Depeche Mode 'Violator'

The proper listing for an album title, at least according to the guidelines presented to me at my first official music reviewing gig (PopMatters.com, like every other wannabe writer) is to print it in Italics, and the song titles are to be listed in quotation marks. Unfortunately, this Blogger software does not allow me to apply the Italics into the title field, and so I have been relegated to an improper listing method for two years now. I'm just putting it out there -washing my hands as if Pontius Pilate. I know my business and know it well, and if there is some impropriety in the midst there is a perfectly logical explanation for it. On with it then...

I'm at a very good place right now musically. By now I have become a colossal, amorphous black mass absorbing all things that make a pleasing sound into my null organism, making them my own for all intents and purposes -sort of like a musical Akira. I'm not sure if it's attributable to maturity because frankly I've regressed so far back that I'm practically one toe deep in my mother's toxic twat again. I think, rather, it is a victory to be chalked up for this new unprecedented level of "I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck" I have recently reached that has just smashed any and all lines -perimeters- regarding the aesthetics of music, literature and their respective genres, art, fashion and perhaps even sexuality. I am boundless now. (Only through the merit of being nothing.)

That's a good thing! In a way, it is like getting a second stroll through life. With my horizons now widened exponentially, there is an entire universe out there waiting to fill me with delight at this opportune time in my journey through this dump. The time is right, the time is now, to get the best out of my midlife crisis somehow. I mean, true, life has lodged a rather large, uncircumcised, veiny member in my little balloon knot; now it is up to me to figure out which way to wiggle my ass so that I get the pleasure out of the violation (pun intended). This I am currently doing by having stumbled back into my post eighth grade/pre-high school self, with a significance that I'm sure my shrink would give a proud nod to, then he'd press the red button under his desk to have the boys with the butterfly nets rush me. This timeframe that I'm recreating was the last summer before losing myself, the real me, and becoming a cardboard cutout that I wore before myself to hide the cowering little boy behind it.

 Lately, it feels as if the universe has brought me back there by way of undertow to try and give this thing a second go. Among the many things that I have (re)discovered in this benign manifestation of my midlife crisis as my alter-ego/nom d' plum Teardrop (Frank Redux) is Depeche Mode's Violator album.  Violator was very much a soundtrack (not a personal one) of those days. I did possess the cassette at one point, but never paid it a fraction of the mind it is getting this week now that I own it on CD. There are also other reasons why Violator is in heavy spin, and it is because of the single "Enjoy The Silence", which is tied in to some recurring fantasy that I have been having regarding a character from my novel, Diazepam Dreams. Her name is Yajaira...

Violator was DM's seventh outing and it would be hard to imagine that it isn't their most critically acclaimed (I didn't feel like researching). Depeche Mode are good at what they do, which is basically just electronic music but if you would like to get more specific, then OK, synth-pop (?), Euro-pop (?). Certainly that genre is not for everyone and I am more than certain that particular hazy figures from my previous life are saying "oh, now you like it, eh Maricon?" Yes, Maricon, now I like it. The bottom line is that good music transcends genre. Also, I challenge you to sit through 10 minutes of modern day pop as opposed to 20 minutes of Violator. Go ahead, I'll wait... Back so soon?!

As for the 'danceability' of the music, so what? Let me see the most masculine of you cheloveks out there have three highballs and then not not want to dance with a smoldering hot broad to "Personal Jesus". Certainly I did more than my share of dancing (and falling down with broads) during college at Club 609 on Thursday nights. Also, my body involuntarily responds to Reggae -I go into instant skanking 'when mi a fi 'ir a chune, ya kno'... Consider that not everyone wants to stagedive and bang heads with each other. Sometimes its nice to slink around with a girl in front of you. I am a big stickler for mood music in any given situation, and there is absolutely a right time and place for this joint.

The program on Violator consists of nine tracks and clocks in at 47 minutes. I am not going to reiterate yet again my gripes with running times but this thing is right in the sweet spot. That aside, though the production is ice cold and squeaky clean, it has a wonderful dark ambient quality to it -a great musical tone that David Gahan's voice accompanies like a hand in glove. I find a type of solace in his vocal style. I am familiar with their earlier single "Strangelove" which is a great dance tune but this album is a whole other level, having received five consecutive spins since it arrived at my shithole and there are no signs that it is going to get shelved anytime soon. 

In 1990 when it dropped this thing was pretty huge, as right it should have been with all of the promotional dollars that went into hyping it. I remember as if it was yesterday the huge promo visual displays at EVERY local record store whether they were the chain shops or the two/three indies that we had here in Miami. That promotional rush costs money! That's okay, I am positive that the record company recouped and DM made out like fat rats. Violator sprung three radio hits in "Personal Jesus", "Enjoy The Silence" and "Policy Of Truth". Then, on top of the commercial success of this album, the fellas embarked on the "World Violation" tour, packing many, many stadiums in the process; and well, touring dollars are the real bread and butter of a music act. 

Anyways, this record is dope, it has loads of vibe to it. A blow by blow synopsis of Violator three decades after the fact is obsolete and unsolicited. The takeaway from this should hopefully be that this is record with a great tone, it has hints of darkness and melancholy without a full goth tilt, whereas it can be utilized as party music and keep the vibe festive yet sexy and not some "Do-the-Limbo" shit or "Guess How Many Nails In My Coffin" either. Today I may even give it a second spin as soon as I'm finished with The Exploited Punks Not Dead which is celebrating a 30-something anniversary.

Eh, what the fuck, what are you going to do? Anyways, check out Violator by Depeche Mode regardless of your typical genre. You would be surprised just how many musicians from the Punk, Hardcore and Metal scenes rock this album. You should follow suit. I recommend it for moody relaxation, sexy contemplation, and aural masturbation. Toodles. I have to get back to trying and place a complain with the Customer Service Department of the National Suicide Hotline. The guy that I got last night was a piece of shit. Their argument is that he clearly did his job since I am alive to call back today and complain.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

   

Toy Heap

It was a glorious day in that musty, grey encasement...

While to my captors it is just a basement, to me it was a conquered realm of which I am at the helm - the top dog sitting at the apex of this food chain. Mines is a Cinderella story, from the toy gutter to toy glory, and this story all played out by the hands of fate. I did not have to inconvenience myself one bit, never once did I fret or perspire, which is why I still lay in disbelief (the whole thing is so uncharacteristic and strange)...

Fuck, has my mood changed!

The toy soldiers were trampled all the way at the bottom of the pile, since Autumn they've been buried beneath the Lincoln-logs and soccer cleats. No one will be coming to their aid for a while. The ambulance is lodged in between the TV and the wall. Sewing string entangled in countless spirals on the axles, the emergency medical transport for the battalion of "No Man's Fort" will not deliver dispatch of cover nor comfort. Over-achieving Alpha-Males, Good-Samaritans to the fifth power, now cower under a possible avalanche of teetering hobby items and novelties. It boggled me that they -the first responders had no one to respond when the ping pong table turned on them. Had the ambulance not have been bound, regardless, it never would have come around to them because...   

... the Hot Wheels cars are in gridlock at the foot of the toy chest. If I didn't know best I'd say they are never getting home, for some of them that is just fine and dandy. In stagnation they stagnate, frustrated, bored, alone, no radio on the dashboard, no meters, no gauges, a sterile vessel going nowhere. The driver of the Buick Regal, barely alive and hardly believable gropes the glove compartment for his personal armament, going to make a point-it to the center of his plastic brain basket and blast it. Toys die all the time, victims of human on toy murder, typically dismemberment, their suicide rates would blow your mind as well.

That is why there are so many Hot Wheels 'tracks' loose and with no use strewn about. Infrastructure here is somewhat obtuse since none of the vehicles here have a conductor. There is a small black slate with chalk by the tracks, but no one in the realm to be entrusted as instructor. Here, we are all just empty headed puppets at best, hollow Easter eggs in a shredded paper nest, full of nothing more than chewy gooey and sugary treats. A miniature sized bible, for some reason, also was buried in the heap, and an uproar amongst toys stoked like a furnace over who the possessor to be. All the toys wanted to be be preacher, guess work made easier from the the lack of teachers in the realm. Hanging from a branch of the Elm outside the basement hang inverted the last who blurted blasphemy against the leader -Lionel. They claimed that they had converted to another faith and repudiated his hand over this place and now as deterrent they hang in effigy and disgrace. 

Barbie and Ken were seen again half naked in shame, one is in the toy chest one is halfway out. Barbie making a quick escape before Ken's mani-pedi is done. Her and He-Man are going to have some real fun. Ken likes boy dolls and Barbie has an itch. He-Man goes both ways and for blondes will gladly hit a switch. Sometimes he and Skeletor dispel of her with haste because She-Ra is hot and bothered and will give all suitors a taste. Even Battle Cat she'll make him purr, she has beastly appetites that transcend the acceptable limits of peers.  

Balls of all sizes from Ping-Pong to Beach Inflatables, strewn about the atmosphere, one over there, three perpendicular, one in particular right before me, as in the center of gravity, the nucleus of a solar system that has fallen around me yet left me uncrushed by its force. Now I am the devourer of worlds. I'll create a new galaxy and name it after me. It seems I am the last Toy standing, though really I am just laying, my broken friends not withstanding.   

The Legos interlocked into an amorphous cluster, I prayed that those blocks would converge to build me a home where I may dwell alone; or a monolith at the very least. One that when I face my eyes point due East, towards some type of hope or wisdom. My multicolored obelisk, brightly colored, ominous, yet stupidly obvious it means nothing. Just a landmark to commemorate the day that brought this realm to a collapse while it just so happened that I remained intact, at the top of the stack -a new solar system, a new origin story to adapt...

I hereby declare myself, the Rag Doll, just inches tall, as ragged as small, torn and stitched,  The Rag Doll Emperor atop the toy heap!    

As for today I rule this kingdom. Either by luck or by right, by day or by night, I managed to be the uppermost toy, at first reach of the boy, laying at the top of a mountain of rubbish that no One wants to play with, yet sovereign I lay with, or over, the refuse that has been long forgotten. 

I am thy Lord and master, of this realm of make believe. The Rag Doll Emperor atop the toy heap.

DRUNKEN BLOGGING IS THE NEW JERKING OFF! DIAZEPAM DREAMS ON THE PRESSES!!!

 

Before I begin, can I just say:

I fucking love Jen Psaki! Do you have any idea how comforting I find it to see an organic woman giving me my daily White House briefings? I was so fucking sick and tired of tuning in day after day to keep up with the plot of that particular day's Trump show to get my highly cosmeticized information from a highly cosmeticized floosy. Kayleigh McEnany represents everything that I hate in a woman. She is a projection of the most generic white American idealism. From that ridiculously basic artificial hair color to those palm frond-sized fake eyelashes, or her quasi-Trumpian Panama Beach tan, she is almost as if a caricature of base Caucasoid desire. Ugh, and that name, Kayleigh (what the fuck is a Kayleigh?) McEnany (as in a stupid ninny!).

Kayleigh?! First of all, I fucking hate Kale, both the foodstuff and the word. For a vegan to voice such extreme displeasure for a leafy green means that Kale has to be some nasty fucking shit. To add the 'Y' sound at the end of a word such as Kale to denote familiarity or tenderness makes it no less abhorrent. Really, she is less like Kale and more like pre-rancid Filet Mignon... the kind they serve at the all-you-can-eat buffet in Vegas. Fuck you, McEnany, you bitch! Jen Psaki can kick your ass! Plus, I'll bet a testicle (take your pick) that her GPA was 5.0, yours wasn't even higher than my blood alcohol level right now.

I loved Jen Psaki back when she was just another one of my talking-head friends that I would check in with every afternoon in order to find out if the Earth was still in one piece. I always found her very articulate and informed on government and its processes, which I would expect no less from the ladies of CNN. Also, (because it's television, so it matters)- Jen Psaki is a pretty, natural lady -you can barely detect makeup on her. She is very fair-skinned with natural red hair and just projects pleasantness, like an elementary school art teacher, or somebody with an air-shift on NPR. After four years of a glorified Kelly Bundy fighting with reporters and lying and sleeveless tops, ugh, its just nice that once again my government is interested in lulling me into a false sense of security. Ignorance is bliss! Thank you, Jen!

 

I also wanted to give myself a shout-out this week for my totally dope DIY T-shirt that I wore when I went to go and skate, at Little Havana no less. I made it a point to skate past Versailles Cafeteria just to sport my culturally abrasive couture. Ooh, I'm so adversarial! How Satanic! I received some very, very dirty looks. It may have been indigestion. After all, Versailles is a shithole! The La Carreta Restaurant across the street has them beat with cudgels. No one stepped up to my plate for a little "bovver" though. I would have welcomed it. The way I felt that day, a beatdown, on either end of it, would have been just what the doctor ordered. This T-shirt is now my albatross. I try and wear it as much as possible so that people can see it.

 "What's with the shirt?" 

Once that question is posed, well, then begins the "rime of the contemporary sailor". Then, I can tell my tale at the wedding feast, and tell the fascinated bride about my death, a victim at the hands of a murder/suicide on November 29, 2020. The last words that I heard before the first dagger in my back and then the one in my heart were:

"Tu lo que eres, es un Maricon y un Socialista"

(All you are is a faggot and a socialist)  

As the day progressed, I went from Little Havana to North Trail Skate Park (where I always have the worst luck). After one fight there with some big manganzon and another incident involving a white Honda Civic which I smashed all six windows to and slashed all four tires, you would think that this sweet and tender hooligan would just avoid that dump altogether. Being that today was my first real skate 'sesh' since early January, I didn't want to end the party too quick, though my metatarsal joints felt strained. So upon leaving the Lil' H, I went for a skate over at 'Trail and sure enough, I found the 'bovver' I was looking for. 

I skated up to the spot, looking so rad. There were mostly young kids there, no one older than 15. They all stopped when I entered the Zen garden that is the skate spot, as if not knowing what to make of me. Then I started skating, the dance with the Dryad, and I can see them all wishing that I was their dad. Perhaps that's why Lazzy always used to run up to the kids at the spot when we used to go skating together at West Wind, bursting with pride in his chubby belly when I'd hear him say to them:

"You see that guy... that's my dad!"

I'm sure that is what first annoyed that asshole with an American flag T-shirt on. He probably paid his ugly son no mind on the weekend, too busy daydreaming about his mistresses, his fleeting Cialis scrip, and filling the diesel tank on his F-450, and now some "Soy-boy" made his kid's eyes twinkle. Patton over there took one look at my fashion statement and was triggered. "Nice shirt" he said. 

"Wish I could say the same" was my response.

 Then I kept skating, with SUCH style. My Thoth, have I really been injured for virtually three months? I was magnificent today (well, because there weren't any REAL skaters there). At one point, John Coltrane's "Tunji" came in on my earbuds, compliments of the Sun Ra Pandora station. When "Tunji" came on, I began to annihilate that park. As I skated around the area where Captain America and his ugly kids were, I executed a "Nollie Shove It" on the high end of the bank, and as I rolled "Fakie" on my way down I said out loud "I'll knock your daddy the fuck out, and not only that, but he isn't shit, because your punk-ass daddy can't skate like I do!"

 I admit, I was just a tad out of line, but I can explain. I was medication free for about three days leading up, but had been drinking daily for one week -my brain chemistry was a bit tilted. Also, when I enter my "sweet spot", this weird zone that I go into after a couple of tricks that I liken to an altered state (I even get weird giggles during, and I mildly hyperventilate... its creepy) I can get a little... nutty! I start thinking out loud, exclaiming my "dopeness", and yes, even improvisational rhyming out loud. His punk-ass daddy didn't do a goddamn thing but keep his bitch-ass mouth shut. He did, however, call the police on me...

I was winded within an hour of skating. The way that I had skated was like a Gung-Ho cardio workout, often exerting myself near the point of vomiting. I devoured the spot that afternoon. "Alright, I think I've made my point for today", I said out loud. I began skating my way to my car, and sure enough there was the porcine patrol -two jakes, fat fucks, the pair of them waiting by the park exit. I'm a 5'4", 134 pound vegan, were they sure they brought enough guys? The cop started asking me all kinds of questions, "what are you going to tell me today tough guy?" (reference.) "We had a call that someone was causing a disturbance, something about yelling at kids and odd behavior". Son of a bitch! Meanwhile, don't forget the shirt I was wearing, which they definitely took a viddy at. I stated my case to the pigs, that I was just blowing off some steam and that I tend to get weird when undermedicated. 

"Are you sure I can trust you will go home and not hurt yourself?"

I scoffed at him. 

"You can be sure that I am going to go home and not cause any 'physical harm' to myself. I just want to go home now, drink some Bombay and cry till I get sleepy."

The pigs cleared the path, "spoken like a true basket case" they probably thought. My little ass was more than fortunate that I didn't get initiated into a long standing family tradition by the pigs

 -the Baker Act!

Yet!

That is when a lucky, eligible Floridian gets placed on a 72-hour psychiatric standby for observation and safekeeping. I even told the Pork Rind in charge: "Officer dude, don't fucking Baker Act me! If I had the balls to hurt myself I'd be dead. If I had the killer instinct to hurt someone else, I wouldn't be holding a skateboard right now." 

I need to make it a serious point to stop skating at North Trail. I hate the fucking locals there, the park is in horrible conditions (cracked concrete everywhere) and just as a cherry over that shit sundae of a skate park, something about my vibration just doesn't mesh with that pinpoint of latitude and longitude.  

(taken in January, one week before my metatarsal injury)

Now down to brass tacks... Since the decided and ultimate purpose of this blog is to serve as a promotional apparatus for Misanthropaganda Publications, now is as good a time as any to apply that function. Diazepam Dreams is now in the hands of Minute Man Press for reproduction. Possibly by April Fool's day I may have a box with one hundred copies of my first novel. I am not liking that potential delivery date, it seems to imply some kind of symbolism and/or foreshadowing that does not sit quite right with me (as in the joke is on me regarding this dumb fuck novel.) This week I had to give one final proofread before signing the work order and I was gripped with uncertainty over my feelings regarding the book. I was feeling confident for a while, but now after this last read it just felt like self-indulgent, melodramatic garbage. Art imitates life.

In fact, I was a hair from deleting the entire document from my laptop in the throes of one of my hissy fits. This was a particularly bad week for your droog and narrator. In place of crying now, my anxiety levels have been off the charts for some reason. Oddly, this anxiety is coupled with drowsiness and fatigue instead of the usual symptomatic jitteriness. I think I'm fucking anemic again. Eh, who gives a fuck! Anyways, it got dark in here this week and I wanted to take self-flagellation to cruel new heights. I was very close to trashing Diazepam. I don't think it had that much to do with how bad I think it may be, yet everything to do with destroying an accomplishment to hurt myself in the most sadistic way possible. See, the thing about self-destruction is that it is a war to be fought on all fronts -physical, mental and spiritual. To have shit-canned Diazepam just to prove to myself that "I don't give a fuck" would have annihilated me on the spiritual level. The mind, well, that is devouring itself without my assistance; and as for the body...  

Wednesday, I punched out for a two hour lunch and made the 14 mile drive to the printer to sign the work order and drop an envelope in the guy's hand with my deposit in it before I did anything drastic. In the end, reason prevailed and I convinced myself that having authored a bad first novel is better than not having a first novel at all. I suppose they can't all be the Mahabharata. Somebody has to write the books that they sell at Dollar General!

Ultimately, there is only one final opinion that matters to me, but even the prospect of that person's lotus eyes catching conjunctivitis from viewing the shit that I've paid handsomely to print on paper makes me a nervous wreck. I might as well get loaded, everyday, until I get my ONE meaningful (hopefully honest) critique from one very meaningful person. Why not?! I've been getting loaded just about everyday for about three weeks now... WINNING!

So, in the event that I still have readers following this blog and the saga of this publishing house, here's a little teaser to tickle your asses with a feather a bit. This is an outtake from the novel that did not make it to the final print, but still held some weight in my heart, so I wanted to give it a little bit of love rather than toss it out unceremoniously. I've mentioned before how it becomes increasingly difficult to dispense of poems that one has sat by for hours. They become a small part of you and you feel obliged to do all that you can to either save them and nurse them into swans out of their ugly duckling phase or at least give them a dignified death. This is a piece inspired by a character in Diazepam Dreams named Yajaira.

Yajaira

That way which I recall

your slightly raised brow

-imperious-

as if what I was saying was serious,

your tinted burgundy hair,

your laissez faire

I've created dreams for you

out of Diazepam and desperation.

Pill by brick I've built you an empire

inside padded walls of desolation - a self-induced isolation

that I've undergone to have you haunt me and I alone.

Polished-till-blurry memories gave me a new purpose,

this futility gave me a means to an end

as I am sure you will never again resurface.

Then, there was that day...

analyzed and contemplated Ad Nauseum...

A small bursting giggle barely cleared the fullness of your vermillion lips as you looked at me a certain way.

"Your face has changed", you said, "your face has changed so much!"

Hindsight made nothing clearer.

Opaque doubts forever occult my mirror.

If what I thought could have been, how would I have known had you have shown?

My impetuous words drowned in my blood, the potential for passion neutralized in a crimson flood.

The sequel would have been beautiful had I gotten the chance to write it.

Inspiration I would have drawn from you silently screaming me into sedation in these valium visions.

Ask of me your every wish that I may serve up on a platinum dish, 

whether miniscule or beyond my means. 

I can do all things in Diazepam Dreams, where still I'm incomplete but at least pleasantly incapacitated.

Fuck It!

How long has it been that I have waited for a fantasy to overshadow a little tragedy.

How long have I anticipated for my chocolate willow to entangle me by the ankles, from the safe distance of oblivion where her stem wont leave me strangled.

misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

IG:@misanthropaganda_publications

Barcelona's Belgrado fulfills the yearlong wishes of 'MisanthroPub' Editor-in-Chief. Their two LPs Obraz and Siglo XXI are finally on CD format!!!!!!!!!

 

This is going to be a brief, dialed-in post. I have been graced this week with a visit from the heir to the Misanthropaganda Publications empire, and so he's the boss until Sunday night and all of my time he has made clear, is to be at his disposal. I do have a window of freedom to write between the hours of about 2 or 3AM when I typically awaken hours prior to junior's rise and shine. I get a lot of work done in the early morning while the Son of Wolf sleeps.

However, this week, those windows were all booked up for desk clearing. First and most important, I had to write an email to an extremely important person that woefully for the receiver I couldn't keep under 2,600 words. Madonna! That poor person's precious eyes are going to glaze over! I tend to be long handed, particularly when trying to impress someone. Three thousand word emails indicate that the recipient is serious, no-joke business as I would say.

Also, tomorrow morning (Sunday) I need to write another lengthy email. Only the one that I will be writing tomorrow is to my attorney. This publishing house shit, if I'm going to do it for real, is going to be a money pit. I am aware of that. Regardless, an attorney is the first thing I need if I'm going to project any shadow of professionalism, and so I have secured one. I like him. He's mishpoche like me (according to 23&me). He looks like Bob Odenkirk. There was a catch, though. He took me on without making me pay his retainer fee upfront because, well, I don't have it. So, on the promise of a handshake and the power of my word and eye contact, he agreed to begin the wheels in motion on the condition that my stimulus check gets kicked up to him. (Bloodsuckin', ambulance-chasin'...) An accountant is required as well, but I've got the same guy for almost 20 years. He's good! He told me that every time I have more than one dinner and drinks that I can claim it as a write off, saying that it was a meeting with potential talent, another publisher, etc. Of course, printing costs, the logistics of shipping, all of that falls under the umbrella as well. I'm going to lose my shirt on this one, this last hair-brain scheme I've concocted for the Final 22 of acting like a writer, but I don't give a fuck. I want to lose my shirt, I'm dying to get naked! 

I may try to post something up mid-week, because Lord Teardrop has struck again with another quatrain, live and direct from my current watering hole. In fact, it was a quatrain for her, a quatrain for him, one for Jane and one for Jim... a quatrain for everybody! Creativity can be maddening, and if I do not evacuate this influx of words bouncing around in my head, my sanity will burn away twice faster than it is supposed to. Be careful what you wish for, aspiring writers, those that beg for a even a little ladle of alphabet soup will often get served three portions! Eventually, there comes a time to purge...

Nevertheless, I absolutely had to remark on how anxiously I am anticipating a package from Barcelona that will provide endless means of dopamine release in my badly bruised and depleted brain. No, I wish, but it's not "China" coming from Barcelona. It's actually better than China White, I think, since I wouldn't know how that feels (yet). The most recent addition to my "List of the Ten", a living and breathing Honor Roll that delineates ten bands that I cannot exist without, has been so kind to issue their two LPs Obraz and SigloXXI on CD format after my wishing it so since I discovered them in 2019.

I discovered Belgrado when I reviewed their hometown colleagues, the 'Anarcho-Post-Punk' band Sect. Sect's drummer, the inimitable Patrycja Proniewska (Polish-born, Spanish-raised) was also doubling as the vocalist for the Post-Punk (some say "Coldwave") band Belgrado. 

I thought that possessing Belgrado's music was a fantasy, since they had not released on any other tangible format other than vinyl, which I will not make the switch to. In fact, once those last couple of slots in my collection are stuffed snuggly (by next year's end likely), my collecting days end and my streaming days begin. Mind you, this collection does not include digital stuff that I've compiled as well. So there's a little bit over a third of my collection not represented in my shrine. Enough! YouTube and Spotify will do!

I have reviewed Belgrado twice before on here. One of those posts has been purged at year end clean up, because I was gushing more than cogently arguing their finer points, but a post from January 29, 2020, one that is less incoherent remains up until I revisit them at length once my discs have arrived and I have the chance to spin them on my equipment with their album layout in my hands (that's important to me, its part of the whole package, it's all part of the mood.)

I wish that anyone as broken as I could find this much happiness for just 30Euros. Belgrado is, as of 2019, a member of the List of the Ten, and I am so happy that I have finally paid for all of the enjoyment that they provide my life with. I am also grateful that for just 30Euros, I can store their art in my collection, which gives my life more meaning and worth. Art is love. Love is the Law. The law is that the Final 22 (reference from my novel) must be poetry... will be poetry.

In the meantime, I sign off with the taste that got me hooked, like some fine China White. I have embedded Belgrado's video-clip for the the song "Jeszcze Raz" (which is Polish for "once more" or "once again"). This is how I discovered them and still play this song ad nauseum. I love the video's tone, but most of all, I ADORE PATRYCJA PRONIEWSKA! She has such presence, such character, that this band wouldn't have the mood it is capable of conveying without that face of hers. Enjoy, and stay in contact, for soon my package will be arriving and I am going to delve on my favorite contemporary Post-Punk band. 

contact us : misanthropaganda@yahoo.com    

on Instagram: misanthropaganda_publications

Ministry -The Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Taste-

  note: misanthropaganda is so much more fun when you view it on your desktop or laptop if you happen to have one. If you do, I'd much rather that you viddy this when you are back at your desk and on the clock (trying to kill time) instead of on the phone while taking a shit. Your tablet is fine I guess, as is your phone, but for full enjoyment and understanding of the artist's (ha ha) vision, take my suggestion. It gives the posts a look that's a bit more reminiscent of an old 90's fanzine layout, which is the whole point of this bullshit blog. I mean, for Christ's sake, I've been noting this for two years and change. Yet, you're still looking at this on your phone. What's a matter with you? What are you stupid? Fine, suit yourself...

I don't know what the fuck I did, but in trying to edit the background theme on the blog, I ended up switching the whole header and now it feels like I am writing as a guest on someone else's page. I have no idea how to fix the header, so I had to improvise one in order to fill the  big black square that now hangs at the top of the blog where the name used to be. Ever had one of those days in which everything you touch is certain to turn into shit? Today is one of those. (Better avoid masturbating today!)

 I started the day off with an unlikely selection that came from way out of left field... left field of Wrigley Park... with a Cuban outfielder... who is shooting 'manteca' into his veins. 

My Thoth, that opening sentence was magic. Unfortunately, I must undermine it's strength by explaining it for my readers of a slower wit. I referenced Wrigley Park as it is located in Chicago, the artistic home plate of the "Cuban outfielder" whose name is Al Jourgensen. He is the dreadlocked Voltron-head of Ministry (and a thousand other projects under the Wax Trax Records banner, including one that features Ian Mackaye). Yes, that's right, Jourgensen is Cuban. He's my paisano. The Scandinavian sounding surname he carries is that of his stepfather. 

I get the sense that Jourgensen is a polarizing figure in "Industrial Music", that perhaps some may see him as a prophet and others may see him as a heretic; but like him or hate him you can't have an intelligent, credible conversation regarding the topic of this genre and not mention him. The 1989 Ministry album The Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Taste should be noted at some point during any hypothetical debate such as that which I have previously described.

This was Ministry's undeniable high watermark that solidified a following, one they would carry over with them for the commercially successful Psalm 69. Psalm 69 went on to go platinum -a feat made reality by the release of the album's  first single "Jesus Built My Hot Rod" on MTV and a subsequent spot as headliners on the second Lollapalooza tour. After Lollapalooza they would go on to tour Europe with Sepultura and Helmet, furthering the fan base even more -totaling to even more record sales.

[By the way... There must be something with me and the M's. I swear I didn't plan it this way, but there has been an 'M' theme as of the last two days. I came from work  yesterday and ran Midnight's Rebirth By Blasphemy backed by Mercyful Fate's The Beginning. Then this morning I popped it off with Melvins' Stoner Witch followed by Meat Beat Manifesto's Satyricon. Then, one more blind grab would produce this Ministry record.] 

This album needs to be resurrected because it occurred to me just how relevant it has become once again. 'Mind' is Ministry's fourth in succession of a fourteen album discography. On this clear fan favorite, Ministry underwent a stylistic change that impacted Industrial Music as it was then known and created a new faction of the sound with a thousand imitators. By incorporating distorted guitar and riffing inspired by Thrash Metal (the likes of S.O.D. to name one noted influence), Ministry created a new offshoot of Industrial that you could now mosh to instead of lifelessly swaying side to side by. 

I saw the change with my own two eyes, at local Miami night spots of the early 90s such as Another World, the Red Room or the legendary Kitchen Club -establishments that catered to creeps and weirdos. They went from playing shit like "Warm Leatherette" -the goths having full control of the floor, dancing almost motionlessly while smoking clove cigarettes, till one night they played Ministry's "Thieves" and the riot squad was almost called in when Punks, wannabe Skins and regular aggro-knuckleheads started tearing that place apart to the tremolo riff on that cut.

This record has tremendous rhythm to it. It is physically compelling, not even for a second losing it's danceability under the hardened layers caked onto it by the guitar work and the generous use of sampling. All Thrash flirtation aside, forget not that Ministry comes from a synth-pop origin (having toured early on in support of Depeche Mode no less), that is to say that Jourgensen's most primal drive as a musician is the urge to make a crowd move. There is nothing wrong with dance music, it can be dark and edgy and just as "Punk" as anything else.

 Really, its the topical content that makes this record so relevant in 2021. As with all of Ministry's work, the lyrics deal with political corruption, violence and anti-establishment themes. Given the state of this country, I can't think of a better time for an album of this nature. There is a timeless pertinence to their sound on this release -it doesn't sound dated at all. A classic is a classic no matter what! Regardless of its lasting relativity, the zeitgeist is practically begging for this album to be revisited by the youth of the day. (I just chuckled to myself. Back when this came out, we thought that WE were living in a dark time and had something to be angry about. LOL.) 

Also, on a more personal note, Mind is extremely evocative and if you write such as myself (who often writes 'steam of consciousness' pieces to music) then I strongly recommend this joint. As I soaked the record in I envisioned about a hundred scenarios that were inspired by the music. As I listened to it, it conjured a single word in my head that I repeated like a mantra to myself throughout the proceedings -"Cyber Punk". Mind sounds like the score of some dystopian sci-fi flick. 

I typically don't go tip-toeing into the Industrial lot all too often, so Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste was a nice change of pace today and a reminder of yet another gem lurking in my archives, waiting for its moment to be called upon. I may pick up Psalm 69 if I find a good deal for a used copy on Amazon. I owned the cassette version of it when I was in High School, only Thoth knows where that could have ended up.

(I just set it up for some wise-guy reader to suggest: "Perhaps it's up your ass!")

Asere, tremenda pinta!

I really can't cherry-pick from this one -it really is that good as a unit. I place this joint in a pantheon of albums that I can play from beginning to end seamlessly and once through you just hit play again without thinking twice. Still, knowing full well that few will actually devote the lousy 45 minutes of running time required to sit your ass down and give this joint full attention, I will note the following:

-The first three tracks are fire ("Thieves", "Burning Inside" and "Never Believe")

-"So What" is also exceptional. If you come to agree, check their live version from a release called In Case You Didn't Feel Like Showing Up.

So give this album a gander and see what's doing in there. Why not?! It is from the golden age of, well, everything. Alas, I have sentimental reasons to revisit this work. It transports me to its time of release, back to the days of Yesterday And Today Record Shop on Red Road (R.I.P.), to Miami college radio's hey day and reminds me of the influx of music that I was discovering around that time. Man, 1989 was the fucking shit!

On to other matters now, never mind Alain Jourgensen. As for this whole 'publishing house' business, the term 'Misanthropaganda' has finally been given utility as it is now the name of the new label/publishing house that I have created to release my first four books. I had stated way back in the infancy of this blog how I had coined the term Misanthropaganda and wanted to put it to a good use. I've created in a backwards process before, where the work is structured around a title as opposed to vice versa. It is the reason that I started this blog in the first place -just to lock down the Misanthropaganda name; but a dopey blog still didn't do this cool name justice. Fast forward two/three years later and the epiphany is arrived at to aptly christen myself with the name (under the context of a publisher).

 The first two releases for the "label" have already been written. These are Diazepam Dreams, a fiction novel to be printed by this Spring (as soon as I get that Stimmy Cash bay-bay), and Death Metal Phone Sex which is a collection of poems and writings. That one I can press once I've payed off my fucking divorce lawyer. 

Diazepam Dream cover

Diazepam Dreams is ready to go, only waiting on $500 to fall out of somebody's pocket (the IRS's hopefully) so that I can press the first hundred copies which will be hand numbered. Death Metal Phone Sex is also written in full but is being edited. DMPS is scheduled to be printed shortly after the fall, although it may get pushed back further because I find that I continuously add to it during editing. This project seemed to have written itself. It was immensely satisfying to write. 

Death Metal Phone Sex cover

The other two titles, Curbs And Ledges and Broads are in progress, currently being written simultaneously (same as I did with Diazepam and DMPS). This explosion of creativity manufactured the need to create Misanthropaganda Publications. Since I'm the poor hump who is printing these things out of pocket, might as well give myself a snazzy title like Editor-in-chief! Shit, my croquette got chubby after typing the end of that last sentence...

I have begun making some inquiries in regards to distribution. As far as on a local level, I'm looking into whatever indie bookstores are still around and as soon as I have something in stone I will plaster it up and down this blog as well as on social media @misanthropaganda_blogspot...

OK... That's it! Listen to the Ministry joint... In fact, here, follow this link.

[Holy fuck, I just blindly reached for a CD at random and pulled out Mastodon. WTF! Maybe I should figure out the numeric value of M and then play it in the Cash 3. How much is the jackpot on that thing, like $500? That'll work. That's $350 towards the first hundred pressings, and $150 for a hooker. I'm sorry, not a hooker, an escort. Oh, come on, don't cringe! I haven't fucked a woman in so long that I don't even think I remember how to!] 

send cyber-Gonnoreah to misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

Besitos!

Flipping for Flipper's third album titled LOVE

 note: misanthropaganda is so much more fun when you view it on your desktop or laptop. Your tablet is fine I guess, as is your phone, but for full enjoyment and understanding of the artist's (ha ha) vision, take my suggestion. It gives the posts a look that's a bit more reminiscent of an old 90's fanzine layout, which is the whole point of this bullshit blog. I mean, for Christ's sake, I've been noting this for two years. What's a matter with you? What are you stupid?

It's not that I showed up late to the Flipper party, it's that I proactively avoided them out of sheer disinterest. There was a reason for that (stupid as it may be), which is that I have always fucking hated Nirvana (with the later exception of Dave Grohl). First of all, their sound -meh; but there were more personal reasons that frosted my ass over Nirvana beyond that. When Nirvana broke with their sophomore effort Nevermind, the belabored accessibility of their sound at that point built a bridge for all of the jocks and preppy fucks in my town to cross over and away from Achtung Baby-era U2 and into a convoy of 'teen spirit' bandwagons. For that reason, I have always associated Nirvana with early mainstream appropriation of counter-culture. My high school associates and myself took a very averse position to the "Grunge" explosion of the early 90s. Lots of the musically decent bands that laid the groundwork of the sound had been doing their thing for years before the term "Grunge" was coined as a genre. They just weren't fortunate to have cute lead singers. 

(And what the fuck was with that dumb term? "Grunge". What the fuck is that? There were about fifty different sounds coming out of this so-called "Grunge" scene, so the term must have been reference to a look or an aesthetic rather than a musical formula. Producer Jack Endino said it best when he said that "Grunge" was nothing more than "a continuation of 70s Hard Rock with Punk ethos added to the mix". 

What does that have to do with Flipper? Well, Nirvana, whose members formed the Triumvirate of the Grunge explosion were the biggest proponents of Flipper ever. Quite frankly, I had never even heard of Flipper before seeing Cobain wearing homemade Flipper t-shirts to photoshoots. As a result, I made Flipper guilty by association, stupidly. (It's the same reason that I ignored the Melvins till about 2006.)

So, how did my ignorant avoidance of Flipper thankfully end? Well, thanks to Hank Rollins. After hearing the audio version of  his book Get In The Van a couple of decades ago, I was particularly interested in what Henry had to say anecdotally about Flipper. It motivated me to acquire Generic, their debut. That album came into my life at the most opportune moment possible. I was having a torrid love affair with Barbiturates around the time and Flipper goes with downers like Biscotti goes with an Espresso. You go ahead and eat about 15 to 20mgs of Valium and then crank either "Life Is Cheap" or "I Saw You Shine" (take your pick) and tell me if you don't have a kooky trip -an angry, pill head trip where you'll bang your fists against the wall till they look like Sharon Tate's living room. ("I Saw You Shine" inspired an entire section of my novel Diazepam Dreams. Shameless plug!)

  I ran that disc until all that was left of it was the clear plastic ring in the center of the CD. So from there, I jumped on their second LP, Gone Fishin'. On Gone Fishin', Flipper picks up right where its predecessor left off with a slight elevation of chops. They sound a little tighter but much cleaner. The base of the sound is still there, using certain elements (tactics, really) to annoy and irritate the listener at times. Flipper's rudimentary yet absurdist lyrical style greatly influenced Nirvana's approach at turning a non-phrase (Melvins as well, I think). Other than the heightened musicianship, Gone Fishin' is a continuation of Generic, that's to say that you can't own one and not own the other. That's also to say that if you don't like Generic, don't bother with its follow-up. The last two tracks on Gone Fishin' are superb! "You Nought Me" is accompanied by a vertigo-inducing piano performance that could easily lead to the questioning of your own sanity and the closer "One By One" is Flipper in an unusually melancholic form. I'm a sucker for down tempo, so "One By One" in all of its moody, minimal simplicity may be my second favorite Flipper song next to "I Saw You Shine".

Finally, my music wish list got around to Flipper's third studio album titled Love. When it arrived at my current habitat, I opened the jewel case only to find the moronic face of Nirvana bassist Kris Novoselic standing amongst the three original members of the band. Novoselic was given the nod as the replacement for original bassist turned worm-food Will Shatter. "Motherfucker", I yelled to myself. "I want a refund!" I never wanted that dope's face poking around anywhere near my illustrious music collection. He just looks dense, like Private Snowball and creepish. Because of the earlier mentioned fandom for Flipper by Kurt Cobain and Novoselic with zeal, the former was nothing more than a likely fit for the substitute slot based on his devotion if anything else. "Well, I might as well listen to the fucker", I grumbled to myself, sliding in the disc and strapping in for the ride. This fucking thing blew my mind! Furthermore, Kris Novoselic is probably the undisputed MVP of this joint. I was left at the end of the 43 minute record with a whole lot of egg on my face, which is ironic retribution from Novoselic himself whose head is shaped like an egg. 

(Now be vewy vewy quiet... He's hunting wabbits...)

As stated at the beginning, I am not at all familiar with Niravana's work outside of their debut album Bleach, which I did own at one point but don't remember it at all (what does that tell you), and of course radio-play. With this I am making the point that I am not acquainted with Novoselic's chops. However, I have to give it to the guy, the big lummox lays it down. His attack is so driving, and the churning tone of his bass is front and center throughout the whole record. The earlier mentioned Jack Endino has had plenty of history twisting knobs on Novoselic (and on the console too). The two go back to Nirvana's debut, and I suppose if anybody knows how to get a performance out of this guy it would be Endino. Many of the tracks seem as if they were written upon Novoselic's riffs. 

Ok, ok, enough of him already. The other noteworthy performance on Love is that of singer Bruce Loose. Adapting a more gravelly, throatier approach, his vocals are a perfect fit for some of the sludgier, dare I say "Grungy" numbers like "Why Can't You See" and especially the closer "Old Graves" which again -is structured upon Kris Novoselic's bassline. Bruce Loose updated his style by just a notch, shedding a bit of those off-key bellows from early works (which were probably elemental to their formula of obnoxiousness) and replacing it with a nasty sounding sneer. Sneering seems to be the subtext of this whole album, which marauds the senses with its contemptuous tone. I would suggest this record as a jump-off to someone who has yet heard Flipper just as easily as I would recommend their debut. 

So I guess the moral of this story is that Kris Novoselic isn't such a bad chap after all. Ugh, I'd hate to think that there might be Nirvana songs lurking in their back catalog that I may find enjoyable. I'd gladly admit it if I was wrong about them, its just you'll never get me to agree to review the evidence.

Smooches...

Oh yeah, and by the way, some of you that read this probably thought "Hey man, why'd you go so hard on Novoselic?" (Ugh, typical millennial softness!) Listen, I'm sure that Kris Novoselic whose sitting at home on a sectional couch made of thousand dollar bills gives a lumberjack's pube about what some gavone sitting on a lap-top at 1AM on a Thursday morning thinks about him. He'll be alright!
 

News flash: We interrupt this blog post as news has just come off of the AP wire that Kris Novoselic killed himself. Investigators say he did it after reading some stupid blog online that hurt his feelings...

Oh Shit!