to... 

just would have made it harder to kill... 

I first published this bio/post a while back, as a backlash to an infuriating article by the fecal MIAMI NEW TIMES, in which they did not list my old band, LA VIEJA GUARDIA, a.k.a. the Mighty, Mighty L.V.G., in a list of the top 10 greatest Miami Hardcore bands of all time. Narcissistic? If so, minutely; because the fact is that in the context of this city's Punk/Hardcore scene, the L.V.G. stands as underboss to only one group of very dangerous individuals known as ANGER, which by excellence are/were Miami's undisputed kings; and I am not relinquishing nor conferring the crown unto Mean Gene and his outfit for fear of my life. A Hardcore band with the following opening line in a song, by birthright, rules these streets:

"Que pinga te pasa, te voy a matar... te saco la fuca y te vas a cagar!

A mi no me importa si tu estas empericado, a mi no mires atravezado."

[English: "What the fuck is your problem? I'm going to kill you! I'll brandish my gun and you'll shit yourself. I don't care if you're coked up, don't you look at me sideways!"]

I always had the intent of re-posting this little history of La Vieja Guardia, alias 'the Mighty, Mighty' L.V.G. on a periodic basis just to honor the memory properly because I really feel that "the L" deserves it. All of the music on the EP (save for "Pa' La Calle) was written by Harold Bosch, the Vinnie Stigma of Miami Hardcore, with not a single gram of his talents spared; and of course, all of the words were penned by yours truly, as I could never bellow nouns and verbs that didn't originate in my own soul. It was one of my few dreams since I was 19 years old, small as it may seem to a civilian, to be the bandmate of Dirty Harry Bosch before the big, long nap. Check. 

So, without further ado, I present to you this rerun of a post from June 13, 2019...

Most people never got that this logo was supposed to be a fight-cock. Sometimes detail undermines intent.

The Rise and Fall of the Mighty, Mighty, L.V.G.

To tell the story of L.V.G. we must first mention Miami melodic-punk band Guajiro. Guajiro formed in 2005. At that point they had self-released a 5 song EP which I had picked up randomly at a record store. The EP really caught my attention due to the very pronounced musical influence of Husker Du, a personal favorite. The Husker Du influence would not be all that intrigued me, but also the fact that these guys were doing it in Spanish really drew me in, since I was in a phase then of trying to reconnect with my cultural background, so I was listening to a lot more Spanish-language music at the time. I saw them play for the first time at an art gallery in Wynwood on December 17th 2005. 

That night, hours prior to the show, by sheer fluke I met their drummer Doug McKinnon at a convenience store across the street from where the gig was to take place and we sort of hit it off based on our conversation where we found the common ground of both being old Hardcore kids from the early 90's. McKinnon touted a rather impressive resume, having done stints as drummer in a few big underground names such as Boston's legendary yet abhorrent Slapshot, then over on the west coast with Ignite, the Vandals and Speak 714. We exchanged numbers and a semi-friendship formed, and subsequently through him I became acquainted with the rest of the band. 

In 2006 Guajiro ended up getting signed to I SCREAM Records who would put out their debut full-length. When studio time came around, McKinnon wanted to have at least one old-style Hardcore song on the album to show that this band had roots from that scene- a dog whistle of sorts.

So he and Guajiro guitarist Dave Santos wrote an instrumental and enlisted myself and Miami-scene Capo-regime "Dirty" Harry Bosch to throw down the lyrics and vocals. Harry at the time was doing MEHKAGO N.T. (in my top 5 favorite bands of all time), but was also known for fronting DNME and Out Of Spite. As for myself, asides from experimenting with some lo-fi hip-hop stuff, I had not done anything musically since my early 90's band Burning Strong. The song we did with Guajiro became titled 'Delincuente', Spanish for 'delinquent'. Harry and I came into the studio, penned the lyrics, went into the booth and nailed it on the first fucking take. Producer Darren Randall, who has done some knob-twisting for the likes of Pennywise (to name drop a bit) was working the boards, and he gave his respects. After a week and a half of having his prostate swollen from dealing with the prima donnas in Guajiro (the drummer and the bassist, mainly), he looked refreshed and enchanted by these two derelicts that had just knocked out a joint with "trade-off'" vocals in one take. First take! Mic drop... that's a wrap, motherfuckers. First take! First fucking T! Randall offered sincerest fist bumps, but still put forth his fist with caution. He seemed to still not be sure if the "Bulldog Boys" (Lord Frank and Dirty Harry) were friendly or not.

Everybody got super stoked by the track, and it was agreed upon by all of Guajiro's members that this song needed to be part of the live set with Harry and I singing. However, McKinnon was not satisfied with one meager serving of the musical style that was closer to his heart than the bright melodies of his main band. You can take a cat out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the cat. It was at this time that talks emerged about doing a batch of songs in the vein of 'Delincuente' and putting them on a recording. The L.V.G. had been born. 

A pic from an early rehearsal.

I came up with the name "La Vieja Guardia" which in Spanish means 'the old guard'. I felt it was a fitting name, since that's precisely what this band's  integrants were- we were old-school Hardcore guys doing a 90's revival record.  At that time, we consisted of myself, Doug McKinnon on drums, Dirty Harry Bosch and Dave Santos on guitar. We soon started rehearsing in Guajiro's practice space in West Hialeah Gardens and thanks to the riff-machine that is Harry Bosch we soon had seven songs of our own (two that would never go on to be recorded, "The Red and Black Attack" and "Para Que".) We practiced these songs till they were air-tight, over and over. We practiced until we became hostile towards each other in rehearsal. Then around that time a string of really wild house party-styled shows went down in Miami, at which we played a few with Dave switching from guitar to bass guitar duty for the purpose of the live sound. There was a tremendous response from the crowd, which in 2006 was composed of a rather eager new batch of kids at shows that were full of energy and hungry for Miami's version of the Revolution Summer, which to me, in many ways, 2006 was just that. It was a glorious time where Hardcore kids, Punks and Long-hairs coexisted in perfect disharmony -a motley army of social refuse that was ready to rumble with the world at a moment's notice. 

The time to record was now at hand. 

We went into Southern Noise studios to record the E.P. with Jon Nunez of SHITSTORM who would produce and fill in on bass guitar for the recording sessions. Jon's improvised bass solo on our song Hialeah DeathStomp still gives me goosebumps.

I think it took us about a week to record the 5 songs that ended up being put out by I SCREAM Records, no doubt thanks to affiliation with Guajiro through Doug. I didn't really feel that I SCREAM was the right label for us. I really felt that we should have gone with a Latin label, one with a distribution focus on central and south America, not a label based out of Belgium. At that time there was a lot of really cool happenings coming from Latin America in terms of Hardcore music that I wanted to be a part of. In the end I SCREAM was the one that we went with. I guess it was kind of cool, for me anyways, to be label-mates with such names as Maximum Penalty, Beowulf and Token Entry. 

I remember the night that all the dust had settled and we each all went home from Southern Noise with a finalized CD-R of the proceedings. I joyfully cried several times, I laughed several times, and despite having to be up the next day at 5AM to go break my balls for a living, I couldn't sleep, and it didn't matter. I was plugged in to something, I don't know, my Dharma perhaps, and could've gone a week without sleep. A 1AM exchange via text messages between McKinnon and myself is pretty telling...

McKinnon: U Up?

Me: Can't... Close... My.... Eyes!!!  LOL (get the reference?)

McKinnon: Dude, I've literally shed tears

Me: Dude, not more than me. We fucking did this, bro!

With an E.P. out, it was time to fill in the bass guitarist slot with a steady member. A few people were auditioned, but nobody quite fit the mold. I don't think that there was any real prerequisite qualifications that we were looking for, it was more of a certain attitude that needed to be possessed. Also, in all fairness, nobody that we auditioned could tolerate the often contentious nature of our bands' interactions with one another during practice. It could get very tense very quickly in that little room. Like I said earlier, we practiced our songs till we became hostile towards each other. The fact was that we were all guys in our late 30's at the time who were very set in our uniquely neurotic ways, and in my particular case, very angry, unmedicated and out of control. 

After an unfruitful search, finally the right fit bassist would appear in the persona (and I do want to stress the word 'persona') of former ANGER alumnus and well-known sociopath Willy "The Nasal Snowstorm" Medina. Willy was actually a tremendous lead guitarist but he really dug what we were doing conceptually and did not mind at all switching from guitar for bass duties.

There was no audition, he was in from the beginning mention. If you can boast affiliation to the mighty ANGER, you have got all the credentials you need to play in my Hardcore band. Just listen to their classic jam Winds Of Violence, just to name one of many unsung classics from this Miami band and tell that you can't put it up against anything on Age Of Quarrel, for example. Willy was, and probably still is, a fucking nut that fit perfectly with us old rusty bolts. His dexterity as a lead guitarist more than translated onto the fretboard of the bass guitar; and he was loud, obnoxious and abrasive enough to hold his own during heated band practices. The L.V.G. was complete, a motley crew of misanthropes indeed.

Unfortunately, completion of the circle would not mean that it would roll forward. Asides from playing some cool "big" shows at home and a couple of out-of-town gigs with MADBALL, and playing the Tattoo Convention, L.V.G. would pretty much die while still on the vine. There were lots of elements working against our survival as a band, from the demands of my employment which limited my ability to tour, to the fact that L.V.G. was everybody's side band; everybody but mine.

It started to feel like L.V.G. was some slut that everybody goes to fuck when their girlfriend is out with her friends. I had also come to a point personally where I did not want to be associated to Hardcore anymore just because I did not like the direction that I started seeing the scene take musically and as an attitude in general. We all came to the agreement that we had run our course, and so L.V.G. played our last show with AGNOSTIC FRONT on the 5th of February, 2009 at Churchill's Pub, Miami's version of CBGB's. What an oddly appropriate band to play a last show with, I thought, since Agnostic Front's "Live At CBGBs" cassette was among the first four Hardcore records that I got as an outcast kid in 8th grade who was just discovering this incredible underground scene. They were my "Blood In", and on that night they would be my "Blood Out" of Hardcore.

Note the SICK OF IT ALL banner behind the Drum kit... This pic is from the night we opened for them in Downtown Miami.

Do I have any regrets, as far as how far we took it, or could have? No, none at all! I was not a young man any longer, at least I did not feel like one. It became evident to me on those 'away' shows with MADBALL that I was already too neurotic and grumpy for the road, much less with four other Neanderthals in tow. I was already way too domesticated by my soon to be new-and-ex-wife and was very into the comforts of my home and my pets. Of course, had I known then what I know now, I would have administered two swift kicks to her cunt and off I would have gone to father many children in Europe (take that, Caucasoid population!) 

At the very least, I was able to scratch that itch that every old Hardcore kid gets about every 10 years or so to make a little bit of ruckus. I was able to scratch that itch with a record that I am really proud of, one that finally made MIAMI HARDCORE into a thing...

So to Abel Folgar's Charmin'-grade journalism, and anyone who may have read and gotten offended by my claim that the L.V.G. should have been on that list, I will now present my case, for your consideration....

Look, musically L.V.G. wasn't inventing the wheel. How far can you go with Hardcore without it morphing into something else? We were doing our take on formulas that already existed from the very late 80's and into the 90's. I think if you were to listen for old-school influences, one can detect a little bit of WARZONE, maybe some CRO-MAGS, even some post-Hardcore flavor of bands like ATLAS SHRUGGED or BURN is present.

Undeniably, the elements that made L.V.G. exceptional (in my view, anyways) is the sincerity of emotion and the spirit of the music. Those five songs would make the hair on my arms stand up like needles when I would perform, or even when I listen to them today the effect has not diminished. The product speaks for itself. Those songs are executed razor tight, with no emotion compromised. Of course, none of which could have been achieved without the riff mastery of Harry Bosch, one of the musicians that I have had the most admiration for throughout my years in music. Every band that Harry has ever formed has been in some way detrimental to the survival of the South Florida Hardcore scene and the man is an encyclopedia of music. I can say that I was bandmates with Harry Bosch... my career in Hardcore was now complete. I'm now an elder statesman. 

Musicality aside, L.V.G.'s lyrical content is ultimately what really set us aside from the Miami Hardcore pack. Riding on our sound was a homegrown attitude, a truly 'Miami' approach to lyricism that gave LA VIEJA GUARDIA its true unique flavor. L.V.G. would be an all Spanish language Hardcore band which up until us, and I don't believe since, has there been a band like that in Miami.

I always found it odd that there weren't other bands that wrote in all Spanish, a scene that was almost entirely comprised of Latin kids. ANGER only had like two songs in Spanish I think ("NI PINGA!" being one of them -a classic). We wanted to throw it down not only in Spanish, but in Miami/Cuban slang. I tried to incorporate as much deep Cuban slang and idioms into the lyrics and they just worked. I knew that it would be a little alienating to do so, but it was the only way to write THE Miami Hardcore record, a job which I believe we did successfully. Also, I wanted Cuba to have it's hat in the ring, up until that point, traditional Hardcore had not reached the island yet despite a burgeoning Punk scene. 

I put a lot of heart into those lyrics, which at the end of the day is what gives a Hardcore band its greatness and its legitimacy. I challenge any Spanish speaker/reader to listen to that record while following along with the lyrics and not have their emotions stirred by our track 'Entre Hermanos', or the esoteric philosophies espoused in 'Moyugba Ache'.  The spirit of Hardcore is ever present in that recording that I am endlessly proud of. At the very least, when all is said and done, we contributed something truly solid to the zeitgeist, a bittersweet testament to Miami Hardcore that will stand the test of time, and for that I am eternally grateful to those four Neanderthals.