LEND ME YOUR EARS… EYES TOO, WHILE YOU'RE AT IT:

Wait… what? When the hell did THAT happen?
I didn't hear anything about it! 

Funny the thoughts that run through your head when you're out in the yard picking up your dog's poop. Thoughts like: 'When did she eat corn? Why am I doing this with my bare hands? And — because the rule of threes applies here —when was the last time anyone gave a shit about Rolling Stone Magazine?' (See the above pic for the answer to question #3.) Now you might think that last one was kinda out of place given the circumstances and normally you'd be right. But this isn't you we're talking about, is it? No, we're talking about me, the one who just recently realized I got homeless people leaving kernel-turds in my backyard and that my right hand that will never be clean enough to eat with again.

Seeing as the aforementioned mag would rather put pictures of terrorist assholes on their cover these days instead of really shocking us with stories about music, (GASP) I figured I'd give it a shot. So here I sit, trying to manipulate my trackpad and keyboard using only my left hand while simultaneously trying to eat a Hot Pocket with my feet. I do all this, toil away so in an effort to tell you all about this band I got addicted to recently called Amon Amarth.

The members of Amon Amarth, seen here from the
sacrificial virgin's point of view. 

They're this melodic Viking/death metal band from Sweden whose music can best be described as what one would imagine Game of Thrones would sound like as a musical but without all the gratuitous nudity. Take a look and a listen to them HERE if you'd like. And it's on YouTube so I apologize if you run into an ad.

Did ya listen? Did ya, huh? I know, right? Guy's voice just kinda goes right through you and leaves a big hole on its way out the other side. And that song isn't even anywhere near as heavy as they can get. Some of their later stuff has been known to cause miscarriages in women who weren't even pregnant to begin with. Now I realize that there have been a few bands like them who use the whole Viking symbolism thing to promote a racist agenda but these guys aren't about that. At least, I'm pretty sure they're not. But seeing as I can barely understand anything the lead singer is saying, gimme a sec while I check the lyric sheet on that one.

Let's see… serpent rises… mighty wrath… destiny… fate… Ragnarök… Ragnarök…Ragnarök some more. Nope, nothing about chasing my black ass back to Africa with a stick, so we're good.

Anyway, I was listening to their latest release, Deceiver of the Gods the other day at the office and one of the young guys that I work with inquired about what I had going on in my headphones that was causing me to thrash my noggin about as I was. Poor kid didn't recognize proper head banging when he saw it. When I gave the lad a listen he recoiled in horror as though he'd just heard the sound of his grandmother's ghost taking one in the mouth from the spirit of John Holmes. (A pretty fair description of track #9, Coming of the Tides.)

When I asked the youngster about his musical tastes, what was going on with his playlists I learned that he's into… um — How can I say this so as not to offend? — Crap. Yeah, that about says it all, he listens to crap. And again, I don't mean to offend any of you who might also be into crap, but I don't know how else to refer to the likes of Mumford and Sons, Of Monsters and Men, Vampire Weekend, Arcade Fire, Bon Iver and a whole host of other artists who look and sound like the bastard spawn of an improbably awkward three-way between Michael Stipe and the Indigo Girls.

This would be one of the above mentioned bands, but I'm too disgusted to find out which.

What the fuck happened to the youth of America? I know they're not all into that folk/pop/shit/rock, but if these or any other bands like them can even fill a single coffee house for more than seven minutes then we are in serious trouble as a species. 

Shit, look at all those people! We are so screwed.

How will crappy music bring about the end of humanity? Well I'll tell you, seeing as me telling you things is what this blog's all about in the first place. Right up there in the title for God's sake. Look, you know how signals from here on Earth travel out into space and float out there forever and in theory will one day be heard by whatever life is out there? Theoretically, as you sit here reading this, somewhere out past the Big Dipper there's an alien catching the opening chords to Smoke on the Water on the cybernetic implants in his audio-hole and he's thinking: "Terk lackt derma neft twanto forgs." Which translated from his native tongue means "Shit, those Earthlings are pretty badass." However, that's all gonna change in about seventy-five years or so when they start getting Of Monsters and Men videos on the outer arm of the Milky Way. Then mankind is getting anal probed… and NOT in a consensually experimental way either. 

"Is that guy on the end playing an accordion?
Oh Earth is just asking for it now."

We're going to want to avoid that eventuality at all costs because aliens don't believe in safe words. And apparently, neither do discount dominatrixes that you find on Craigslist. (NEIN MEANS NEIN, MISTRESS HELGA!) Switching gears away from the subject of being pucker-probed, because, you know… OWWWW, let's talk about kids. (Because THAT'S not an awkward segue.)

Ever since my son was born I've kinda wondered… why the hell does he look like the guy who used to read our meter? But beside that I've also wondered what sort of music he's going to be listening to in the future that I might find objectionable? Let's face it, that's a teenage right of passage, listening to music that your parents hate and don't understand. My parents listened to shit like Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Al Green and most of whatever Motown was pumping out back in their day. All good stuff, don't get me wrong, just not MY stuff. Then one night in 1984 I come home from my first concert experience with one of these stretched across my fat frame.

Unfortunately it got ruined during the subsequent exorcism. 

The parents freaked a bit and we had the requisite words that are shouted in such a situation. 

MOM: "How could you?"
ME: "You just don't understand!"
DAD: "Not in THIS house!"
ME: "But this is MY music, Dad!"
SIS: "Hey guys, what's with all the shouting?"
DAD: "Shut up, Meg!"

Okay wait… that last bit didn't really happen. I think some Family Guy dialogue just crept into the mix. It's what I get for blogging with the TV on. Lemme just turn that off.

Point is, the 'rents were against that stuff because it scared them. And I'm sure that if a few years from now my kid is up in his room with the door closed, listening to some fucking happy/merry music at top volume and his room is plastered with posters of a bunch of asexual trolls in color coordinated capri pants, I'm gonna be scared too. Especially if I walk in and catch him on the floor with the girl from across the street… fully clothed, sipping Chai tea and paying full attention while she tells him all about her feelings, hopes and dreams and how they all have something to do with the less than spectacular day she's having at the time. Hell yeah I'm gonna be scared! But where my Mom and Dad were afraid for their baby boy's soul, I'm gonna be afraid for my son's manhood. And before any of you living alternative lifestyles think I mean to say I'm afraid he's gonna be gay… wrong. I don't care about that shit. I'd be afraid for his actual manhood, I'd be scared of him losing his balls, having his sack shrivel up and fall off from overexposure to ukulele driven jams. 

The Bumble Boys rockin' the park with their hardly-ever requested hit, Free Balls. 

However, there is hope for the future of my boy's tackle box… hell, for ALL our son's tackle boxes, everywhere. And that hope is Mathcore. What is Mathcore, you may ask? Again I am legally obligated to tell you for free because it's right there in the blog's name. Mathcore is… uh… well… let's see… if your brain had a taint, then mathcore would punch you in it. 

Yeah, it's a lot like that.

Mathcore is a form of metal music once known as Noisecore, that uses unusual time signatures, crazy riffs and neck breaking changes to produce an off-kilter sound that has been referred to by some as "technically brutal". That definition came from Wikipedia so you know it very well MIGHT be true. Check HERE and allow pioneers of the genre, Dillinger Escape Plan to give you a little taste.

Plays a lot like a soundtrack to a home invasion, doesn't it? But it does tend to grow on you if you give it a chance. I've listened to the DEP's latest release a couple times and it's not all that… HOLY SHIT, AM I ON FIRE? WHERE'D ALL THESE TALKING FLIES COME FROM? SANCTUARY!!!!!

Okay, so maybe there's a teeny bit of brain damage, was gonna eventually happen anyway, what with the syphilis and all. (Yeah, thanks for that too, Helga!) But still, mathcore has balls to spare so if (hopefully) the kid wants to get into that rather than crap, then I got no problem with it. I'll just pretend to hate it for his sake. Don't wanna deprive him of the chance to be angry with me for being too old and out of touch to understand. Just so long as he doesn't pick up a guitar and try to play that stuff himself because mathcore can really go shit-shaped when it's attempted by amateurs. 

"Last summer alone, over 700 garage bands tried to play mathcore…
and Allstate can't do shit for 'em." 

Still, I suppose burning balls are better than having no balls at all… said no one ever before this moment.