I see Black Metal as the ultimate rebellion, the ultimate punk. Against everything. Against light. Against hope, decency, religion, politics, love, against life itself. An exploration into pure evil. As I have a pitch black sense of humour I’ve always been able to find amusement in all of that. I mean, it is funny. Not ironic. Just funny. I went to a few Black Metal gigs in London back in the day and, after showing your ticket, you’d hold out your hand and be stamped with an ink-mark so you could leave the event and return. The stamp would simply read; ‘Kill yourself’. I burst out laughing the first time I saw that, and while writing this I have a big stupid grin on my face. I don’t imagine you’d be able to do anything like that these days.

Don’t get me wrong. I DESPISE joke bands. I hate irony in music. I don’t even like memes about music. One of the reason’s I hate UKBM so much (outside of the few bands who know who they are) is that it’s always done with a knowing nod and a wink. Scooby Doo Rent-a-Ghost bullshit. Please don’t ever put me in that category.

So, why is that ‘Kill Yourself’ stamp funny to me? It’s just so fucking stupid. So brazen. So bold. Refreshing. That’s why the so-called politics of the scene never really bothered me back in the day. If you see it as ‘evil’ you can’t really think it’s good right? It’s just an observation, an exploration. Art. I was lucky enough to be already into bands such as Whitehouse, AXCX, GG Allin, Ramleh etc when I first heard ‘A Blaze In The Northern Sky’ so I didn’t get offended or outraged when the genre opened itself to more nefarious topics. I just thought of it all as art. And I continued to think that until I met a few people that were serious Nazis. And I thought, what a shame. They don’t get it...they just don’t get it.

Herein lies the problem with the Black Metal ‘scene’; it has ALWAYS meant different things to different people. That’s why I can’t just start chatting happily with someone that professes to be into the genre without knowing them first. Same with any metal really. I’ve seen kids now say things like “Oh De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas is so mid (I hate this term so fucking much), Oh Darkthrone are so mid, Venom SUCK etc etc...”

See, that doesn’t happen in ANY other genre. A blues fan would NEVER call Robert Johnson ‘mid’, A jazz fan would NEVER disrespect Miles Davis. So what is this?

What is this?

It’s a spill-over from this pseudo-macho, feud mentality, anti-this, anti-that philosophy from the 90’s (a set of rules made by 15 year old children from Scandinavia by the way) that the kids of today WERE NEVER THERE FOR. I’m not going to make any friends here, but if you’re holding any of these values to heart and you’re under 40 years old, you’re pretending. You’re a cosplayer. You weren’t there. It’s not yours to preach. Get your own thing kids. Do something new. Let Black Metal die. It belongs underground.

And if you’re over 40 years old and still holding these views? Well that’s a bit sad. Being a slave to a set of rules made up by children 35 years ago. Bit weird innit? Life is so fucking short, don’t spend it policing others. It’s a waste of time anyway. Black Metal was completely ruined once it started showing up in mainstream memes. I blame Immortal…

The lore of Black Metal has always gotten more attention than the music, which is a shame because once you strip all that nonsense away you have the sound of rushing blood, of thunder, of the undead, the creaking of roots, the melancholy of loss, the ferocity of a roaring river, the snarl of wolves, the time-lapsed life of a tree, the licking flames of hell, the disintegrating rot and exhilarating thrill of battle. It can be all these things within a few minutes of audio. It’s everything. And it’s INCREDIBLE.

It’s so hard to get ‘right’ though. You spot it straight away when ‘it’ isn’t there. Some indescribable something missing.

I can see how Black Metal can be a very hypnotizing and all encompassing pursuit for a teenager. After all, that was me. The lore, the music, the rebellion, the isolation (which doesn’t really exist anymore thanks to the internet).

The thing is, as I’ve grown older I love Black Metal more now than ever before. I wouldn’t have thought that possible 25 years ago. I love all the genres I grew up with more now.

Now I’m middle-aged I see black Metal as pure escapism. A return to a time where I could revel in being alone with my depression and hatred of the World. As cold as the tomb.

And yet...it still does feel like more than just music. It feels alive, vital. As if it holds the key to life itself. The ultimate irony.

Not again!

He looked down at his clenched fist. It trembled. When he opened his palm there were four perfect wedge-shaped indents where his nails had pushed into the flesh. He watched as the small red notches vanished into the regular colour of his skin.

The rage turned slowly into disappointment and then into a deep sadness.

Why can’t I change? I look down on other people but I desperately want to please them. I want them to tell me I’m a shining light. I want to inspire and have people talk about me with awe.

I can’t have that though as some people will think I’m conceited. I need people to think I’m a nice guy. Yes, I must keep up the illusion that I’m approachable. But not too nice as not to appear aloof. I need to be aloof. Being aloof is cool. My apparent distance between them and me will make it look like I’m above it all. I am above it all. I AM above it all.

If I need to tear others down to make myself look better then so be it. How do I do that? I need a plan.

He looked in the mirror at his greying hair.

I look better I think. Less naïve. I can use that. Fucking kids think they know it all anyway. They’ll see what it’s like in 30 years and they’re scrabbling to keep up.

Something stirred behind him.

Ugh, they’re waking up already?

He strolled over to the bath and slapped her face almost gently.

Hey.

HEY!

Their eyes opened a couple of millimetres and promptly closed again. Pupils rolled upwards. Hands still tied. No sign of her trying to get loose.

She’s still out cold. I have time. I have to prepare. I need a plan.

He shook himself all over as if to reset his body. Glancing into the mirror he pulled the skin around his eyes down until he could see the inside of his eyelids. Like two red orange segments under the eyeball.

She murmured again.

Shut the fuck up I’m trying to THINK.

Maybe I could apologise? It was a misunderstanding after all.

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

This twisted flesh

Plastered around bone

A brittle frame splintered

Smile scribbled on

With the skill of a child

A look so blank as to give the impression of brick

Manufactured but tatty, chipped

The slow realisation of being watched

Observed like a specimen, a painting

Dancing in the corner of sight

A spark, fleeting like a camera’s flash

Arms stretch out, desperate

Embracing the flicker of light between the murk

Unable to be held

Heavy on your bed, leaden in unrest

The body fully discharged, mind aflame

A personal performance of your inner fears

It’s a race

No escape

I’ve swallowed this silver

I’ve been paid in full

I’ll just start here. I’m not going to be making any huge philosophical observations. It’s merely something for you to read and either agree or disagree with over a coffee. And it may be a spicy coffee. I’m in that kind of mood.

People are so unimaginably stupid. I know many of you are already nodding your head in agreement, but are you stupid? Am I? It’s hard to judge sometimes.

Despite being a pretty determined misanthropist, I think I have a pretty decent set of morals. I believe people should be left to enjoy what ever life they want to lead as long as it doesn’t bring physical or mental harm to others. I am somebody who stands up for gay and trans rights. I am pro-abortion. I believe children shouldn’t be bombed. I firmly believe that actual racists in all forms are disgusting. I believe in equality. And I’m in my own right then to dislike anybody I want to equally. For the record, I don’t see somebody being offended as mental harm. If you’re offended by something, well just don’t look at or indulge in that something again. Simple.

We all get offended and I think that’s for us to deal with in our own way. Me? I’m offended by stupidity. I genuinely think people know deep inside if they’re being unreasonable or stubborn to the point where it comes across as downright evil. And not the fun kind. Like Skeletor. Or Venom.

I’m deeply offended by religion - all of it. I think it’s pretty much the most human thing that humans do. Those that want to lead will choose to lie, manipulate, bully, grift and appeal. Those that wish to follow will beg, evangelise, simper and blindly nod along no matter the argument against whatever bullshit artist they’re following. Oh look I’ve accidentally described politics. What a coincidence.

You know it’s all a show right? I mean, you’re aware of that? All politicians are sleazy bastards and you all play into their hands somehow. There is no left or right. There’s just power hungry bastards, lying and fighting their way into the history books. I’m absolutely pig sick of it eating into everyone’s lives, and by extension, mine. Don’t get me wrong. I’d be more than happy seeing Trump dead and gone. But he’s just going to be replaced by another bronze bull that will happily see your family hungry and in pain while he (because it will be a ‘he’) sleeps soundly on his throne of piss.

It leaves people voting for the least egregious of several bags of shit. But this is the scary thing, all the propaganda that people seem to be falling for (see my earlier comment ‘People are so unimaginably stupid’). And in this age of AI it’s just gotten worse and worse. Again and again people fall for this crap and make it their duty to enforce it. Playing into the hands of people that literally wouldn’t acknowledge their existence.

I’ve been called a ‘Nazi’ and a ‘libtard’ within a space of several days. I got called a Nazi because I made a comment about liking (early) Graveland as much as Public Enemy. And I got called a liberal because I listen to a lot of Anarcho, Grind and Punk that leans hard on the left.

I mean...?

I feel like even just naming Graveland will get some people here in a froth. Sue me. I’ve been into Black Metal as long as it’s been in existence. A lot of shady stuff has crossed my palms. Back in the 90s nobody really cared for any particular political leanings. We were too young and stupid. I think I got the first Burzum demo on the same day as I bought ‘Frankenchrist’ on CD. I am a lover of music and art. Some of it crosses the line. Listen, I despise some of the people that make the art that I adore. A prime example here being John Lydon. Bootlicking contrary arsehole. My GOD how I despise that man. Yet, PiL have released some of my favourite music of all time. As have Burzum. And you know, Varg is a dickhead. A total loser with some of the most disgusting opinions that you can have. I’ve always hated him.

AND YET.

And yet...his music has inspired me probably more than any other alongside Killing Joke and Godflesh. Because it’s beautiful.

I’m neither on the left or the right. Nor am I a centrist. These are moral standards created by people that want to manipulate you. I do not believe in the system. And neither do the people that argue these morals. If they did, they wouldn’t be calling the other side morons, idiots or worse. That’s no way to sway somebody to your argument is it? That’s a desperate and pathetic attempt to be adversarial.

I’ve outlined my sincere morals and beliefs. Deal with that how you will. It’s not my aim to upset people and I genuinely hope I haven’t.

...Yeah this article was probably ill-advised huh? Well, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed either apparently.

I’ve always been a sensitive soul but I’m feeling it more in recent times. It seems I’m surrounded by death and sickness more and more each passing day. It’s part and parcel of growing old I suppose. My Father-In-Law passed away a couple of weeks ago and I’m going to miss him. Every other day I read about a musician I grew up listening to that’s died. Much admired friends have had their lives ripped out by immense loss or by the sickness of a loved one.

I have spent a lot of my life thinking about death. The permanence of it. I’m fascinated. Horrified. Terrified by it. The deletion of an entire world. You don’t realise how much space somebody takes up until they’re gone.

Yet it happens around 200,000 times per day. Thousands of screaming souls yearning for a few more minutes...just a few.

But here we are. Wasting the precious time we have doing what? Arguing with one another. Being petty. Judging other people for what they wear, how much they weigh, how much they earn, what colour they are, what music they listen to, where they were born. Waiting in queues to buy the latest pile of shit an even bigger piece of shit wants us to lap up to fill their pockets. Dancing like fucking puppets for a bunch of disgusting, greedy immoral ghouls. I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said a million times before but what the fuck are we doing here? It’s madness. And that will never change. Never ever change.

I’m having a weird year. It’s been terrible and brilliant. Terrible for the reasons I shared above and by the fact that I cannot find a stable job. I’ve been in and out of work since 2024. Barely scraping together enough to live on whilst indulging in my ridiculous insistence on buying music. Listen, it’s as essential as food to me. Outside of the love for my friends and family it’s the thing I live for the most. I am temping at the moment but live in constant fear of being let go.

Anyway so yeah that’s been a challenge. Alongside that both myself and people close to me have been struggling with mental health. Personally speaking the only way I’ve been able to deal with that is by ignoring news and gossip. But then I risk being uninformed. It might be worth it in the long run. What can I do about it anyway? Just sit and wait for the megaton blast.

On the other hand, I have taken myself out of my comfort zone. I’ve been busy reading, writing both music and these articles, leaving the house more frequently to battle my agoraphobia, meeting new people. I even performed live with the incredible Prior earlier this year (If you have any interest in noise or Death Industrial you’d do well to check her out. Immense stuff. Some of the best). I’ve booked tickets to a festival in London next year (Winds of Agony) to watch Beherit and Demoncy among others. This will be the first time I’ve been further than our studio in Somerset in over 6 years. It’s a huge step. I’m scared yes, but I’m starting to get off on that feeling.

Recording with both Hateful Abandon and Anno Basilisk has been another high point. Because of the creation aspect and also because it gives me time with Tom who is always incredible company.

But death. It’s always there. And it does us good to remind ourselves that it is. Every moment more precious than any amount of money. It might be a boring, predictable and sickly thing for me to say but if you can improve somebody’s life by being there for them, showing support or even just making them laugh you’re winning at this shit.

And as long as I’m dishing out cliches; Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Plus I’ve really not much to say at the moment that hasn’t been covered better by somebody else.

I wanted to write about stepping out of my comfort zone this year but I’ll save that one until the year is over I think...

So, why am I writing this now? Ahh well, it turns out I simply miss writing.

I’ll tell another tale of misadventure and teen troubles/trauma.

Remember the kid that looked like Glenn Danzig from one of my other articles (https://hatefulabandon.substack.com/p/peel-it-back)?

If you can’t remember or can’t be bothered to read it (lazy sod...). There was a kid that looked exactly, and I mean, EXACTLY like Glenn Danzig who I often saw on my paper round, circa 1990-92. He turned out to be a bit of a nutter. I still don’t know whether I liked him or not.

Anyway, he appears in this story and I’ll refer to him as ‘Glenn’. Why not eh?

CALIGULA

After my Mother passed away I think my Dad thought I went off the rails somewhat. The truth is I was a very well balanced (if dopey and naïve) kid. I didn’t touch drugs or drink until well into my 17th year. All my friends seemed to be off their tits the entire time. But not me. Music was seriously all I needed. It supplied all the dizzying highs I desired.

I mentioned naïve right? I did. Just making sure you’ve noted that.

So, Glenn invited me to a house party. He used the promise of good music, older kids and booze to entice me to go. Like I mentioned above, the mention of good music was all I needed. I was in. He gave me a date and detailed directions to the address and I was all set.

The house was a fair walk away. One that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find my way home from in the dead of night. I was temporarily staying with my Grandparents, as my Dad was in the middle of moving house to North Yorkshire from the Midlands. I told them I was staying over with a friend for the night and they happily let me go with a packed lunch. This made me feel guilty but I ate it anyway.

I followed the hastily scribbled, barely legible instructions as best I could. Eventually I reached a large patch of wasteland with an equally large half-built new home sitting precariously on one edge of it. The metal fences and warning signs decorating the site promised DANGER in large red capital letters. Scanning the area I realised I was quite alone. No builders, no party, nothing. “Hello?” I shouted, checking the address again in a fluster.

Looking around in despair and disappointment I sat down hard on a nearby wheelbarrow, the contents of which were considerably lighter than my own weight. This led to me sprawling on the floor with the wheelbarrow and it’s contents on top of me.

The shock of the fall and subsequent battering by several large bricks to the torso knocked me for six. I lay there for a minute or two wishing I was quite dead.

Laughter shook me from my morbid thoughts. It was Glenn and some other muppet.

“What the fuck are you doing Martin?”

Red faced and dusting myself off I explained what had happened.

“You’re early you twat!”

I’m always early. To everything.

He and the muppet led me to the half-built building. It was more intact than I first thought. On my way in I trod on something that crunched under my foot. Looking down I saw that it was a syringe. Even then I didn’t put two and two together. I told you I was naïve.

“We’ll go to the party later. We’ll just get loaded here first”

“Get what?” I stuttered?

“Fucked up! Loaded! I don’t want to share this with anyone else”

Glenn reached into a bag and pulled out a few cans of lager, a joint and a small bag of white powder.

Nope. No. Not ready for this. I just want to listen to music and talk about tape-trading. Why is this happening? No. I hate people. Why? I panicked.

I really panicked. Scared out of my wits and bruised from the fall.

The lunch my grandparents gave me, and I all too hastily consumed, started making an appearance. I grabbed his bag and threw up in it.

He. Went. Mental.

In something that seems like a theme from the stories of my youth, I ran. As fast as I could in a random direction. Glenn and the muppet in fierce pursuit.

I eventually lost them about a mile from the patch of wasteland. I hid behind a bin. At this point I had absolutely no idea where I was and the sun was setting fast. I sat behind the bin and had a good long think about my life. I need to start taking chances. And fast.

I walked all night, it didn’t take me long to find my feet and get back to town but I just walked for hours thinking about my Mum, feeling hopeless with grief.

I got back home and my Grandmother asked if I’d had a good time.

“Yeah great Nanna thanks....” I lied.

I never saw Glenn again as I moved to Whitby a week or two later. I’m glad. He was a right prick. Fuck you Glenn I just wanted to talk about music. That’s all I ever want to do.

If you’re here for ‘Old man shouts at cloud’, oh boy, you’re in luck today.

Last weekend I had the misfortune of attending a local Death Metal festival. I’m not going to name the festival, because I really don’t want to promote it, nor do I wish to incur the wrath of local scene ‘heroes’. But it was terrible.

I went because my friends played and I promised to always support them when they’re in town. They were great but that’s of no consequence to this sorry tale. It was (and always is) wonderful to see my close brothers and sisters, who were present for the same reason as me.

That aside, what a fucking mess. I had an absolutely awful time outside of seeing my friends. This was extra vexing as this festival was happening at the same time as Justin Broadrick played as JKFlesh a couple of streets away. I would’ve much rather gone to that but loyalty to my friends trumped this. Forever the martyr so...yeah. I missed it.

The venue for the fest was double booked with England VS Whoeverthefuck in the other room. So House music was blasting over the venue speakers and Johnny Football was everywhere. Sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, tiny-minded Johnny Football and his girlfriend, Malibu McSlagtits. Not a relaxing atmosphere.

The below is anecdotal and probably only represents my local scene, so take that as you will.

So, I was absent-mindedly sipping a pint when a trans-girl came up to me (not pointing this out for any other reason but to show how progressive I am. This will either warm me to you or make you hate me. I’m fine with either), she mentioned my Morbid Angel tattoo and showed me hers. Mine was much better. Anyway, she was maybe in her early 20s, I just can’t tell anymore. We were discussing music and she suddenly said “Of course, you couldn’t buy Death or Black Metal in shops in the 90s, it was all tape-trading”

“Uh what?” I sputtered with a exaggerated double-take, shaking my head to punctuate how incorrect what she’d just said was.

“Yeah you couldn’t get it anywhere, it was all via tape-trading wasn’t it?”

No. No it absolutely was not. I talked to a couple more young folk of about the same age and they all agreed that this is what they had read and heard.

I went on to point out that I bought ‘Soulside Journey’ on the day it came out in Woolworths. I bought ‘De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas’ in Boots (a pharmacy/chemist) for fuck sake! I bought ‘Diabolical Fullmoon Mysticism’ and ‘Drawing Down the Moon’ in a newsagents called WHSmith. It was available everywhere. I think this just goes to show how kids now are confused about what underground music is and was. It was never Darkthrone, Morbid Angel, Mayhem, Ulver etc. awesome bands, incredible music, but, outside of their initial demos, these records were always available via either major labels or major distributers. Why is this confusing kids now?

Maybe because underground music is harder to quantify these days? I mean, my Dad could buy ‘Vampires Of Black Imperial Blood’ off of Amazon and have it tomorrow. I highly doubt he would, but the option exists. There was definitely tape-trading happening up until the early 2000s but that was for actual underground music...your Vroloks, your Ashdautases, your Desastriouses and Helvintrs and Vlad Tepeses and Black Funerals and Strids. Not fucking Immortal or Marduk.

Does this matter? Yes and no. History should always be told how it occurred otherwise how else do we learn. Right? So it matters in that respect. Does it matter to kids now? I’m not sure that they believed me or they just thought me a mad old man.

At the very same festival I had someone (a Black Metal fan allegedly) call my recently resurrected Black Metal project “too blasphemous and satanic” and “not how Black Metal is anymore”.

I despair I really do. By the way, I hate calling Anno Basilisk a ‘project’. Neither of my outlets are projects. Hateful Abandon represents my love for outsider music and art in general and also my work with Tom. Anno Basilisk literally IS me. Cut me and I bleed Black Metal.

Anyway, I’ve blathered for too long. Make of the above what you will. Is there a solution to this misinformation or are we too far gone now? Does it matter? Am I evil? Are you morbid?

The 7am alarm startles me from a deep and dreamless sleep. Its the radio playing one of my favourite songs. I don’t know the name of it. Doesn’t matter. The wife, Sandra, sleeps on but murmurs something about breakfast. She’s ok. She’ll do for now, she looks after the kids and polishes up ok sometimes. Getting older though. Getting fat. Maybe I’ll see Tracy at work today. Proper fit she is. She’d get it.

The kids are making noise already - fighting. “DEAN! SARA! Come on. Get ready for school for fuck’s sake!” You smile to yourself, Dean is growing into a proper strong lad. Footballer. Takes no shit. Got in trouble last week for giving a brown kid a black eye. Proud of him. Sara? She’s a bonnie kid but didn’t really want her. She’s the wife’s.

I get in the car and switch the radio on. Bliss. Every song is getting me ready for a day of socialising at work. Love this one. Who is it again? It’s on my Spotify somewhere. I just hit ‘Mix’ and there it is usually. Never mind.

Looking forward to work today. Leeds won. That’ll piss off Harry my team leader. Yeah, I’ll take the piss out of him all day. Deserves it. Complained about my flag. You leave the Country if you hate it so much! Getting angry now, but the soothing sounds of...whoever this is...make me feel better.

Arriving at work I notice the new lad. Fucking diversity hire. I’ll just ignore him. “Hey Harry. Your lads didn’t put up a much of a fight did they? Leeds killed em. Yeahhhh. Fuck you!” I laugh as I sit down and my desk. People are talking about some new TV show. Seen that one. Too much talking for me. Bloody nonsense.

I flick through my phone. Everyone’s talking about some new starlet on the red carpet. “Ugly Bitch!” I post in the comments. Laughing to myself I imagine Tracy naked. She says she hates me. Made some complaint about me last week. Bloody feminist. She loves it really. She’d get it alright.

I arrive home and tea is already on the table. “What’s this crap?” Sandra protests and I slap her hard in the face. The kids go quiet and she storms from from the table in tears. That’s better. I can bloody think now. I can think.

The enthusiastic messages (often starting with ‘Hailz Vintyr!’) would often bring back memories of the deep depression I felt at the time and my failure to keep the project’s head above water. When I put a pin in Basilisk in 2005, it was a time where it felt like everyone had a ‘bedroom black metal’ project and I was beginning to feel like I had nothing else to contribute. Having mostly left my suicidal feelings behind, it also felt like I was coasting on past emotions. If you’re familiar with Hateful Abandon you’ll also be aware that I don’t like to repeat myself.

I was incredibly hard on myself when recording Basilisk. It became a ritual, I applied corpse-paint, lit candles, got drunk or fucked up and just pressed record. You can already see how this would be hard to keep up for long. I’m surprised I did 4 years of it. It was all recorded in one take with the second layer of guitar being improvised, I must have gone through hundreds of blank tapes. For every 10 songs, 2 were usable. It was incredibly important to me that Basilisk was ‘real’, OK sure I vamped it up in interviews but the pain and anger in Basilisk was all too fucking real.

Using a borrowed 4 track, there was no room for bass - just two layers of guitar, vocals through an old Webcam mic and drum machine set on ‘whatever’. It worked. Although listening to the demos now...ooh boy. It was rough.

Rough is good though. It means you’re still alive, against the odds.

So why now? In 2015 the Emails asking to release Basilisk stuff stopped coming. People were beginning to forget. “Good!” I thought. But Vintyr was not happy. Right, yeah. Honestly, that sounds hokey as fuck. I know, I know.

Over the last year or two, Basilisk has come up a few times in conversation with people. Whether it’s to ask what happened or people remembering the project fondly. Nostalgia gets to us all I suppose. But that’s not what this will be. Not nostalgia, not a re-tread, and I’m not wheeling this out to make money (HAHA!).

I can’t use my old rituals these days. I’ll record it in Hateful Abandon’s Compound studio and Swine will be engineer on the project. Anno. Basilisk will still be raw. Anno. Basilisk will still be real.

Remember in the last article when I said I had three emotions? Vintyr is the hate. Pure and distilled. I know how that reads. Get a load of this guy... Put your modern thoughts aside though. He’s always been there. It’s the sneer, the frustration, the desperate defence mechanism, the coward inside of me. It’s the self inflicted doubt of 21 years and it needs to be released.

Whilst there has been some fantastic Black Metal albums released in recent years, it’s all become a bit nice and cuddly hasn’t it?

Vintyr hates that....

Hate. I hate people. Genuinely, the frustration people ignite in me is...immense. I hate music. I hate the way music makes me feel. I’m embarrassed by it. I hate politics. I hate stupidity. Why is everybody so stupid? Not just uneducated. But literally stupid. If you’re unable to imagine someone else’s pain you are a stupid fucking person. Full stop. Idiot. I hate so much that I frighten myself. I am a sneering sceptical monstrous heel ready to burn it all down.

Indifference. Why bother. We’re all going be dead in 100 years. Me? I have 30 years max. Time is ticking old boy! There have been times in my life where I’ve yearned for death’s cold embrace to take me. Sometimes it was just because I wanted something interesting to happen. I cannot abide shopping for tins of beans, toilet paper, soap, disinfectant, paperclips, pens, pasta, beverages, fish fingers, bubble bath (yep), razors, toothpasteARGGGHH JUST KILL ME NOW! The mundane. All too real. I hate reality and I need to be far from it. The only time I’m truly bored is when faced with the mundane.

Love. I have huge buckets of it. I love the human race as much as I hate it. I always know when I’ll get on with someone and I fall in love with them immediately. My friends are everything to me. Music. I love music. I love the way it makes me feel. It transcends emotion. I love reading. I don’t do it enough. I’m spilling over with empathy. I feel everything that people I love are going through. I take it personally. I despise injustice and this builds and builds on a day by day basis to the point where I feel utterly helpless.

The problem is these three emotions combine and twist around me like a Boa Constrictor, overlapping and bleeding into one another. Sometimes within seconds. I have considered therapy, but what’s the point? I know what’s wrong with me. I’m stark raving mad.

Take my reaction to the new Darkthrone record ‘Caveman Metal Farmers’. This was my genuine thought process whilst listening to it;

Oh dear. Oh come on guys...no Martin, be fair. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. As long as they’re enjoying themselves. But…shouldn’t I be able to enjoy it too? No come on Martin, it’s just not to your taste. Isn’t it…you know…really terrible though? Well, yes.

My god Fenriz don’t sing...jesus.

Fair play to them though for just bashing it out and having fun. But no, it doesn’t even sound like they’re enjoying themselves. Not sure I’m interested in two blokes having fun at my expense. Wait. is this a joke? Are we being punked? Are they just laughing at everyone lapping this crap up? I mean, they used to be able to write songs. These are just riffs that go nowhere. No atmosphere. Nothing. No, come on Martin be fair. They’re lovely blokes. Think how you’d feel if some tit just wrote off everything you did. But it’s bad though isn’t it? Is it though? I mean, we’re all going to be dead soon. I’m sure plenty of people like this. Aren’t they all idiots though? No, come on Martin be fair now….

I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE.

The record is terrible.

Even worse. It’s boring. And I feel bad for saying that. But also I don’t care.

A slight change in format here as I wanted to talk about records that I consider to be perfect, in bite sized, easy-to-digest chunklets.

Perfection is something a lot of people say cannot be attained. I am not one of these people. I’m not a reviewer and I’m not looking to recommend these albums to anyone in particular. Perfection, it seems to me, in the eyes of someone that thinks it can’t be reached, means that they want everything to be on one level. If their idea of perfection is the goal then I guarantee it would be as bland as old beans.

Interspersed between the albums we’re looking at today will be a story of my youthful shenanigans that people seem to be enjoying at my expense. So, let’s get started.

Swervedriver - Mezcal Head

Coming out of Oxford UK, Swervedriver should have been bigger than they were (are? I have no idea what they’re doing these days) based on this one album alone. A really nice juxtaposition between grunge-style heaviness and swirling shoegazery without losing an inch of pop catchiness. As an alt-rock/shoegaze record I don’t think it’s aged a day, unlike some of their contemporaries of the time (I’m looking at you later Ride and mid 90s Lush).

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So, around the time this album was released (or maybe a touch after) I was in the local pub back in Northampton and my roving drunken gaze fell on a pretty face in the crowd. We did the flirty looking-at-each-other-from-across-the-room dance. You know the one. Flicking eyes towards one another and quickly turning our heads away with a cheeky smile and an over-animated Disneyfied show of mock bashfulness (thank fuck I’m happily married now - I don’t miss this nonsense in the slightest).

Anyway, shooting my shot, I left my seat in the corner and went over to see if I could buy her a drink. She gratefully accepted and offered to accompany me to the bar. “Lovely stuff” I ‘Alan-Partridged’ and turning swiftly on my heel I set off to grab some beers. A shadow swallowed me. I genuinely thought someone had dimmed the lights. Confused, I turned around to see that the lovely lady that I’d propositioned was absolutely MASSIVE. I’m not talking overweight. I’m talking 6 foot five at least, and arms like tree trunks, hands like shovels. What a unit. I was immediately emasculated. For the record I am 6 foot two, so not a small lad.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been a sexist person and like I said, she had a very beautiful face and seemed nice enough. A million neurons sparked and fizzed in my mind simultaneously. Do I? Should I? You know what? She deserves my respect. I don’t know her. I would like to get to know her. Let’s do this. So, pint in hand I gave her a ‘cheers’ with my glass. My girly little wrist immediately snapped back, such was the force of her enthused toasting. My lager went spinning over the neighbouring table covering a group of students with it’s fresh frothiness. By this time I was already terrified of her. To be continued...

Arkona - Zeta Reticuli

Back in the late 90s/Early 2000s I used to get lists through the post from a distro called ‘Angelisc’; They offered literally hundreds of underground records at stupidly low prices, me and my mates used to take big punts, sometimes ordering 10 CDs at a time just based on the description alone. Sometimes, out of the 10 CDs you received, you got a gem. The rest you would keep for trading. This was one of the gems. An absolute pearl. It’s the drum sound and overall atmosphere on this one. The drummer kicks the living crap out of his kit. Absolutely unhinged vocals from Messiah, who I believe has now passed, top this one off as an all-timer.

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Anyway, back to the amazon mentioned earlier. When we arrived back at the table, she lifted me off my feet and placed me on her knee. Yes, you read that correctly. I laughed nervously and struggled a little. She held me fast and before I knew it she was kissing me forcefully. The more I shifted and squirmed the harder she held on and the more aggressive her affections became. I decided just to try and enjoy it. I had no choice really. We tried to talk in between maulings but the music was too loud so the (consensual) kissing continued.

Kicking out time at the pub finally fell upon us and she let me go. She immediately asked me if we could meet the next day. Not knowing quite what to say, and in my urgency to leave, I agreed. What have I done? To be continued...

Swans - Filth

I heard Swans the week after reading an interview with Mick Harris, just after the Scorn album ‘Vae Solis’ was released. He comprehensively listed his influences and named Swans at number one. I was familiar with the Swans name as I’d seen it on a few CDs in the industrial section of HMV. I had a few quid so I picked up ‘Filth’ and the brand new album; ‘White Light from the Mouth of Infinity’. I was bowled over by both albums. It was ‘Filth’ though, that made the biggest impact. I would like to say I had never heard anything like it but at this point I’d been listening to Godflesh for a couple of years so it was a bit of an ‘A-ha’ moment. This album changed me forever.

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The morning after my dalliance with Goliath I woke up to a stinking hangover. The memories of the night before slowly unfurled in my brain. A cold sweat formed on me and a giant chill danced up and down my spine. Hang on...we’d agreed to meet..at 11am. What time is it now? Oh no. No.

It was 11:30.

I flung myself out of bed, down the stairs and straight out of the front door. My heart pounding in my throat. Wearing the same clothes as the previous night, albeit with the addition of several kebab stains on my shirt, still fresh from the drunken feast upon my return home. I must have smelled terrible. I ran as fast as I could to the meeting place.

I arrived exactly 52 mins late to witness a crying giant. Thick eyeliner ran like an oil-spill down her cheeks. Nose running with mucous, it made her look like she had a glass moustache. Her hands full with wads of slimy tissues. I apologized and tried to console her. “You hate me! I knew it!” She sobbed. I tried to explain, no I didn’t hate her. I didn’t know her. I’d just overslept. Please. Please calm down.

She was making a scene and people were beginning to notice. How the Hell has this happened? I thought to myself...and just like that, her face started to beam like a headlight. I was forgiven. She grabbed my hand, crushing it in the process and pulled me along like I was a toddler, forcing me to keep up with her giant steps as we searched for a café with big enough seats to hold her colossal frame.

When we finally found somewhere I ordered a couple of drinks and sat down opposite her. Her pretty face flicking between joy and sadness at alarming speeds. She banged the table loudly several times to try and get the waiter’s attention. It was then I started getting a lot more nervous. She was just awful. Shouting at the poor guy, swearing like a sailor, spittle flying at every sibilance, she demanded a fresh coffee as hers was “Cold as fuck”.

It turned out we had nothing in common and she was clearly very insane. She was a massive fan of a band called Miranda Sex Garden and enjoyed no other music at all. None. After an hour in her company I made my excuses to leave. I made a somewhat non-committal agreement that we would meet again. No fucking way. No chance. Nope.

Later that night I was quietly sitting at home and there was a heavy thud on the door. Sighing, I twitched the curtain to see who the Hell it was at 10pm disturbing my reading. Shit. It was her. Her head spun round and I quickly ducked behind a nearby cupboard. Did she see me? The knocking continued for another 20 minutes. Too late to answer now. It would’ve been worse to answer the door now right? So I hid and made myself small.

Over the next two weeks she would knock on my door and I would hide. Every night at 10pm. I felt haunted. Again, I hid. I’m not here. Shhhhh. Every night she would leave a 3 inch high heap of wet tissues on my doorstep.

And just like that, it stopped. My body slowly relaxed as subconsciously it realised I was probably free. I still looked over my shoulder every time I left the house for the first month or so, but as time ticked on I eventually forgot all about her.

One particular care-free Sunday morning, about 6 months later, I was on a trip to the corner shop for something mundane like milk, I turned the corner and the sun dipped behind a cloud. No, darker. Was this an eclipse? No, it was her. The woman.

I fled. I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I ran for what seemed like hours. Slowing down I turned to look behind me, but just before that was the feeling of something bearing down on me. Fuck. It was her. I sped up again but it was too late. She grabbed my T shirt by the collar and I was immediately snatched backward. Sprawling on the floor, upended like an insect. I looked up into her face, obscured by shadow, the sun directly behind her. She looked like a goddess. A demon.

“I don’t think I’m mature enough to be in a relationship” I spluttered, not knowing what else to say. I waited for a retaliation. Nothing. I opened my eyes. She’d gone. I never saw her again, but to this day, every time the sun goes behind a cloud I shit myself.

1. Abruptum - De Profundis Mors Vas Consumet

I first heard this track on the ‘Nordic Metal - a Tribute to Euronymous’ CD back in the mid nineties. I feel like I’ve been searching for something that holds the same dark gift as this song ever since. Despite being a big fan, I feel that even Abruptum didn’t reach it again. It has an absolute pitch black atmosphere that many other Black Metal bands would never attain. Almost doom, it travels the same deserted plains that Deinonychus later flirted with but never quite pulled off. The bells. The screams. Fucking goosebumps.

2. MZ. 412 - Feasting On Khristian Blood

I didn’t hear ‘Burning The Temple of God’ until 2001. My housemate, Mark bought it home from a particularly fruitful visit to Replay Records in Bristol. Again, the atmosphere was absolutely on point here as it is with all MZ. 412. My initial reaction was it reminded me of the LLN bands I already loved. It was fantastic to hear black metal co-existing with industrial in a way that wasn’t just using a thumping dance beat. This track always reminds me of the old flat we shared. Riddled with mice, we used to watch them scurry back and forth in the dark. We named one of the mice ‘Pyphomgertum’ after an absolutely terrible Mexican Death Metal band. Happy and awful times both. I think about that mouse a lot more than I should.

3. Nirvana 2002 - Slumber

No real memories attached to this one other than it’s simply my favourite Death Metal song ever. Topped off with the chainsaw guitar sound that every cuddly, smiley longhaired kid is trying to capture these days but simply fails to. The savage vocals threaten to separate flesh from bone and the riff at 2:12 beats Entombed at their own game. Stellar.

4. Killing Joke - Sun Goes Down

Sometimes KJ left their best songs off the albums (Ghosts Of Ladbroke Grove and Blue Feather spring to mind) - Geordie at his twisted best - Jaz frothing at the mouth. A tremendous inspiration. The attached video is my favourite performance by anyone, ever. Absolutely possessed. It will always remind me of the barn where Hateful Abandon record. Anytime I miss it, I smash this track on and close my eyes.

5. Godflesh - Slavestate

The ultimate heavy industrial track - mechanical without being cyber. An incredible sample from Brian Dougans’ “Stakker Humanoid” is a ferocious basis for the piece, lending it’s piston crunch to the factory flavoured carnage. Slavestate will always be my favourite Godflesh material, and another huge inspiration. I played this in my college common room and got banned from the stereo for life. I’m still bitter.

6. Sugar - The Act We Act

I’ve mentioned this in one of my past articles, but in September of 1992 I got hit by a car crossing the road. Leaving me with scars along the side of my head and no front teeth. Whilst I lay in hospital recovering, someone asked if they could get me anything. I requested my Walkman and ‘Copper Blue’ By Sugar. I was on my way to kill Euronymous mys...oh...sorry, force of habit, I was on my way home to listen to ‘Copper Blue’ when I got hit, so I hadn’t heard it yet. I was a big Husker Du fan (I still am) so more than anything I was livid that my listening pleasure had been interrupted by a speeding Austin Allegro (google it). I’ll never not smell the hospital when I listen to this track. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan of hospitals but for some reason, with everyone running around worried about me after being in the accident, this remains a comforting memory. Weird.

7. Iron Maiden - Deja-Vu

This song and ‘Somewhere In Time’ in general will always hold the warmest memories of my Mother - I listened to this album relentlessly on my Holiday to Torquay in 1987. Mum never liked me listening to Heavy Metal because the gruesome imagery and topics were way too old for me at the time. She hated it so much she would only let me own one Metal T-shirt (Iron Maiden ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’ shirt fact fans!), despite this, she spent a lot of the holiday sewing Maiden patches onto my jacket. She was such a lovely woman and I only have good memories of her. Although I’m not really a fan of anything they’ve done since ‘Seventh Son..’ (OK, OK ‘Brave New World’ was good if you have a gun to my head...) Iron Maiden will always be very special to me because of the simple fact they remind me of my Mum.

8. NoMeansNo - Dad

Given its grim subject matter it’s weird to think that I have so many pleasant memories attached to this song. Whether it’s of blasting it on my Walkman as a Neubauten obsessed teenager, lugging metal barrels, old shopping carts and rusty saws in the sweltering Summer heat to rehearsal in Whitby in the early 90s, or shouting the lyrics at the top of my voice, working as an Engineer with one of my oldest and best friends in Northampton 5 years later. We played this song so much we were asked to vacate the lab, relocating to our own room where we could be as loud as we wanted. It’s just a great, great track that’s been with me since I was 13 years old.

9. Leviathan - Wicked Fields of Calm

Wrest at his peak. No particular memories attached to this one - it’s just an incredibly addictive Black Metal track. Muffled screams through the murk cut like a razor. Everything comes together so well. The riff at 3:30...holy shit tits.

10. Krieg - As Graveyard Rites...As Darkness Fell

It could have been any track off this album to be honest. Pummelling anger and pain all the way through. Krieg has made much better music than this since, but this album, along with ‘Rise Of The Imperial Hordes’ will always be special to me. I have great memories of hanging out with Neill at Under The Black Sun 2005 - the only time I’ve ever left the Country specifically to see a band play live. I can’t even remember what other bands played. I couldn’t care less either. It just didn’t matter.

Neill is facing some difficulty at the moment with his better half having succumbed to a horrible illness. So, he’s having to look after her, his beautiful daughter and a bevy (murder? herd?) of cats 24 hours a day. Please consider looking at his GoFundMe and helping him continue to be the best Dad and partner he can be.

Link to Neil’s GoFundMe

Before I go, have you any idea how many ads I had to watch finding the links for this article? Well, 10 yeah OK...look, that’s still 20 minutes of my life wasted. I could have done so much with those 20 minutes. Twice actually, don’t mean to brag...

The last great record shop I frequented closed for good. Nobody bought records anymore. People could listen to anything they liked online - even my own family and a few of my friends didn’t see the point in buying records at all when you could download whatever you wanted for free.

Without monetary investment, music had become background noise for many. The internet had stolen a large part of what being a fan of music was. Discovery. I mean, sure, you can find nice surprises on YouTube or Bandcamp now that *almost* give the feeling of a blind buy, but it’s not the same.

The rush of finding some legendary whispered-about record whilst flicking through CDs, tapes or LPs was second to none. The greatest rush imaginable. Even better if you’d never even heard the band in question before. I used to have scores upon scores of Zines featuring interviews with obscure artists you just wouldn’t ever hear unless a friend had a copy. The feeling when you got home and actually loved the music was something else entirely.

Sometimes a record cover hit you right in the chest. The logo, the artwork, the label. Even the ‘thanks list’ used to be enough for me to take a punt! Most kids today will never experience that and it’s a genuine shame. Only the most stubborn of future generations will.

This is turning into ‘Old man shouts at cloud’ very quickly and I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. But I’m just sad honestly, not angry.

I wasn’t in a position to police anybody on how to enjoy music (and I’m still not) but it just struck me back then, how soulless and grubby it was, to just type in an album title, choose from a crusty old list on some illicit website, gilded with half naked barely -legals, download, then burn it onto CDr only to fling it into a dark corner of your room to never think of again. Worthless. Blank mirrored disc. Stolen. Yeah, stolen. If you received a tape from a friend with an album on in the 80s or 90s then the primary point was, you were going to buy the original on your format of choice. Not have it just be data.

DATA.

CONTENT.

Can you imagine thinking of your favourite art or music as just data? Just content. A product. Fast food.

To many, that’s just what music is. Something you used to have to buy but now don’t. They never think of the artist, the intent, the emotions that went into the record. Don’t get me started on art. The vast majority will only appreciate the pretty and disposable. They’d be happy if the walls in the Louvre were stocked with McDonalds ads. That would be fine.

Look, I’m not stupid. I realise that a lot of music is just content, is just product, is just fast food. Your average chart-topping lioness is not looking to make art. But the enthickening of the population is happening at such an incredibly fast rate that I cannot keep up. Even some of the artists I once looked up to are selling Hot Sauce, Burgers and kitchenware. I saw Mayhem soap for sale the other day. Mayhem. Soap.

It used to be that selling out was frowned upon, now it’s seen as a reason to congratulate the band.

I’m going to put this on the line right now, right here. This is important. Read this carefully.

The reason fans used to not want the band to sell out is not necessarily because they were gatekeeping (although gatekeeping is possibly the result), but because if a band wanted to appeal to the masses, the SOUND of the band would inevitably change. The feel of the music would change. The INTENT would change. This didn’t always happen and I appreciate there are layers to this. See, I’m not saying popular music is bad, I’m saying the bands that water down their sound and intent to appeal to more people for the money are BAD. And now bands that have struggled on the precipice of popularity whilst managing to keep their sound and intent intact can’t sell records, and are stooping as low as to sell branded Hot sauce.

BUY MORE RECORDS.

And if you can’t afford to buy records share bands you love with everyone you know. It helps.

Or fuck off. I don’t care anymore.

Hateful Abandon Hot Sauce coming SOON - just £49.99

In the Autumn of 1994 my life was upended. I was bundled off to Northampton College (now University of Northampton) to attempt a further education in Product Design. A 3 year suite of classes that I was crowbarred into at the last minute because of my poor projected grades. I say ‘bundled’ because I really didn’t want to go. For some reason, and I’m not sure if it’s the same these days, back then it was of the upmost import that kids got a further education at all costs. We were made to think that without this, life would basically be over and we’d all be consigned to be cleaning ladies or giving sloppy handjobs behind Debenhams for a living.

I had absolutely no interest in Product Design whatsoever. All I knew was that I was being whisked away from my home in Whitby, the great scene there, my friends, my band and the family cats all of whom I would miss terribly. There was a spark of excitement somewhere in my gut (which I now recognise as anxiety) but I knew deep down that this was going to be an absolutely exquisite disaster.

For my first year at college I was assigned a room in a 5 bedroom house with 4 other kids. The landlord was a sinister figure that invaded your personal space, gazed into your eyes and spat when he spoke. He had an odd aura. A heady mix of intense lust and fierce suspicion that I’ve never quite encountered before or since. But it was, to say the least, off putting. He was a double-hand shaker (you know what I mean - he would ‘embrace’ your single hand with both of his) the fingers of his left hand (the ‘embracer’) always lingering too long on your skin, with a bit of a shuddering caress upon pulling away. I could never prove it but I’m sure he looked into our windows at night.

Anyway - the day we all moved in, I was the first to turn up. I sat in my empty, damp smelling bedroom and waited for the other kids to appear. After an hour of staring out of the window in anticipation of my housemates arrival, I got bored and unpacked my stereo - a bit of a crappy machine but it had a great multi-CD loader that played 5 CDs in succession - Pressing play on the remote I promptly fell asleep on the sticky, mouldy bed that I’d inherited.

I was aroused from my slumber by the sound of laughter and a sock hitting my face thrown by someone’s Dad. In the doorway were 4 strangers and their parents. On the stereo, at almost full volume was ‘Rapemaster’ by Whitehouse. Not the best start. The next CD started up, ‘Drawing Down the Moon’ by Beherit. I just let it play. Fuck it.

From that moment on it was hard to find my feet in that house. They looked at me the same way that the landlord did minus the lust. They weren’t bad kids, and we had our moments, but from that very second I was the blackest of black sheep. My first night in the house I got drunk, bleached my hair, slept with the first girl I met and ate an entire block of cheese (I was *untethered*). Looking back I’m not sure what I was thinking...It was self destruction at the highest level.

A week later I met a kid called Gareth quite by accident, the first of very few rays of light in my story. He was impossibly cool (and probably reading this, hi Gareth) and we bonded straight away. Chatting into the night about Sebadoh, Sabbath, Rodan, Jacob’s Mouse, Sonic Youth, Bjork and generally John Peel related stuff. It was established that he too was slutty, just like myself, he played guitar and I played bass so we started looking for a drummer. I don’t even remember us agreeing to start a band, it just kind of happened.

Gareth lived in the College Halls (or Dorms if you’re of the American persuasion), this was a much better place to live. I pretty much existed on his floor for the next couple of weeks. Sorry Gareth. He didn’t seem to mind though and we had a great time. We had the same sense of humour, he shared my passion for music and like I say, we both had an eye for the ladies.

A short time later Gareth introduced me to, at least on first impression, a very serious kid called Duncan. He was a year older than us and had his own flat. He was also a drummer. We got on like a house on fire and quickly organized a rehearsal.

I was half right about Duncan. He was very serious, but he was also incredibly silly. The first openly Bisexual person I ever met, he had a way of flirting with you as he talked but also being incredible bawdy as, he also, liked the ladies. He was an absolute riot, and even 30 odd years later I find myself smiling at his jokes. After a while, Gareth’s floor became Duncan’s couch. At this point I’d not been home for a month, not called my family (no cellphones remember, this is 1994) and never stepped foot in College.

The God Machine.

One band me and Duncan really bonded over was The God Machine.

In my opinion the most underrated band that’s ever been. Only releasing two albums, both masterpieces; ‘Scenes From The Second Storey’ and ‘One Last Laugh In A Place Of The Dying’

Although this is timeless music, and has more than it’s fair share of originality, it shares textures (and samples) with Neurosis, prime The Cure and early Jane’s Addiction but is a lot heavier than all three. The God Machine were anger, sorrow, loneliness. A woozy tribute to grief. They split up at the very height of their powers after the bassist, Jimmy Fernandez, died from a brain haemorrhage. Listening now, which I still do on a regular basis, I’m reminded of Duncan’s flat. The old bike in the bath, the dusty kitchen floor and the empty cupboards, of eating fish n’ chips and drinking red wine surrounded by posters of Fields Of The Nephilim, Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy, of his contagious laugh and my deep down shame of not calling my Dad to tell him I was (somehow) still alive.

Oh yes, you read that correctly. There was an old bicycle in the bath and it was never removed. We were both very grubby people. Gareth was as clean as a whistle and very nicely presented all round. But me and Dunc? Filthy, disgusting creatures but still somehow devilishly handsome. Duncan once told me a tale that his arse hair was once so matted from not washing, his poo, unable to find it’s way around the clogged hair in his butthole, found that the only place to go was to be forced unnaturally upwards, touching his lower back. He said he was quite surprised how hot it felt as the faeces curled round to touch his coccyx. You never really forget hearing something like that.

We all had a great time together, attending gigs by bands such as Jesus Lizard, Ramleh, Godflesh, Carcass (although I went on my own to this one), Cardiacs, Royal Trux, Girls Against Boys. The list goes on.

At the back of my mind though, was the nagging doubt of something not quite right.

The following is something I never shared with either Duncan or Gareth as I was too proud, although I have my suspicions they both knew. I returned to the house I was assigned to back in Autumn and I’d been kicked out of both my home and out of college - my meagre belongings were outside in the gutter and the locks were changed. I gathered up what I could in a bin-bag and set off just walking, with no destination in mind. Looking back this is perfectly understandable - I hadn’t been to college in months and I hadn’t made any effort to catch up on back rent. At the time though, it felt like my life was over.

I spent my time zig-zagging between Gareth’s floor and Duncan’s couch, and on the days neither were available I’d spend the night on a park bench, in a warm shop front, or simply just walking all night. This only went on for a few months but I swear, it felt like years. Like eternity.

Amongst the belongings I’d managed to scrape the shit off of were several tapes and my Walkman. The tapes I most remember listening to were ‘Concert’ by The Cure, ‘Scorn Defeat’ by Sigh, ‘Jo In Nine G Hell’ by The Hair & Skin Trading Company and ‘Forest of Equilibrium’ by Cathedral. Every time I listen to these records I can feel the rain on my cheeks, the grit on my fingertips, the acid sting of cheap cider on my vomit, of feeling like the only person on Earth, the deep worry in my heart that I’m not going to make it. They’re also magical as they remind me of what I have now. And that’s what music is isn’t it? It’s magic. Alchemy.

Quick funny story about Sigh. For some reason me and Gareth used to think Sigh were girls. I remember us staring at the back cover of ‘Scorn Defeat’ and thinking Mirai was a right bit of lovely crumpet. They’re men Gareth. MEN.

Anyway - It wasn’t long before the cast iron guilt of not calling my family and never knowing where I would sleep that night started to exhibit signs in my appearance and behaviour. I dyed my hair black and started wearing smudged eye make up, heavily drinking during the day, and acting deliberately contrary. I was a mess. Gareth told me I was starting to scare people with the way I looked and acted, which honestly made me double down at first but I pulled myself together a little as our band was starting to get gigs.

Our first gig was on the College campus supporting a band called the BMX Bandits - looking back it didn’t go that well. None of us could sing very well and we weren’t really prepared - the BMX Bandits loved us though and even mentioned us in an interview on Radio One. The lass that kindly put the gig on seemed to have an ulterior motive in mind though as she asked me out on a date shortly after the gig. She was a good decade older than me and I was a bit taken aback. Not knowing whether it would mean good things for the band or not I agreed and we started seeing one another. Ulterior motives on either side or not, I fell madly in love with her for a bit because, well, I’m an idiot. Plus we were both always drunk, and that helps.

In the end this was good for both of us as she was going on a trip to America for two months and needed someone to watch her house when she was gone. Boom. Free house. She dumped my ass unceremoniously upon her return but by that time I’d found somewhere to live so I wasn’t too fussed.

Me, Gareth and Duncan drifted apart sometime after that. Musical differences, situationships and life got in the way. It was a shame but that’s what happens when teens turn to adults, they go their separate ways. Duncan passed away back in early 2010 and left a hole that the Universe is still yet to fill. The mid 90s were strange times for me. I was lost, useless, a sketch of a human being, a husk. Yet I found time for music, laughter and hedonism. I’m glad I got through it.

On that note, I can’t help but feel a little let down by the scholastic system of the 80s. Most of the time we were left to our own devices whilst our erstwhile professors either dictated from a textbook or asked us to copy directly from it. Any follow up questions brushed aside with a hard smack from a ruler on the back of your hand. A few students seemed to thrive in these conditions.

I did not.

I needed to ask questions and I needed answers. My form teacher, who was the head of PE at our school, once threw a blackboard eraser at my head (giving me one hell of a black-eye) and called me a ‘gaylord’ for daring to ask why there were no Dinosaurs in the bible. I did complain about this to other teachers but nobody seemed to give a shit. From that moment on I knew my place and made myself as small as possible. Other, slower pupils didn’t. One time, this kid was caught masturbating during class. As he was a popular boy all he got was a stern “Put it awaaaay lad!”. How is that fair? It just made him more popular. I think it was because he finished all over his Chemistry homework. A proper eight-roper it was. I mean, I could have lent him my Tippex (Whiteout) if he’d just asked!

Branded a ‘daydreamer’ from a very early age, I had no appetite for being told what to do. I’ve mentioned before I abhor all kinds of sport. In fact, any kind of competition. I would automatically assume I’ve already lost and throw the game. If they’re gonna win, I’m not giving them the satisfaction of a fair fight. I still do this. I don’t need to impress anybody thanks...Plus I was a lanky weakling.

Case in point, I once hit a 12 year old girl so hard in the face I fractured my wrist. Before you rush to the authorities, she was two years older than me and bloody MASSIVE. She beat the living shit out of me in response. I told my family I fell over whilst skateboarding to hide the shame.

Anyway. My daydreaming would manifest in sketching Eddie, the mascot from Iron Maiden, or disembowelled cartoon people. These were really graphic. Looking back I’m surprised I wasn’t carted off to an institution. Nobody batted an eyelid. I did have a fondness for English and Art. Two subjects I felt that I could express myself in. Except I couldn’t. As they didn’t like the gruesome topics I chose for either subject. Deemed ‘evil’ and ‘infantile’. In both classes we were presented with one option; to copy an already famous artist or author. No free-thinking please. Plus the ‘Satanic Panic’ was in full swing back then. They probably wanted to lock that shit down asap.

I countered this by reading as much as I could in my spare time. I would draw and write stories. Most of the time hiding both as I knew they were either too gory or graphic to show anyone. I felt like a bad person. I was made to feel like that by society. In reality I just liked the aesthetic. I always thought that the bad-guys looked cooler and had more interesting personalities. I didn’t align with their philosophy or anything (although let’s face it, He-Man was an absolute dick). I wasn’t a bad kid at all. I’ve always been a very sensitive soul and along with that, had empathy for others. I learned this from books. Something I wish kids did more of these days.

Sorry, not much music content in today’s article but someone messaged me to ask what my favourite bands were so here’s a list. Can’t resist a list…

• Killing Joke

• Godflesh

• Carcass

• Napalm Death

• Einsturzende Neubauten

• Pathologist

• Throbbing Gristle

• Integrity

• Exhumed

• Dead Can Dance

• Suicide

• Morbid Angel

• Cocteau Twins

• Skinny Puppy

• The Fall

• Whitehouse

• Confessor

• Krieg

• Crass

• Brighter Death Now

• Mortician

• Leviathan

• Coil

• St Vitus

• Darkthrone

• Skullflower

• Cardiacs

• Mutiilation

• Mayhem

• Autopsy

• Venom

• Bathory

That’ll do. Otherwise I’ll run out of space in the cloud.

Ok. Confession time. I promised an article on John Peel without really thinking how this is going to play out. I could, of course, do some research on him and make sure I’m getting the dates right etc. but no. This series is supposed to be how I remember this stuff so I’m just going to forge ahead, and if I meander, forgive me (or just fuck off and read something else). We good? Good.

Oh and for my overseas readers, I imagine if you have any interest in Napalm Death, Carcass, Bolt Thrower etc you probably already know something about John Peel. For everyone else who’s either too young and/or too foreign, look him up! You won’t be sorry. Short version; he was a BBC radio DJ that played Grindcore at teatime, in the eighties! There you go. That’s everything. Again, for my beautiful foreign readers, teatime is that food you eat at 6-7pm. We good? Good. Look, I told you I didn’t know how to start this shit…

I mentioned in one of my other articles that John Peel introduced me to Napalm Death but that’s not strictly true. You see, other DJs on Radio One were intimidated by John Peel’s mighty girth and would regularly poke fun at his ‘wacky taste’ whilst simultaneously promoting the likes of Showaddywaddy and Paul Young or some other vomitous dreck. One sunny Sunday afternoon I was in the car with my Dad, driving to what felt like the millionth garden centre that day, the radio pumping out the latest slop to be hoovered up by the great unwashed, the smug honey-voiced DJ suddenly adopted a mocking tone…”This is what listeners to John Peel’s show had to endure this week…” and he smashed on some prime ‘Scum’ (Side A if you’re nasty) era Napalm Death. It was ‘You Suffer’ (of course it was) and another track I can’t recall (I was 12 years old cut me some slack). I was absolutely blown away. I remember shaking with excitement, my pupils enlarged, brain aflame. I felt like I’d just heard the fucking sun. Dad said “Bloody rubbish. That’s the stuff you like isn’t it.” Yes Dad. It is now…

I made a mental note of the name; John Peel. And then I forgot all about it. Again, I was 12 years old. I probably watched an episode of Masters Of The Universe on TV and my brain turned to blood and rainbows, dribbled into my cereal. And then I ate the cereal. Look, I told you I didn’t know how to start the article…

Let’s skip ahead a couple of years, I was a regular listener to The Friday Rock Show on Radio One, hosted by the ludicrously named Tommy Vance. I used to tune in on the off chance there was some sort of Thrash played on the show. Don’t get me wrong, I was more than satisfied if he played Iron Maiden, Sabbath or Motörhead but I was already into that and by 1988 that stuff was already old (I know…). I was desperate to hear something fresh, young and fast. I was chasing that Napalm Death dragon and Metallica just ain’t gonna cut it. He was blathering on in his comically nasal DJ voice about some old bollocks and happened to mention John Peel (with some degree of reverence by the way) and plugged his show. Memories flooded back of my whirlwind dalliance with Napalm Death a couple of years earlier. You have to remember, a couple of years to a kid feels like a lifetime.

The first chance I got, I tuned in. I can’t remember whether it was the week after, but I came prepared. I grabbed a blank cassette tape to record any pearls (which was the style at the time) that might be played. My excitement turned to absolute dismay (actually no, it was horror) when a fifteen minute World Music track was the first thing he played. I was so confused. I’d probably appreciate the track now but the very last thing I wanted to hear as a frustrated and hormone drenched 13 year old in the eighties was the music of the bloody Bantu tribe of South Africa (I know how that sounds but he really did play that). To my credit, I patiently sat through it. Next up was a punk track, I can’t remember the band but I recall it sounding like Dr & the Crippens, and looking at the date of their Peel Session, it does seem to support that. This was much more like it. I settled in for the evening. A mix of excitement, trepidation and the feeling of listening to something that was likely too old for my age group. And then…Bolt Thrower. Pre-Earache savage Bolt fucking Thrower.

This word is so overused and honestly, I feel sick to my stomach using it, but holy shit was I ever fucking BLESSED to hear Bolt Thrower that young, at that time, and via John Peel. Carcass followed and I believe I’ve adequately covered that one. Looking back on the bands that John Peel introduced me to is like looking at the map of my life going forward. Everything from Hardcore (punk obviously), Grind, Indie Rock via The Smiths and Joy Division, World Music (yes, I relented eventually), Techno via Aphex Twin and FSOL, Dub, Death Metal, Noise Rock via Jesus Lizard, Big Black and Unsane. Look I’m not listing a ton of bands. But I would not be the same person if it wasn’t for his radio show. And Hateful Abandon would not be the same band.

Quick story before I go.

Every now and again on my paper round I’d see this older lad, and I’m not exaggerating, he looked exactly like Glenn Danzig. The first time I saw him, a couple of doors down from my house, I did the biggest double take a human can physically achieve without damaging their neck. Looking back he was a huge dork (weren’t we all?) but I thought he was cool as fuck. He used to flash me approving looks when I’d wear certain shirts (punk) and death stares when I wore others (anything mainstream metal). He’d look directly at me, shaking his head in mild disgust, absent-mindedly gobbing wads of emerald phlegm onto the pavement, twisting his entire body to follow me walk down the street away from him. I was terrified of him. He was a couple of years older than me but I’d never seen him at school. Who the hell was this guy?

I was queuing up for chips once and happened to be wearing a Dead Kennedys shirt. This would’ve been maybe arse-end of 1990, and in walks Glenn Danzig. “I like your shirt mate” he said.

Oh my fucking god he talked to me!

Look. If this is starting to read like a gay romance story, you’re not too far off. This is how music-based friendships started before the internet.

Anyway, “Thanks” I croaked, trying to avoid eye-contact, and visibly (I imagine) flinching away from him. “I’m having a party later if you want to come. Or not. Don’t give a shit.” He was SO cool. “You know where I live. I know you deliver my newspaper. I know who you are. My name’s ******** (censored to protect the innocent)” he reached his hand out to shake and as I went to limply grab it he withdrew and punched me hard on the arm. Really. Fucking. Hard. Absolutely terrifying.

I was deathly frightened of this guy and couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less than go round his house. So obviously I didn’t go did I?

Of course I fucking did.

With fire in my belly I set off to the party. It was only a few streets away so I thought what’s the worst thing that could happen? I delivered the newspaper to his house hundreds of times but it was only now that I noticed how dishevelled it was compared to rest of the street.

I knocked on the door. Nothing. Honestly the house looked abandoned. There was a rotting couch in the front yard and what looked to me like a dead cat. I was too squeamish to look at it head on so just gave it a few furtive glances. It was definitely furry and dead. Oh this is going to be fun. I was about to turn to leave when the door flung open so aggressively I thought it was going to come of it’s rusty hinges. I was grabbed and bundled upstairs into his bedroom. Remember, this is a kid I’m talking about. He was no more than 16 years old.

The first thing that struck me after the potent cocktail of dog shit and weed smell, was the decor. Inverted crosses, pentagrams, huge Misfits and Venom flags on the wall and a bare red lightbulb in lieu of a proper light-fitting illuminating the lot. I mean, for comparison, I still had a Superman lampshade in my bedroom. I was fucking scared at this point. Scared and a bit excited. Fighting for competition over the sound of Black Flag was a dog barking somewhere downstairs and someone was yelling continuously, for it to “Fucking shut up!”

It was an assault on all my senses. A kaleidoscopic rush. It was then I noticed that I was the only guest at this party. “Oh am I the first here?” I weakly whispered. “DON’T GIVE A SHIT” he shouted, tearing his shirt off like Hulk Hogan. Uh oh. I’m in real trouble here. I didn’t know whether he wanted to fight or fuck me. It was at that point I notice the map of scars on his torso. He grabbed a nearby razor and started slowly cutting himself whilst staring into my eyes. Laughing at my reaction he said “Don’t you do this?” a mixture of amusement and confusion on his face.

That was enough for me. I pushed past him and bolted as quick as I could out of his bedroom and down the stairs without looking back. The sound of derision ringing in my ears. I realise now the poor kid needed help. But at that moment I just wanted out. In my haste to leave I collided head first into some other kid on his way up to the bedroom. “Who the fuck are you?” he grabbed at my shirt but I managed to pull it away from him. “What shirt is that anyway?” he shouted after me “Oh it’s Bolt Thrower? They’re shit. Loser.”

I actually went back to his house a few more times over the years that followed because believe it or not, I’m an idiot.

Look, I told you I didn’t know how to write this sodding article…

If you’ve been playing along so far you’ll notice I have been gifted an eclectic taste in music. It’s not big nor clever, it just is. It’s my greatest superpower and it is, above all, annoying as fuck.

You see, I’ve never really gotten on with music scenes. The metal and punk (hardcore now I guess) scenes I’ve always found cliquey, cultish and downright embarrassing. This discomfort would follow me through life like an unwelcome ghost. I’m ok with it now I’m in my fifties. Mostly finding it a charming, if goofy, pastime for the recently enthused. Bear in mind the metal scene of 2026 is a very different place than it was 35 years ago. It used to be downright brutal.

I saw these social groups as nothing more than weak minded people gathering in tribes. Same as it ever was. Also the dejected lone-wolf suited my edgy archetype.

It was the summer of 1992 and I was a very awkward teenager. I always considered myself a freakish ugly duckling. Rejected by everybody. My friends at the time, who were solely into metal, were starting to find my constant proselytism of other genres irritating. I overheard one friend, I’ll call him ‘Paul’ here, saying “Man, I can’t take Martin anymore. He’s become like stale bread.” I’ve been haunted by this damning review of my personality every single day of my life since. Writing this is somewhat of an exorcism.

A strange thing happened over those summer holidays of 1992. Along with getting run over by an orange Austin Allegro (Google it kids) and smashing my front teeth out, Grunge broke. When I returned to school for the 6th form that autumn I was suddenly popular because I had long hair, because I was gangly, because I was wearing ripped clothing, because of my ‘whatever, fuck you’ attitude. What’s more I had grown into my features and girls (and boys) started finding me attractive. What? Me? I was walking on air. I very quickly turned into an absolute slut.

Sadly for me and my newfound popularity, my Dad wanted to up sticks and move to Whitby in North Yorkshire. That meant a new school/college. New people. A new start. I’d had a taste of popularity and didn’t want to lose it. I decided that whatever group of people claimed me I would lean into.

Don’t worry I *will* get around to Darkthrone…

So first thing I did upon moving to North Yorkshire was get rid of my mullet. This left me with the infamous ‘curtains’ hairdo. Naturally this meant the first people to be pulled into my orbit were the indie kids. I embraced it, fuck it. I loved the music after all. Being a John Peel kid I was already a big fan of yer Dinosaur Jr’s, yer Sebadoh’s, yer Melvinzes etc. I just hid the metal and industrial side until it was safe to reveal. I didn’t have to wait long. The alternative scene in Whitby at the time was great honestly. Punk bands mingled with indie and metal bands and there was a steady stream of gigs. People were open minded. It was great and I was popular again. And I must emphasise again, a slut.

I started playing in a band and I’d found my people. Flawed, outcast and honestly quite a sexy bunch. I’ve recently reconnected with my very best friend from that era after 32 years and it’s been a trip.

But…

But, nobody was into Black Metal. Like, literally nobody. I had no soul to share that with and it became my music. My private music. My alone music.

Darkthrone - A Blaze in the Northern Sky

Let’s rewind a bit. Spring 1992 and ‘Paul’ (remember Paul?) was complaining.

“The new Darkthrone is shit. It’s not heavy at all and it’s really cheesy. Listen”

He pressed play and Kathaarian Life Code crept up on me like a spectre. Jesus Christ almighty. My first reaction was, where is the bass? Then something happened in my soul. I swear I almost started crying. I know that sounds melodramatic and yes, I have a flair for it but holy shit I swear my body reacted. Goosebumps bristled hard up my arms and gave way to ecstatic shivers down my back. I had never heard such a thick atmosphere in any music before. It sounded like early Bathory covering Celtic Frost. But that’s not doing it justice. I felt the darkness of Norway’s winter night. I smelled the pine.

From that moment I was hooked. Black metal is made just for me.

I’m going to skip ahead now 8 years.

The year 2000. I was at the end of my rope. Since leaving Whitby in 1994 I’d attended University in Northampton (it was a college back then but calling it university makes me feel more important, please understand), dropped out, been homeless, flirted with a modelling career (this lasted a couple of days until they tried to cut my hair. I refused. Ironic considering I’m bald as a coot these days), moved to Bristol with my then fiancée, had two very painful breakups, left the band I was vocalist in due to an inferiority complex, and I just couldn’t keep down a job for the life of me. I’d lost contact with my family. My latest girlfriend had just left me and couldn’t pay the rent. I was skint, hungry, hurting.

I felt like I was losing friends I’d made along the way with my constant negativity. I garnered (and cultivated I might add) a reputation for being harsh, heartless, intimidating. I’d somehow made a new friend though, Mark, who moved in with me in 2001 and helped pay the rent. We had a great time together honestly but the haunted husk that I’d become weighed heavy on my heart every day.

I was listening exclusively to Black Metal at the time. Nothing else came close to scratching the itch in my brain. I threw myself in with it totally. Absolutely committed. Ultimately though I’d decided I’d had enough. My life as I saw it, was over. I decided to put myself out of my misery and over the next week or so started stockpiling painkillers. Once I’d amassed enough pills to take myself out, that would be that. The pain would stop.

As you’re (still, hopefully) reading this you’ll know I wasn’t successful in my attempt. You know what stopped me? Three things. Mark asked me to play bass in Amputated, a new Death Metal band he was starting. I gratefully accepted since, you know, what else did I have going on? I was lucky enough to meet my future wife Claire who shared my love for Black Metal. And finally Black Metal itself. I started recording my own music under the guise of Basilisk. The unthinkable happened. I started making friends again. In and out of the scene.

The painkillers I’d stockpiled kept hangovers at bay for at least a year.

Just don’t do it. You will get by. You will get better. Talk to someone. Talk to me!

Just as life throws you hurt after hurt it can and will change. People change. Life is ups and downs. It’s a ride. If you can see through the bullshit life will be harder for you but it will get better.

Anyway, Darkthrone were really good.

Next time, if you’ll allow it; John Peel.

As a kid I was a famous fainter. I was born with my left ear sticking out at an absurd right angle. Dad used to joke that if there was a strong wind it would make me rotate like a small fleshy spinning top. I had corrective plastic surgery to pin it into place when I was 4 years old. My very first memory was watching a nurse drawing my blood into a massive syringe. I blacked out and pissed my pyjamas. Fun. Welcome to Earth Martin.

So I avoided any ‘real-life’ gore as much as I could, and being as this was years before the internet existed that was relatively easy. Until I procured a weathered tape of Evil Dead and Dawn of the Dead. A pirated VHS tape that had been handed around our social group at school. It was a copy of a copy of a copy. I think I was about 14 years old here but it’s hard to recall.

I absolutely loved both films. If I was aware the splatter was created with special effects then I actively enjoyed the carnage. Cheering along with every burst head and ruptured pustule. Laughing until I was hoarse. During the end credits to Dawn of the Dead the screen washed with static and what looked like a courtroom wobbled into place. Brandishing a revolver, a man pleaded into the camera, urging people to step back. He put his lips around the gun and blew his brains out. It was Bud Dwyer.

I knew straight away this was real. I steadied myself against my bookshelf, closed my eyes tightly but all I could see was the seemingly never-ending stream of blood gushing like a waterfall from Bud’s nostrils. There was just so much of it. I passed out. When I came to, I watched again. And I passed out again. I did this another twice. So much for Pavlovian response!

Carcass - Symphonies of Sickness

Every Friday night in the late 80’s and well into the 90’s I listened to John Peel’s radio show. I’d sit and listen with a blank tape ready and record everything interesting. How I wish I still had those tapes…

Anyway, Lord John Peel introduced me to a plethora of incredible bands that would literally shape my very existence. Killing Joke, Napalm Death, The Fall, Dead Can Dance, Godflesh, Bolt Thrower, The Wedding Present, Whitehouse, Dead Kennedys, Aphex Twin, Discharge and Carcass amongst many others.

But it’s Carcass we’re talking about today.

I think it was ‘Exhume To Consume’ I heard first. Still one of my favourite songs, and a track I’ve picked out to play at my funeral (along with ‘Xavier’ by Dead Can Dance and ‘Rubicon’ by Killing Joke, if you’re curious). The track literally stank. I quickly grabbed a pen to scribble down the album title; ‘Sympathies of Sickness’ I’m still 100% sure that’s what John Peel said. Hand on heart.

So with cash in hand I practically ran to the HMV in Burton-Upon-Trent (you know that place by now I hope) the next day but they didn’t have a copy. They did have a copy of an Earache compilation called ‘Grindcrusher’. I knew all the bands on there apart from Repulsion and Carcass. My goal was set. Carcass and Repulsion. Next time.

The next week I took a train to Derby, a city about 10 miles away from my hometown. I only really took a trip to Derby (and occasionally Birmingham or Nottingham) when I couldn’t find an album in Burton. Honestly this was a much better option than using mail-order in those days. You’d be waiting 2 months or more with mail-order.

I can’t remember the name of the record shop in Derby but it was incredibly cool. It was clouded in thick cigarette smoke and it was almost pitch black, most of the illumination coming from a couple of arcade machines they had set up at the back (NARC and Rastan). They were playing ‘Stigmata’ by Ministry at an obscene volume. The walls shaking with every beat. The smoke dancing with the dust in the light of the twin coin-ops.

I nervously flicked through the tapes. No Carcass, but I found the Repulsion tape. I checked the LPs. No Carcass. With disappointment mounting I sloped over to the CD section. As mentioned in ‘Part II’ last week, I didn’t have a CD player. My Dad had one though and I really wanted this Carcass record. Nothing would stop me. Nothing. However, I couldn’t find it and that left one last option…talking to another human.

The bloke that worked behind the counter was very intimidating and, looking back on it now, a total twat. The last time I talked to them about a record I couldn’t find, the guy shouted over to his colleagues; “Hey, this little boy is after the Paradise Lost album. We got any in or what?” And then collapsed into mocking laughter. They did have it by the way. It was good.

Back to Carcass, I reluctantly approached the counter and trying to make myself heard over the deafening music, asked if they had ‘Sympathies of Sickness’. Much hilarity ensued. It wasn’t that funny. Arseholes. I got a word wrong. Fuck off.

“Yeah we do but I’m not sure we can sell this to you mate” he said wiping tears from his eyes “the cover is disgusting. Over 18s only.” I actually pleaded with him. I think I even put my hands together in prayer. He relented eventually and with amusement handed over what would become my first ever CD. ‘Symphonies of Sickness’.

I caught a glimpse of the sleeve as he stuffed my goods into a paper bag. I’m not sure quite what I saw but it made me very uncomfortable for some reason. It was late so I had to run for the train and didn’t have time for my usual sit in the park.

I barely made it. I sat there on the train sweating and shaking with adrenaline, not just from the run but from talking to older teens and the excitement of my purchase. I whipped out the CD and took a….

…Good

Hard

Look

At

It….

Uh oh. The black spots in my vision. The pin pricks. The dizziness. The bile rising at the back of my throat. What the hell is this? Just like Bud Dwyer the previous year, I could tell that what I was looking at was real. I kept sneaking little looks all the way home. Maybe if I micro-dose it….

It turns out that micro-dosing worked in this instance. But every time I listen to the album it gives me that same feeling of horror. That same cold sweat. Bile rising. And I still listen to the album on almost a weekly basis. For 35 years.

So much for Pavlovian response!

On a side note, Carcass are directly responsible for a style of music I am absolutely obsessed with. So if you value those first 3 records, check out Pathologist, Pharmacist/Crash Syndrom/Anatomical Amusements, Exhumed/Impaled/Ghoul, The County Medical Examiners, Xysma, Medical Etymology, Sick Sinus Syndrome, Vomi Noir, FesterDecay and Septage. They also paved the way for the likes of Lymphatic Phlegm, General Surgery, Necrony, Dead Infection, Disgorge (Mex), Desairologie, G.I.S.T, Ambulance, Viscera Infest, Cystgurgle, Flesh Grinder, Morgue Breath and countless hundreds of other bands.

Next time, if you’ll allow me; Darkthrone - A Blaze in the Northern Sky

It was late Summer 1991 and I recall talking to an older lad with smelly dreadlocks who worked in HMV (UK record shop) about industrial music and he kept correcting me. My lack of knowledge on the genre was clearly irritating him. He was shaking his unkempt mop vigorously, letting loose waves of bad trouser smell and firing flecks of tobacco-scented spittle that gracefully floated down onto my cheeks like dandelion seeds. He wasn’t gatekeeping by any means, I think it just frustrated him that I was getting *so* much wrong. He talked like he had a mouthful of peanut butter; Thwobbing Grithle, EthPK, Thkinny Puppy. You get the idea. I liked him.

Anyway, I did consider myself reasonably well-schooled at the time. I absolutely adored Godflesh, I had a battered cassette of ‘Micro-Phonies’ by Cabaret Voltaire, I’d been introduced to the music of Ministry by the low budget post-apocalyptic robo-terror film, Hardware and I had dubs of both Nine Inch Nails ‘Pretty Hate Machine’ and Pitch Shifter ‘Industrial’. Yet I still found myself, to the chagrin of big smelly dreadlock man, utterly confounded by the genre. Again, I liked him.

Apart from some surface similarities between Godflesh and Pitch Shifter you can see why I was confused. None of this music sounded alike. There was an underlying feeling of malevolence that appealed to a me but that was kind of it.

I think many are still confused about Industrial music. To some it just means Metal with synths/samples or a drum machine. Or dance music with guitars. It’s not that. Industrial music is a bit like pornography. You know it when you see it (hear it?). And it’s absolutely not fucking Fear Factory.

All I knew about Industrial was that I wanted to devour it. It was clearly compatible with the Death Metal, Hardcore (real hardcore, you know, like Punk) and later Black Metal scene I was already into at the time. I needed to know more.

Apart from a couple of dismissive articles in NME and Melody Maker (they of course, looked down on the genre) and ads for GGFH, Sonic Violence and Kong in Thrash Magazine due to ‘Dreamtime’, a sister label to Peaceville records, information was scant. It wasn’t until the mid-nineties when I had access to zines, books and an actual scene, that it all started to make sense.

Back to 1991; Due to the aforementioned aggressive smelly dreadlock man being an employee, the HMV store in Burton-Upon-Trent had an *incredible* Industrial section. Curated with the likes of SPK, Einsturzende Neubauten, Treponem Pal, Controlled Bleeding, Whitehouse, Swans (all of which would become firm favourites) and yes, Skinny Puppy.

I had a limited budget as you’d imagine being as I was a 15 year old dork with a paper round. The job netted me a *cool* £5 a week which paid for my music magazines and about 3 cassettes or 1 CD a month. Such riches.

So I asked the nice-ish smelly dreadlock man for a recommendation as I had 12 English pounds burning a hole in my combat trousers. He picked out ‘Cleanse, Fold and Manipulate’ by Skinny Puppy. I happily took his word for it and parted with my hard earned cash (it wasn’t really hard earned at all, I just couldn’t be arsed to deliver newspapers so it only felt difficult). This would be my second ever CD so I was really excited. They felt like the future at the time. I’m still really fond of the format.

We only had one CD player in the house and it was my Dad’s so I had to wait for him to go to bed to listen to it. I turned out all the lights, donned the headphones and pressed play on the stereo.

What. The. Fuck. Was. This.

It sounded like crumbling bones, mouldy old office blocks, dirty needles, half mechanical muscle, dust, rubble, decay. I couldn’t believe it. Scared the living shit out of me. Listening to 80’s Skinny Puppy will always illicit the same response in me. It felt real. Lived in.

It was like the old anti drug PSA’s where they tried to warn you how bad drugs are but no matter how much they try and put you off, it still sounded tantalising. It made me want to break into something and still does.

I eventually got my friends interested in Industrial music. We started a band called Hateseed. We were terrible.

Next time, if you’ll allow me; Carcass - Symphonies of Sickness

I think it’s well known that due to olfactory signals linked directly to your brain, a fragrance can bring back instances of nostalgia or emotional triggers and a clarity to the memory. Your body reacts to it on a physical level. Music does it too.

If you’re any type of serious music nerd then the albums you listen to as a kid are stamped on to your DNA from that moment on and continue to barrel their way through your chromosomes until you go belly up.

Some records have such a visceral reaction you not only remember when you first heard them but carry that feeling on you as permanent as any tattoo.

I’m going to attempt to describe these feelings in this article and if people dig it I might turn it in to a series, because oh boy, there are *so* many records that still provoke the same emotions as they did when I first heard them.

First a little background. I didn’t enjoy being a kid. I was relentlessly bullied for my aggressive disdain for any sporting activity, my interest in horror films, alternative music and Heavy Metal. My Mum spent a lot of time in hospital towards the end of the eighties and absolutely devastated me by passing away when I was 15 years old. These things combined seemed to create some kind of Petri dish for raw emotion and teenage sensitivity that I still carry to this day. My desire to escape normality, the mundane and the cruelty of existence still burns strong.

First up;

Morbid Angel - Blessed Are The Sick

‘Blessed Are The Sick’ is the first record I remember being there on day one for. I had worn out my dubbed copy of ‘Altars of Madness’ that I got from a tape trade. It was a 5th or 6th generation dub so sounded absolutely horrendous. Fucking great. It was so raw sounding that I was actually disappointed how cleanly produced ‘Altars..’ actually was when I finally heard a physical copy. For that reason I’ve always preferred ‘Abominations of Desolation’ to ‘Altars..’ which is daft but, you know, fuck you it’s my story.

Anyway, I got to the record shop in my small home town of Burton-Upon-Trent in the Midlands *way* before it opened, half expecting to be this queue of like-minded sickos I could meet. I remember on the significant walk to the shop I fantasised about meeting people that would turn into close friends and the adventures we would have listening to Morbid Angel. Of course when I got there it was only me. Remember, never dream kids. Never dream.

So I bought it, picked up a Dr Pepper from the corner shop and sat in the park looking at the sleeve and the insert before my long walk home. I clearly remember reading the song titles and the lyrics, literally shaking with excitement. Such blasphemy! How evil I felt, sitting there with my spiky mullet and little Metallica t-shirt drinking pop in the park! I was already a fan of the likes of Venom, Mercyful Fate etc but this felt like a step up. It felt unholy.

I hurried home the fastest I could in the May heat and with trembling paws, placed the record on the turntable. I was met by the harsh fizz of the intro and my brow crumpled in confusion. Is my copy faulty? No. The band kicked in and it sounded like it was in reverse, a perverted mockery of music. For the very first time in my 15 year old life I involuntarily lifted my hands into upturned claws, my face towards the heavens in a gurning grimace. This was it. Nothing would ever be the same.

I did eventually find some friends that loved Morbid Angel as much as I did. Not long after this story I found out my second cousin liked similar music and a kid transferred to our school from Nottingham that absolutely loved Nuclear Assault. Close enough. We started a band called Fratricide. We were terrible.

Next time, if you’ll allow me; Skinny Puppy - Cleanse, Fold and Manipulate.

To the detriment of my other hobbies (reading, horror films and video games. Yeah. I’m a nerd), I feel like I’m wasting my life if I’m not listening to a record. So sometimes I just won’t do anything else. I’ll stare into space and let the music envelope me.

I simply can’t listen to everything though. Even if I just listened to new music there are just too many releases to process. And that’s only the good stuff and not the tripe you lot listen to (I jest). Plus I have no kids, no responsibilities (no job at the moment either), a partner who also loves music, and bless her heart, puts up with my odd taste.

Whilst streaming has helped (but fuck off SpotifAI), it certainly doesn’t give me the same feeling. I haven’t ’invested’ in the record and therefore there’s less at stake if I just stop giving it my full attention. Less reason to give an album a chance to grow.

Bandcamp is different. I really don’t mind buying something on there and just owning it digitally because I *have* contributed, I have ‘invested’ in the band. It feels a part of me.

I would prefer the physical copy yes, but sometimes it’s not available and to be honest I have very little room in my house for more albums. I still buy a lot of physical releases (on all formats) but it’s getting less often now because I genuinely don’t know where to store them, and let’s face it, I’ll be stone dead in a couple of decades, they’ll only go in a landfill. Left to rot like an old cheese sandwich.

I’m going off topic sorry.

So how do you do it? I genuinely want to know, so feel free to comment/message/Email me etc. Am I supposed to fill in a spreadsheet dividing my time into new release, classic album, recent release, format, genre etc? That doesn’t sound very relaxing. I’m already obsessed so do I take it further?

I don’t think so. I’m middle-aged. I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I should be soaking in every second.

It’s telling that in these uncertain times (has there ever been a certain time?) I’m thinking about what album to listen to next. Massive injustice everywhere you look, literally World War 3 on the horizon and I’m debating smashing that new Retorsion CD on for one more spin. I’m a child. Is that a bad thing? I’m close to not giving a shit. It’s all a dream anyway.

Take care.