The Machine is Now Alive, Desensitized With Open Eyes: A Thing About Louder Than Life 2025 (Day One)

/ Rev. Joel / 3 Comments

Hello! And welcome to the first installment of my long, rambly thing about the spectacle that was Louder Than Life 2025 (“America’s Loudest Rock & Metal Festival”). If you’re a glutton for punishment, or perhaps you’re on doctor-ordered bed rest and need something to pass the time, you can find all the stuff I’ve written about previous years here. As I mentioned in a post a few weeks ago, this year’s festival was moved to the parking lot adjacent to the Highland Festival Grounds, making the layout completely different than the past five installments, all of which were already varying degrees of different than each other, layout wise. I personally found very few pros with regards to the new location, but I’ll get to all of that later.

The new layout was much bigger and more spread out, and included access to Kentucky Kingdom and an “expanded VIP section”, plus the merch tent was no longer a tent, but was instead inside the air-condtioned Kentucky Exposition Center. All those things sound great for crowd control, don’t they? The problem is, you gotta factor in all the people that will be filling up that expanded space, and the people are one of the main things that can really make or break one’s enjoyment of a large event.

I was jazzed to see Italian death metal freaks Fulci open up the main stages, and we planned things carefully so we could get there in time to see their entire set. I went much easier on the open bar at the Day Zero welcome party this year, on account of our traditional Day One breakfast date at Wild Eggs on Floyd Street was set for 8:30 AM on Thursday, which would give us plenty of time to catch our shuttle and get inside the gates before Fulci’s scheduled 11:45 start time.

Here’s me posing with my doppelgänger at the welcome party.

Speaking of our shuttle: that system was very different this year as well. In past years, Pegasus Transportation has provided the service, with pick-up spots downtown at both the Galt House (the hotel where we stay1) and the Marriott, and with drop-off approximately 100 yards from the entry gates. This year, every ticket/hotel package included a shuttle exclusive to that hotel, which seemed like an even sweeter deal (though Pegasus Transportation was never mentioned by name). Then on August 26, we learned that the shuttle system had been changed, and pretty drastically. Danny Wimmer Presents (the company who puts on the fest) took over the shuttle service, and there was now one downtown pick-up/drop-off spot, located at the Convention Center. While it was annoying that we were gonna have to walk extra before and after getting inside the gates and walking all day, that part wasn’t so bad, as we were only 3 blocks from the Convention Center.

Here’s where it got less good: our driver got us to Gate 1, only to be yelled at by a woman working there, who informed him that shuttles were no longer permitted to enter Gate 1, and instead had to go to Gate 6. Our driver told her he wasn’t from around there, and didn’t know where that was, and she told him to “put it in [his] GPS”. Very helpful. He then spotted another shuttle ahead of us that had turned right, away from the festival gates, and began to follow. Time was no longer on our side. At 11:45, he finally found the drop-off spot, and we began the 1/4 mile walk to the gates behind a whole lot of people with absolutely no sense of urgency.2 Less than 60 seconds later, we hear Fulci frontman Fiore bellow “WE’RE FULCIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!” and all hell broke loose from that stage, and I was so sad and angry that I wasn’t there watching it.

We got inside pretty quickly and easily, and I hauled ass to Main Stage 2 to catch the rest of their set, and it was fucking awesome. Scenes from legendary Italian director Lucio Fulci’s films played behind the band, and the blood and terror on the screen added a ridiculously fun element to the set. At one point, this bizarre sound started coming from the stage, and kept looking back and forth between the two guitarists to try and figure out which one of them was making that unholy, inhuman noise, but they both seemed to be playing fairly standard riffs. I soon realized that the sound was coming from Fiore’s mouth. It was so intense and amazing, and I no longer cared about the shuttle nonsense, because I remembered that I had a full day of kick-ass metal and hardcore ahead of me.

That lunatic vocalization I was talkin about happens around the 1:30 mark. This is not my footage. In fact, none of it will be my footage, unless otherwise noted.

After Fulci, I met up with Sheila in the Top Shelf area to cool off and get some snacks and drinks before we made our way to the VIP area to meet up with our friends Mitch and Amanda, who also attended with us in 2022. We started the journey as Fear Factory took to Main Stage 2. I wore out a cassette of their 1995 album Demanufacture when I was in my early college years (aka the beginning of my Wilderness Years), and they’re touring on the 30th anniversary of that album, so I was pretty pumped to hear some of those songs live. I would’ve much rather heard them with original vocalist Burton C. Bell on the mic, but c’est la vie. Milo Silvestro did a great job, and “Demanufacture”, “Zero Signal”, “Replica”, and “H-K (Hunter-Killer)” all transported me straight back to 1995-96, and I screamed along with “I’VE GOT! NO MORE! GODDAMN! REGRETS! I’VE GOT! NO MORE! GODDAMN! RESPECT!” just like I did in my car, and it was glorious and extremely cathartic.

Desensitized by the values of life, maligned and despaired by government lies.

They finished out their set with two songs from Demanufacture‘s follow-up, Obsolete (1998), and one song from 2001’s Digimortal, and then Richmond, Virginia thrash masters Municipal Waste kicked off an energetic, whirlwind 12-song set spanning a large chunk of their discography. At one point, frontman Tony Foresta demanded non-stop crowd surfing, saying “Pearl Jam made it famous, we made it cooler!” They kicked a ton of ass, and I’m glad I finally got to see them. Personal highlights for me were “You’re Cut Off”, “The Thrashin’ of the Christ”, and “The Art of Partying”.

I couldn’t find any decent sounding footage of any of my personal highlights, so here’s a video instead.

The Black Dahlia Murder brought some Michigan death metal to Main Stage 2 next, and I wanted to stay for the entire thing, but unfortunately, Big Ass Truck‘s set at the Big (Ass) Bourbon Bar started 25 minutes after TBDM’s set, and the BBB stood on the far end of the grounds from where we came in. By the time we arrived, the tent was so full that we could barely even see the band. We listened/kinda watched for a couple of songs, then I made my way over to the “second stage” area, with grindcore institution Full of Hell already in progress on the Decibel Stage. They were incredibly loud and chaotic, and I loved every second of it, even if I did watch on the big screen to the side of the Reverb Stage.

This is obviously not from LTL, but I couldn’t find any clips from their performance, and this is an excellent representation of what they brought to LTL, albeit in blazing sunlight and stifling heat.

The reason I watched on the big screen to a side of the Reverb Stage is because I wanted to secure a spot on the rail for Santa Cruz, California hardcore/crossover heroes Drain, because I wanted to receive as much of their energy as possible before hustling back to Main Stage 2 for as much of Exodus‘s 35-minute set as I could possibly see. Vocalist Sammy Ciaramitaro came out jumping, yelling, and smiling, and didn’t stop moving for the entirety of the 10-15 minutes I was in the vicinity of the Reverb Stage, and I’m sure he didn’t stop after I left, either. He was crowd surfing before the first verse of opening song “Feel the Pressure” even started, and he spent the rest of the song on the ground, letting various members of the crowd sing most of it. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more energetic frontman. I really look forward to catching a full set from these dudes, hopefully sooner than later.

I was way over in front of the screen on the right side of the stage for 12-ish minutes of hardcore magic.

I hated to leave, but I really wanted to see Exodus, and I figured I’ll have more chances to see Drain than I will Exodus, just from an “age of the members” standpoint, so I walked as fast as possible through a whole gaggle of clueless dipshits with no sense of urgency, and arrived at the back of the crowd about two minutes into the epic “Deathamphetamine”, off their monstrous 2005 album Shovel Headed Kill Machine. I’m stoked I got to hear that song live, but the length of it meant they played fewer songs, which resulted in a 7-song set, which was a bit of a bummer. Another bummer is that the sound didn’t seem quite right for what they do. I don’t really know how to explain it any better, but they didn’t sound as good as they should have, and it was clear that it wasn’t the band’s fault. The crowd was enthusiastic, though, and the pit was appropriately violent and fun. I’m glad Rob Dukes is back on the mic, and barring the miraculous resurrection of original frontman Paul Baloff (RIP to the OG poseur killer), I hope they keep him around until the end.

Everybody’s doin the Toxic Waltz, good friendly violent fun in store for all.

The gigantic new layout meant that I missed all of Sanguisugabogg‘s set on the Decibel Stage, because there was simply no way to see any real amount of it without missing Exodus’s set and more than half of Cavalera (aka Cavalera Conspiracy), featuring brothers Max and Igor Cavalera, formerly of Sepultura. They’re on tour performing Sepultura’s 1993 album, Chaos A.D. in its entirety. The album was part of the soundtrack to the second half of my high school years, and there was no way I was gonna miss it. They unfortunately weren’t able to play the whole album, as their set time wasn’t long enough, but they played most of it. They kicked off with album opener “Refuse/Resist”, which is more of a soundtrack to our times than I ever thought possible, then tore through six more songs from the album before shifting gears slightly to play “Symptom of the Universe”, which Sepultura recorded for the 1994 album Nativity in Black: A Tribute to Black Sabbath (another album that soundtracked my mid-90’s life). They closed with all-time party-starter “Territory”, and sixteen year-old Joel heard it and felt it and moshed to it and sang along with it, and he saw that it was good.

Let there be riffs.

At this point I really needed to rest, but nuts to that, because the mighty Cannibal Corpse was up next over on Main Stage 2. Luckily, the Top Shelf section is closer to MS2, so I was able to pop inside the tent while they played set opener “Blood Blind” (from their most recent album, 2023’s Chaos Horrific) to get some quick conditioned air, a bite to eat, and lots more free water, so as to avoid dying of exhaustion.3 Every second of their 40-minute set right up through “Hammer Smashed Face” was flawless, and I was happy as a pig in shit to be in attendance for it.

Men of violence doomed in death, their reward for a life of sin.

Sludge/groove metal supergroup Down followed back over on Main Stage 1, and I was pumped to see them for the first time. Their debut album NOLA came out in 1995, and like Fear Factory’s Demanufacture, it kept me sane during my early college years. I have a variety of thoughts about Phil Anselmo as a person, but the fact is, the man is partially responsible for some of the most formative music of my youth.4 And it doesn’t hurt a single bit that the band is rounded out by Pepper Keenan (Corrosion of Conformity) and Kirk Windstein (Crowbar) on guitar, the incomparable Jimmy Bower (Eyehategod) on drums, and Pat Bruders (Goatwhore) on bass. Absolute titans, every one of them.

I’m staring right back at myself, and through its frozen image, I’m laughing right back at my hell.

Marilyn Manson was next on Main Stage 2, and I’d planned on being anywhere but within earshot of him, but it was so hot outside, and the fact that it was still Day One and I was already fucking exhausted, plus the fact that dinner is served at 6:00 in the Top Shelf tent means that I sat in the tent and ate and drank and somehow managed to shut the noise out. In fact, I didn’t notice anything about the band until they started their cover of “Sweet Dreams”, and then I was like “oh yeah, I forgot they covered this. I still hate it”, and went right back to ignoring it. Long story short, Marilyn Manson is a garbage human being who makes mediocre music, and he should not be celebrated.5

Anyway, Lamb of God was next back on Main Stage 1. I was really looking forward to their set, as I wasn’t able to properly appreciate their set when they played back in 2022, on account of my dad dying the day before, and the fact that I had to drive back home twice in two days. It was worth the wait. They were fucking incredible from start to finish. Randy Blythe is a phenomenal frontman, and the entire band is just elite.6 They also performed the second Black Sabbath/Ozzy Osbourne cover of the weekend, “Children of the Grave”, and it was badass.

“A lot of people would be a lot happier if they went to concerts where flames shot out of the stage every now and then.” – Sheila

Up next was Rob Zombie, performing White Zombie’s 1995 album Astro-Creep 2000. If you’re keeping score, that’s the third of three thirty year-old albums being celebrated on the Day One. As if spending 12 hours in the late summer heat and humidity of the Ohio River Valley wasn’t already making me feel old enough. I enjoy White Zombie just fine, but I never really gave much a shit about Rob Zombie’s solo stuff. Sheila, however, is a White Zombie superfan, and is into quite a bit of Rob Zombie’s solo stuff, so this was her #1 Must-See Set of Day One. It was a lot of fun, and I had a great time singing and shouting along to all the songs from Astro-Creep 2000, followed by “Living Dead Girl” (from Zombie’s first solo album Hellbilly Deluxe), followed by White Zombie’s “Thunderkiss ’65”, followed by “Dragula”, also from Hellbilly Deluxe. A good time was had by all, except for those who do not enjoy fun.

I was unable to find any footage from that night that didn’t have the sound blown all to hell, so here’s a video instead.

The headliner for Day One was none other than (Fuckin) Slayer, whose appearance last year was cancelled due to one of those famous northern Kentucky hurricanes. They kicked off with “South of Heaven”, which was really just a fucking perfect way to start a show, and they never let off the throttle, hitting every studio album except for 1996’s hardcore punk cover album Undisputed Attitude and 1998’s Diabolus in Musica. They also played “Chemical Warfare”, which was just tremendous for me. We watched their set from the elevated viewing area in Top Shelf, as they were playing on Main Stage 1, and we didn’t wanna have to walk anymore than necessary for the rest of the day. I’m too old for actual mosh pits, and as I’ve mentioned, we still had three days to go, but you better believe I banged my head and screamed myself hoarse for the entirety of the set, and there was this one dude up in the elevated viewing area who was losing his goddamn mind. Several times he moshed his way over to me so we could sing along together, and during “War Ensemble” he jumped up from the level below me and threw his arm around my shoulder just in time for us to shout “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!” together, and it was awesome. On the off chance that dude is reading this, just know that you were a hoot, and experiencing Slayer with you was a real treat.

“A lot of people would be a lot happier if they went to concerts where flames shot out of the stage every now and then.” – Sheila

Speaking of flames shooting out of the stage: biiiig shout-out to Gary Holt. That motherfucker played a 35-minute set with Exodus in the blazing sun, then came back out with Slayer less than six hours later and played for another 90 minutes, surrounded by fire and explosions, and he’s 61 years old.

After Slayer’s set, we filed out of the gates along with everybody else, only to find a sign guiding us inside a building to catch the shuttle back downtown. As we arrived inside the building, we were met by row upon row of security gates and caution tape, filled with a sweaty river of exhausted Slayer fans. The line never stopped moving, but about halfway through it, Sheila had to pee, and the only way to remedy that (other than inside her pants) was to duck under some caution tape and hustle across the building to a restroom. Just one of many less-than-ideal parts of the New and Improved Louder Than Life. I’ll still get to all the pros and cons, but I’ve already gone on for too long, so that’ll have to come later (maybe in a separate post).

Thanks for reading. Be sure to subscribe for updates so you don’t miss my Day Two write-up, which will hopefully be ready for your perusal within a few days.

  1. Highly recommended if you’re in Louisville, Kentucky. ↩︎
  2. People with no sense of urgency came into play a lot on this journey, as they also do in my day-to-day life. See also, “World’s on Heroin” by ALL. ↩︎
  3. The water is not actually free in Top Shelf, but rather is pre-paid, which sure beats paying who knows how much per bottle, or walking 10 minutes to find a refill station. ↩︎
  4. I’ll admit I don’t know Phil Anselmo as a person, but I do have eyes, ears, and the internet. ↩︎
  5. See also R&B singer/abusive-piece-of-shit Chris Brown. ↩︎
  6. The chronically online might refer to them as “S-tier”, but I wouldn’t. ↩︎

The Ghost of a Pale Girl Is Solemnly Following Me: A Quick Thing About Louder Than Life

/ Rev. Joel / 1 Comment

I’ve been dealing with some work-related nonsense for the past few weeks, and some allergy-related nonsense for the past few days, and as such I haven’t really been in the headspace to write anything worth sharing with anyone, but I have to pop in quickly to mention that Louder Than motherfucking Life is LESS THAN ONE MOTHERFUCKING WEEK AMOTHERFUCKINGWAY. To say I’m excited would be like saying that Ryan Gosling and Eva Mendes make a kinda cute couple, or like saying that a few parts of Blazing Saddles are sorta funny. To paraphrase my cousin Jeff, if I was any more excited, there’d be two of me. I’m already sad about going back to work after it’s over.

This world’s fucking so fucked up.

I’m lookin at seven-and-a-half glorious days off work, four-and-a-half of them spent with good friends, kick-ass music, delicious food and drinks, and some of the best people-watching this side of an Insane Clown Posse show. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Day One is unbelievably stacked from start to finish, and I’m gonna have to make several difficult decisions, beginning at the beginning: are we really gonna make it through that gate in time for me to see Fulci’s entire set without having to run in public? We haven’t been able to get inside the gates before the first band of the day started playing yet, though we came close with Soul Glo last year. I really wanna see Fulci, though, so I’m gonna try my goddamndest. I pretty much wanna stay camped out at the main stage(s) all day, aside from Marilyn Manson’s set (*insert barfing emoji*), but there’s also a ton of stuff I wanna see on the second stage(s)(Decibel/Reverb), which are way back on the other end of the newly enlarged festival grounds. Not to mention the stuff I wanna see inside the Big Bourbon Bar and inside Kentucky Kingdom. Luckily there’s nothing on the third stage (Loudmouth) that floats my boat at all on Day One. My brain would probably shut down if I had to factor that in as well.

What kind of sociopath decides that Exodus should overlap with both Drain and Sanguisugabogg?

Day Two is the weakest overall as far as I’m concerned, and I’m glad I’ll have a day of relative rest right after a day of full steam ahead. Looking forward to finally seeing Hatebreed (I’ll tell the story of the time I almost got to see them sometime soon/soon-ish) and Whitechapel (they overlapped with Jesus Piece two years ago, and they were part of Hurricane Day last year), plus Insane Clown Posse is playing that day (at 4:20 PM, natch), and I’m real pumped about seeing juggalos doin their juggalo thing. It’s gonna be off the hook.1

I’m unironically looking forward to Insane Clown Posse, even though I only know like three of their songs. Their entire mythos fascinates me.

Day Three promises to be an excellent day for several reasons, most notably that I finally get to see Acid Bath. I’ve been purposely avoiding live footage lately so I can go in fresher, but when I was still watching new live footage, the band was only getting better. Gotta remember to pack a clean pair of underwear for everyone in attendance that day. SpiritWorld, Deftones, Cypress Hill, Stone Temple Pilots, Failure, and hopefully Disembodied Tyrant will also be seen and heard and celebrated by me.

This is the first time I’ve seen any band scheduled at the same time as the main headliner. I daresay DWP rounded up too many bands this year.

Day Four – lotsa cool stuff, more tough decisions. Chained Saint plays at 11:40 AM. Deftones don’t finish until 11:25 PM on Day Three, so odds are I won’t be seeing Chained Saint (or Gates to Hell immediately following). Hopefully we can make it in time to see Accept. Sebastian Bach and Tech N9ne overlap way too much for my comfort, and Bruce Dickinson and The Dillinger Escape Plan overlap completely, and on opposite ends of the festival grounds.

Rrreeeaaalll pumped about Testament.

As of right now, I plan on leaving during $uicideboy$’s set to try and beat traffic. I enjoy what I’ve heard from them more than I ever thought possible (based solely on their appearance), but I figure I’ll be too tired to care about seeing their whole set. It’s like they say, never judge a book by its cover, even if the book has a really dumb looking cover.

I’m still gonna judge this one by its cover. (credit: r/TerribleBookCovers)

Here’s the song the title of this post came from. It’s my favorite Acid Bath song, and I’m so unbelievably stoked about hearing it live. If it doesn’t happen before, the shitting of the pants will definitely commence when they start playin this one.

You’re screaming because there’s nothing left for you to say.

As usual, I’ll be writing something about the experience at some point after it’s over, so be sure to check in for that, if you’re interested. As always, thanks for reading.

  1. I’m sorry I said “natch”, and I’m sorry I said it again just now. I’m not sorry I said “off the hook” though.
    ↩︎

I Wanna Disconnect Myself: A Thing About the First Time I Met Henry Rollins (Slight Return)

/ Rev. Joel / 1 Comment

In the interest of posting somewhat regularly, I’m gonna share a thing here that was previously published on my old blog, Stay Heavy. I think it’s pretty funny, and maybe you will too. I did some light editing before I mashed that “Publish” button, on account of I’m a better writer now than I was eight years ago. I also added some YouTube clips and a few footnotes.

_________________________

The second time I met Henry Rollins was embarrassing for me, but only in retrospect. I somehow experienced very little embarrassment while it was happening, and frankly, the fact that I wasn’t too embarrassed from the first meeting to even try to talk to him a second time is very out of character, but depression can lead to poor decision making. I was definitely nervous, but I was also uncharacteristically confident in the moment, and that confidence is responsible for the better part of my retrospective embarrassment.

This song contains bibles full of truth.

I went with my buddy Owen to see Rollins Band in Cincinnati in the summer of 1999, and afterward, we hung around the bus because I wanted to give Mr. Rollins a copy of this self-printed collection of poems and journal entries I’d put together. I wish that last part wasn’t true.

My writing back then was heavily influenced by Rollinses writing, especially his earlier writings, and I put the book together during a real big sad time in my life.1 As if all the words inside the book weren’t embarrassing enough, I also included a hand-written note inside, encouraging him to contact me with any thoughts or feedback he might have. I wish that wasn’t true.

Here’s a sample:2

For E—–
You are the devil
You are evil
In its purest form
You crushed my pitiful heart
You left it bleeding and
Bruised and
Destroyed and
I hope You have a
Merry Christmas

That’s actually one of the few that I don’t hate, although I think it’d be funnier if the last line was “Happy birthday” instead of “Merry Christmas”. Dig how I capitalized “You” in the penultimate line. Only a true Poet could come up with something so profound.

The only part of the entire experience that does not currently embarrass me is the fact that he liked the title (All Aboard the Joel Train), which, as it happens, is the only part of the entire book (aside from the poem above) that does not currently embarrass me. Putting the book together helped me work through some shit, but I definitely wish I hadn’t given out so many copies so freely.

Watching this live on TV was a transformative experience. Immediately after the song ended, I went into my bedroom and called a girl up and asked her to prom and I didn’t even throw up once.

But we were talking about the first time I met Henry Rollins. That was embarrassing then and now, but it’s also pretty hilarious, and hilarity is why we’re here today.

A whole mess of us (Travis, Darin, Casey, and Casey’s cousin Stacey3) drove up to Indianapolis to see Rollins Band on their tour for 1997’s supremely underrated Come in and Burn. Skunk Anansie opened, and none of us knew what to make of them, although I never forgot their song “Yes It’s Fucking Political”. I’ve listened to them since, and they’re great. I’d definitely like to see them live again, with my more sophisticated middle-aged musical palette.

Still relevant.

Rollins Band was amazing. The crowd was great. Melvin Gibbses bass is still causing my insides to jiggle thirty years on. When the show ended, everyone (Travis and myself excluded) wanted to hang around the bus to try and meet the band, and especially Rollins.

Touch your fear, don’t be afraid.

I should point out that it’s not like Travis and I didn’t wanna meet Henry Rollins. Shit, we wanted to be his best friends. But as voracious readers of his writing and listeners to his music and spoken word performances, we knew that he wasn’t into the whole shaking hands/small talk thing (which I totally get – small talk is the fucking worst), and he wanted people to be happy with the band pouring their hearts and souls and guts out all over the stage (which I also totally get), and we didn’t wanna look foolish in front of Henry.

In short, we thought we were pretty fucking cool.

Anyway, we’re all hangin around the bus, along with some other like-minded fans, and the entire band comes out (sans Rollins), and they’re extremely friendly and more than happy to chat with us for a bit. I told Melvin he was a “bass god”, which embarrassed him, but I stand by that assertion. They all signed stuff for us, and it was cool, and then Rollins came out and began to make the rounds.

Casey showed him his driver’s license, which indicated that they have the same birthday (2.13), and Rollins said “cool, are you a genius too?” and we all laughed, and then everybody else talked to him, one after the other, and I made Travis let me go last to give me as much time as possible to think of something cool and memorable to say to the man who was, at the time, one of my idols, and frankly is one of the reasons I’m still here today.4

It finally comes down to me.

Go time. 

My Brain: Don’t be nervous. You’re cool. Say something cool.

My Voice: That was a really great show.

Rollins: Thanks very much, I appreciate that.

My Brain: You’re doin great. Just keep it cool.

My Voice: I really loved your part in The Chase. It’s like, the greatest movie of all time.

A lonesome train horn sounds in the distance. Otherwise, silence.

Rollins: Whoa.

My Brain: Jesus fuckin CHRIST.

My Voice: Um.

Rollins: Thank you, but you really should see more movies. Maybe check out A Streetcar Named Desire. It’s a lot better than The Chase.

My Brain: Jesusfuckinchrist.

My Voice: Um.

And, scene!

I swear upon all that is sacred and holy in the multiverse, I DID NOT EVER think The Chase was the greatest movie of all time, or even “like” the greatest movie of all time. Why did I tell Henry Rollins I thought that? Why did those words come out of my mouth?!

WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME?!?!

In case you are unfamiliar with the “greatest movie of all time”, here’s the synopsis from Wikipedia: “The Chase is a 1994 American action film directed by Adam Rifkin and starring Charlie Sheen and Kristy Swanson, depicting a wrongfully-convicted man who kidnaps a wealthy heiress and leads police on a lengthy car chase in an attempt to escape prison. It features Henry Rollins, Josh Mostel, and Ray Wise in supporting roles, with cameo appearances by pornographic film actor Ron Jeremy and Anthony Kiedis and Flea of the rock band Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

Why yes, they do have sex while speeding down the freeway during the chase. That’s not even the dumbest part of the movie.

Rollins and Mostel play the cops who are in primary pursuit throughout the titular chase, and they have a Cops-style camera crew in the car with them. Rollins enthusiastically plays the role of Over-the-Top Asshole Tough Guy Cop, and is easily the most consistently entertaining part of the entire movie, which I have to say again, I have never once almost though it to be the greatest movie of all time, even though I told Henry Rollins I thought that.

If The Chase sounds like it could be a pretty fun and/or really dumb movie, that’s because it is in fact both,5 but I have to make sure I’m being crystal clear about this: as much I used to enjoy watching The Chase, and as much as I thoroughly enjoyed Henry Rollins’ performance as an over-the-top asshole cop, I have never once even considered considering The Chase to be anywhere near even the bottom of any list of “Greatest Movies of All Time”, past or present, but for some reason, I told Henry Rollins I thought that.

I’m sure Travis talked to him about John Coltrane or something cool like that, but Henry Rollins definitely left that encounter thinking I was an idiot, and I can’t say that he was wrong to think that.

_________________________

This concludes the previously published content of today’s post. Thanks for reading. Why not tell a friend? I’ll leave you with a live performance of my favorite song from Come in and Burn. Put on some headphones and let that rumbling groove help you get your shit correct.

You’ll always say you hate me, but you’ll watch me anyway. It’s a pain you can’t resist.
  1. I’ve already kinda started, but I’m almost ready to really dig into my wilderness years. I can’t promise it’ll be exciting, but I assure you it will be awkward. ↩︎
  2. This poem was previously published in a poetry anthology called In-between Days, which is also a story for another time. ↩︎
  3. Darin, Casey, and Stacey were in a pretty badass band called Circle of Illusions, and Travis and I were their unofficial sometimes roadies and Number One Fans. I have something brewing in my brain about Circle of Illusions, too. When it rains it pours, eh? ↩︎
  4. At this point in my life, I was less than one year away from my discovery of The Bouncing Souls, which I wrote about previously. ↩︎
  5. Really good soundtrack, too. ↩︎

Went to the Five and Dime, Bought Myself a Copy of Time: A Thing About a Band Called Clutch (Part Two)

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

I’m finally here to write more about Clutch. There’s a pretty good chance I’ll go on about a few things only marginally related to Clutch, as well, but I don’t know where this is goin yet.

I’m gonna start on April 14, 1998. That was the day one of my most favorite bands in the world (Clutch)1 released their third full length album (and first since I’d started listening to them), The Elephant Riders. It’s still my favorite Clutch album most days. My homeboy Travis bought two copies and gave one to me, because it was also two days before my birthday (the big two one), and he was (and is) an awesome dude. That birthday week is definitely one of my Top Five Best Weeks Ever, and riding around in Travis’s big ol red F-150 while we blasted The Elephant Riders is one of the standout snapshots.

Here’s the copy Travis bought for me. Well, it’s a picture of the copy, anyway.
Here’s the backside/track list.

Here’s the opening track/title track.

Don’t be eatin all the hard tack, between we two there’s half a small sack. Still, we got miles to go.

It was released on Columbia Records, and the dinguses who made the decisions at Columbia had no idea what to do with a band like Clutch (which is to say, Clutch). They refused to release the first version of the album, instead forcing the band to record in both in a studio and with a producer of the label’s choosing. Anecdotally, those knuckleheads definitely didn’t market the final, released version worth a shit, but it’s been my experience that the people who get paid to make the decisions are usually the ones with the dumbest ideas,2 so it’s not really all that surprising that Decision Makers at one of the biggest record labels in the world (at the time) would fumble the ninth-inning slam dunk that is The Elephant Riders. I tried to work in a hockey reference there as well, but I couldn’t make it happen. I’m very torn up about it.

I would like to love you, I sure would treat you right. We could take the trash out every Thursday night.

This album continues the evolution of Clutch from the lean, mean, pissed off hardcore punk-adjacent heavy rock ‘n’ roll riff machine that tore its way out of Germantown, Maryland in 1991 to the weird and indefinable metal-adjacent jamming heavy rock ‘n’ roll riff machine they’ve become. I first saw them live on the tour for this album, at the Emerson Theater in Indianapolis, and, it was a stone groove, man. Every direction you looked, there were riffs. Front man Neil Fallon was already perfecting his fire-and-brimstone stage persona, and I almost fell down a few times dancing, on account of the floor of the Emerson Theater was sloped, on account of the Emerson Theater used to be an actual fancy theater instead of a shitty all ages music venue where the urinals were lined with stickers inside and out, and an almost certainly carcinogenic snow fell gently from the ceiling tiles when the bass drum hit loud enough.

The only specific thing I can remember about the performance is that they opened with album closer “The Dragonfly”, and it was sublime. A partial set list exists online, and while I can’t vouch for its accuracy or its completion, it looks like it was a great set3.

Big if true.

I saw some great bands/shows at the Emerson Theater (and missed a few, too), and I’ll prolly write about a lot of that at some point, but who knows whether you’ll get to see it. The internet just told me that the Emerson Theater still exists, and my eyesight and reading comprehension told me it has a terrible website, and the website told me that Municipal Waste is playing a headlining show there in May. I have to assume the venue has been spruced up since I was there last.

Pity the mate of Queen Mantis, so content but so headless, Katy did nothing but shiver and cry, as did the dragonfly

By the way, I acknowledge that it says “I WASN’T THERE” in that screenshot of the set list, but that’s not true. The screen read “I WAS THERE” before I logged in. The logic makes sense, but from a purely aesthetic point-of-view, as far as screen shots go, I don’t like it.

Excuse me, Mr. Horse. What are your feelings about that fall?

Anyway, a live Clutch show is one of the best things you could ever experience, and their fan base is one of the most devoted I’ve ever seen, comparable to The Mountain Goats and the long strange trip of the Grateful Dead (including all the Dead-adjacent and affiliate bands).45 People who’ve seen them 30, 75, 120 times or more. I’ve seen them 13 times now, and only one of the shows was disappointing to me in any way, but that was entirely my fault, and it happened fifteen years later, so I won’t get into it now.

I’m gonna share three more songs from The Elephant Riders and then we’ll move ahead. This three-song run makes up the middle of the album in a way, and in my studied opinion, it’s the best three-song run the band has done to date. I encourage you to check them out, but you really should just listen to the whole album. Especially if you like a groove and a swing with your fatass riffs, and can at least tolerate some gruff hollerin.

“The Soapmakers” was the only single released from the album, and it ranks number 21 on Clutch’s most-played songs live, according to available data collected and aggregated by setlist.fm, and I gotta tell you, it really is somethin special. Like nearly every song from the band, this one kinda sounds like it’s being sung (sang?) by a sentient beard, and it’s a bit weird to see Neil all babyfaced and beardless in this video, especially considering he would go on to cultivate such a mighty beard.

As they stirred heaven and earth they combined to one, and everything was everyone and each one was all.

Aside from the memorable refrain, “The Yeti” didn’t really grab me until I was livin in Austin, which is when I started to write more, and on a more regular basis. One night I was in the office while my ex was at work, and I got righteously zooted and played The Elephant Riders through headphones while I wrote on the computer. “The Soapmakers” faded out with those weird, spooky sound effects, “The Yeti” rolled into my eardrums just like it had hundreds of times before, and suddenly the song came alive in my mind. I watched the story happen in real time, across the vast expanse of a seemingly endless snowscape, and the song worked some kind of magic on my brain, and now there’s an 89% chance that at any given moment, lyrics from “The Yeti” are in my head.

Sky is filled with starry scenes of heroes in their greatest deeds.

The last song of the three is also one of my favorite songs of all time. They’ve only played it live 18 times, according to available data collected and aggregated by setlist.fm, and do you wanna guess how many of those times I was in attendance for?

I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with “hero”.

I even caught em on an anniversary tour of The Elephant Riders, and the only songs from the album they didn’t play are “Muchas Veces” and “Crackerjack”, but “Crackerjack” is an instrumental with a long trombone solo, so I wasn’t expecting that one anyway.

This seems like as good a time as any to mention that “Muchas Veces” also contains a trombone solo, and it’s fucking perfect. Both solos are played the hell out of by renowned tromboner6 Delfeayo Marsalis (of the renowned Marsalis Family). As I say, I wasn’t expecting to hear “Crackerjack”, but I thought surely they’d play “Muchas Veces” with some other type of solo(s) or extended jam in place of the trombone solo, because they do sometimes jam on songs live, but alas, they did not, and that’s almost certainly the best chance I’ll ever have of hearing it live.

Muchas veces I don’t know if I’m coming or I’m going, muchas veces I’m at a loss as what to do.

Okay, I’ve spent way too much time talking about the one album, so I’m gonna stop for now and pick things up in a post-The Elephant Riders world. Thanks for reading. Check back eventually for the next installment. Or, pop your digital digits into that box below so you can be among the first to know. And tell your friends, yeah?

  1. Duh. ↩︎
  2. And the thumbs farthest up the asses. ↩︎
  3. Duh. ↩︎
  4. A lot of Clutch fans refer to themselves as “Gearheads”, but I don’t feel like I know enough about the band to fall in with that lot. ↩︎
  5. I certainly could’ve included Phish and Dave Matthews Band in that company as well, but I can’t even with those two. ↩︎
  6. I mean no disrespect to Mr. Marsalis, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to include the word “tromboner” at least once. Well, twice now. ↩︎

Cook As Needed for Pain, Volume 3: That Black Bean Sweet Potato Thing

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

The Bouncing Souls saved my life. I’ll just go ahead and get that outta the way right now. They are one of the top three or four reasons I survived the second half of 1999 and the entirety of the year 2000, and I’ve been tryna write about them for a couple of months now, but I’ve been struggling to figure out how to approach it. I’m still not sure if I solved it, but this is something, at least.

The thing about sweet potatoes is that they’re extremely versatile, but I feel like most people only encounter them around Thanksgiving, when they’re covered with maplesyrupandbrownsugarandmarshmallows and sometimes nuts, and therefore do not resemble anything that was ever called a sweet potato. And I know lots of people love sweet potato casserole, and I’m not here to fart on your salad1, but I really believe with my whole heart that if you’ve only eaten your sweet potatoes extra sweet, you should taste a savory sweet potato dish and marvel at the difference, and I guess that’s where I’m goin with this right now.

This recipe doesn’t really have a name – it’s kind of like a veggie chili, and I’ve been known to use leftovers to jazz up a batch of veggie chili, but when I make veggie chili, it’s different from this. This is its own thang.

Tom Hanks is: David S Pumpkins in His Own Thang (Part of It!)
I’M DAVID PUMPKINS, MAN!

And since I haven’t been able to come up with a suitable way to distinguish it from my chili without overexplaining, I end up just calling it “that black bean sweet potato thing” as in “hey Sheila, I’m gonna make that black bean sweet potato thing for dinner tonight”, and so I’ve decided here and now to just call it That Black Bean Sweet Potato Thing.

It’s a good thing I didn’t overexplain anything, right? Jesus.

Here’s the ingredient list for the thing:

  • 1/2 cup yellow or white onion, small diced (see Notes)
  • 1 medium to large sweet potato, peeled and medium diced (see Notes)
  • 1 can of black beans, drained and rinsed
  • 1 can of hominy, drained and rinsed
  • 1 can of diced tomatoes
  • 2 cups of your preferred broth (see Notes)
  • 1 Tablespoon tomato paste
  • 1 Tablespoon ground cumin
  • 1 Tablespoon ground ancho chile powder
  • 1 Tablespoon Penzey’s adobo seasoning (see Notes)
  • 1 teaspoon granulated garlic
  • 1 teaspoon granulated onion
  • Salt and black pepper to taste

Notes:

  • Small dice is approximately 1/4 in (6.35 mm) square. Here’s a decent tutorial on the various types of basic culinary knife cuts.
  • It would be perfectly fine if you just scrubbed and diced your sweet potato, leaving the skin on. In fact, it would be even healthier.
  • I use Better Than Bullion brand “No Chicken Base” almost every time I need a broth. It’s one of my secret weapons, except I just told you about it.
  • Penzey’s adobo seasoning is salt-free. Many adobo seasonings include salt as a main ingredient. If you substitute a different brand of adobo seasoning, be sure to taste it before you begin adding additional salt.
  • Feel free to add other things, as well. I’ve added diced bell peppers, zucchini, yellow squash, mushrooms, and spinach. One time I added all of those things, plus some pinto beans and more liquid, and accidentally made veggie chili. You could certainly add some kind of meat. I imagine some kind of venison or stewing beef would be pretty baller, and all manner of poultry and pork can certainly participate in the Thing. The only real limit is your imagination.
Milhouse contains multitudes, yo.

So what you do, see, is you add a tablespoon or so of olive oil to a medium-hot saute pan, then add the diced onions and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring often, until the onion starts to turn translucent, then add the peeled diced sweet potatoes. BEWARE OF SPLASHING OIL!

It should look something like this.

Lower the heat to medium and cook for 8-10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until those sweetie pooteeties start to soften, just a lil bit. Next, add the seasonings and the tomato paste, and stir to combine. Cook for another minute or two, then stir in the broth and the can of diced tomatoes, juice and all. Maybe even give the can a li’l rinsiedoodle and pour that tomato water in, too. It’s not rocket science.

Bring it to a boil, then lower the heat back to medium and cook for like 5 minutes or so, stirring occasionally. The sweet potatoes should be softer, but still kinda firm, and the liquid should’ve reduced by approximately one-quarter to one-third of the beginning volume.

Like this, more or less.

At this point, add the beans (and hominy, if using). Stir to combine again, then lower the heat to medium-low and continue to simmer for another 10-15 minutes. Stir it a couple-few times. Adjust the heat as necessary.

This is after stirring in black beans and hominy, but before it started simmering again.

After ten minutes, pop a lid on the pan and put it in a 250° F (120° C) oven until you’re ready to eat. It keeps getting better the longer you cook it. I recommend using this time to make some rice and/or quinoa, because that really ties things together. Follow basic rice/quinoa instructions or the packaging instructions, if your rice/quinoa came in a package with cooking instructions. When your grain of choice is ready, put some of it in your favorite bowl and top it with your delicious black bean sweet potato thing. I like to top the whole shebang with some diced avocado and just get after it, but it’s also great with any combination of sour cream, shredded cheese, cilantro, pickled jalapenos, and Cholula, and if you like raw diced onions, that’s probably pretty great too, but it’s not really my scene. A side of tortilla chips is optional, and is also recommended.

Here’s an example of what your Black Bean Sweet Potato Thing might look like by the time your rice and/or quinoa is and/or are ready to eat:

So saucy. So delicious.

I suppose it’d probably serve four. I usually cook for two, and it serves two twice in our house. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’ve never understood most mathematics, but I do know that two twice equals four.

Jackprot! Let’s hit the tables!

But I was talking about The Bouncing Souls.

The Bouncing Souls have been making punk rock ‘n’ roll for the freaks, nerds, and romantics since they formed in New Brunswick, NJ in 1989. I first heard them in 1998, a little under a year after the release of their self-titled third album. I love their entire discography from the beginning up to and including 2003’s Anchors Aweigh. I haven’t listened to much of anything since The Gold Album, which I recall thinking was just fine, and is certainly better than no The Bouncing Souls. Even if they don’t necessarily light my f-i-r-e, it feels like newer Souls albums and songs are still connecting with a lot of people, and that makes me very happy, because any amount of The Bouncing Souls in your life is a good amount.

Anyhow, the stretch from Hopeless Romantic (1999) into How I Spent My Summer Vacation (2001) is the sweet spot for me. Hopeless Romantic was the first album they released after I discovered them, and it was the one I listened to most often during the darkest days of my wilderness years. The title track is one of my favorites.

I’m kinda lazy, and I kinda stink, but I’d clean myself up for you.

I could easily sit here and show you 11 or 12 of the 13 songs from the album, but ain’t nobody got time for that, so here’s a quick sampling of some of my very most favorites.

All we had was our dreams, that’s all we needed to be free.

Some of these songs still instantly transport me to moments in time and space from the summer of 1999, aka “Sad Sack Summer”. “Night On Earth” is one of those.

I’ll miss you, but now I’ll know better next time, ’cause I found me.

People probably called the ‘Souls sellouts for making songs like these, but people have always been pretty stupid, so I wouldn’t put much stock into what they have to say about much of anything. Enjoy what you like and if they got somethin to say, tell em to cram it.

Now I know I’m gonna try, and I know this will pass by and by.

This was also around the first time I got to see the band live, on the 1999 Vans Warped Tour in scenic historic beautiful Tinley Park, Illinois (town motto: “Where the Allman Brothers Band plays when they play in ‘Chicago'”).

I felt compelled to draw this visual aid for some reason. Dig that butterfly effect emanating outward.

But I kid the good people of Tinley Park, Illinois [town motto: “You might be thinking of the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater in Noblesville, Indiana (town motto: “Where the Allman Brothers Band plays when they play ‘Indianapolis'”)”]. That first time seeing The Bouncing Souls live was magical, and I even have two washed out pictures from right near the rail, which I am going to include here. The less good one was captured by me, and the other was straight tooken by my old pal Rasma, from atop my old pal Owen’s shoulders.

I sure don’t miss disposable cameras.
That security fella in the red shirt instructed Rasma to get down immediately following this snapshot.

This is the same Warped Tour where Scott and I walked past Mike Muir from Suicidal Tendencies while he lifted weights in the parking lot. That was pretty surreal.

I was significantly less sad, generally speaking, by the time How I Spent My Summer Vacation was released in May 2001, but I did still seem to still be on a real similar wavelength with the band.

Forget about the things I said, I make no excuse for them.

Like its predecessor, this album could be presented pretty much in its entirety, but for the sake of time, I’m just gonna include three more songs.

Tomorrow’s a lifetime away, she’s all I want today.

I saw them live for the second time while they were touring for this album. It was July 12, 2001, just two days shy of exactly two years since the first time I saw them live, up yonder in Tinley Park, Illinois, back in the twentieth century.

I’m no good, you’re no better, wouldn’t we be perfect together?

I feel like if you’re gonna know one song from The Bouncing Souls, there’s a decent chance it’ll be “Gone”. It’s a good’n.

I needed strength to change my mind, but those ghosts stuck to me like glue.

Here’s the part about when I saw them live in 2001, when the Vans Warped Tour stopped at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater Deer Creek Music Center in scenic historic beautiful Noblesville, Indiana.

The $ in “music” is an accident, but a happy one.

I got a spot on the rail just to the right of stage left (which still seems to be my preferred spot), and they played “Quick Chek Girl” and “East Coast! Fuck You!”,2 and that’s pretty much all I remember about that set, because I was absolutely blissed out. I got to meet the band that day! I accidentally cut in front of a large section of the line and didn’t become fully cognizant of that fact until about three years later, but whatever, I got to meet The Bouncing motherfucking Souls!

The manager said “she quit, she isn’t here. Do you want me to help you count the papers?”

I told them their music saved my life, and Brian said “that’s awesome, us too”, and when I produced my “Gone” CD single, for autographical purposes, Greg said “man, he’s got all the cool stuff”, on account of I was also wearing my A-Team replica t-shirt (as pictured below – also, it’s the same shirt that my ex-wife later turned pink the one time she ever did laundry) and they also thought that was pretty cool. It was a Top Three moment for me at that point in my life, and if I’m being totally honest, it’s still probably in my top twenty. Here’s a self-portrait I made the day after I met them, when I was working at the music store in the mall.

This is pretty accurate, although my smile was even bigger in real life.

Incidentally, my first week at that job was the coolest job I’ve ever had, then the company became the property of Trans World Entertainment, and the whole place immediately started to swirl down the shitter. It’s still a real contender for Favorite Job Ever, though; I mean, on the bad days, I still got to listen to music and hang out with my friends. The customers were terrible, but it’s not like the customers aren’t also terrible every other place and all other times. But my days at the music store are a story for another time. This is about The Bouncing Souls.

In September, 2002, The Bouncing Souls released a split EP with Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania political punk rockers Anti-Flag. Both bands had some originals, plus some covers, and it was a great, high-energy release that also introduced me to Anti-Flag. Then in 2003, they released their sixth full-length album, Anchors Aweigh. I loved it upon its release, and I still love it today, but back in 2003 my life was headed in a direction that did not require the presence of new songs from The Bouncing Souls to help me get by. Since then, they’ve existed more in my periphery for the most part, and while I do believe that any Bouncing Souls is better than no Bouncing Souls, when I get a hankerin, I go with the classics.

I did see them live once more, on the Anchors Aweigh tour in the fall of 2003, when I lived in Austin. I’m pretty sure that was my only time seeing a headlining set from them. It was great, as expected. Then a bunch of time passed, then in early 2020, they announced a headlining tour with a stop in Indianapolis, Indiana (town motto: “Don’t expect an easy drive to or from your destination”). I got tickets for me and my homeboy Matt, who is one of the other three or four reasons I survived that 18 months in my early 20’s, as mentioned way back in the beginning of this thing. The show was cancelled when our simulation received the hard reset that was 2020, and they have yet to reschedule an Indianapolis show, but I’ll be there when they do, smilin like a little kid on Christmas while I dance my ass off and sing along with every word I know.

Give it to me straight, touch my heart, I’ll sing along forever.

Anyway, I was talking about That Black Bean Sweet Potato3 Thing. Black beans are awesome. Sweet potatoes are awesome. You should cram em together in that taste sensation I told you about up yonder, That Black Bean Sweet Potato Thing. And you should listen to The Bouncing Souls while you’re doing it. If you’re capable of having feelings, they can surely speak to at least one of em.

Thanks for reading. If you wanted to tell a friend about Clockwise Circle Pit, that wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Until next time…

Tell me about your big “but”, Simone.

I made that myself. Would you believe I’ve had absolutely no graphic design training?

  1. I really did fart on a guy’s salad one time. I didn’t do it on purpose, but he kinda sucked anyway, so I never felt bad about it. ↩︎
  2. “I know we’re not on the east coast, but you can all say ‘fuck you’, right?” – Greg Attonito ↩︎
  3. I spent a
    very long time
    tryna decide
    whether I should spell it
    “potato”
    or “potatoe”
    (in the fashion of former Vice President of the United States of America James Danforth Quayle)
    but ultimately
    I decided
    he should be
    a footnote
    and nothing more.

    Also
    I just learned
    that you can turn a footnote
    into dang ol poem! ↩︎

An Unforeseen Future Nestled Somewhere in Time: A Louder Than Life-Related Update

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

I work too much and I don’t write enough. It’s a tale as old as time. To be clear, I don’t work an exorbitant amount, but it’s still too much, because human beings cannot possibly exist to work until we’re dead, and if that is the point of this particular simulation, then I’m ready for a reset any time now, please and thank you. Well, maybe not any time, but I’ll get to that shortly.

I’m fine. Really, I am. It’s just that the world’s got me some kind of down these days, friends, and neighbors, and I’m really struggling to maintain optimism, re: our future in this realm. I mean, a pants-shitting, thieving, tacky pedophile with unusually small hands is the nominal leader of the most powerful nation, militarily, in the history of humanity, y’know? And King Dipshit the Orange has some truly evil scumfucks pulling his strings, which makes it hard to maintain hope, y’know? And there’s still a lot I wanna do before it all ends, y’know? And I’m always so goddamn mentally and physically worn out from working and keeping the house and yard slightly presentable in this infernal heat and humidity that is summer in the Ohio River Valley that I never feel like doing anything when I’m not working. And that’s dumb, y’know?

I really am fine, though, I promise.

Hey, here’s something exciting that makes things better for now: Louder Than Life is quite nigh (35 days, 13 hours, and a little over 4 minutes, according to the app), and this year is gonna be a humdinger. I’m talkin a real live wire, man. I had a lot of intentions, re: writing about LTL more regularly over the past ≈ 11 months, but I also had a lot of intentions, re: getting in better shape in time for this year’s fest, and we see how well that turned out, don’t we? (Spoiler alert: it did not turn out well.)

I did slightly update my in-depth guide to getting the most out of your time at Louder Than Life, and if you haven’t checked that out yet, you can do so here.

Some pretty major news was announced last week, re: LTL, namely that the actual physical location of the festival will be different this year, as the entire fest has been moved to the parking lot adjacent to the Highland Festival Grounds. It’s gonna be weird to learn a new layout, and I’m not sure that I’m 100% stoked about the new location. Mostly the fact that it’s entirely in a parking lot, which means there’ll be pretty much no grass, and the sun will definitely be more intense on the blacktop than it would be on grass/dirt. The total area seems to be spread out a lot more this year as well, which will mean much more walking. Careful readers may recall that I logged 34+ miles over the course of last year’s LTL, and that was with one entire day cancelled!

Speaking of that cancellation, I assume the decision to move the festival is at least partially influenced by the “mud” that occurred last year after Hurricane Helene pushed her way through town, but I can’t say for certain, and the reason doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s how things are gonna be, at least this year. My only realistic choice is to enjoy myself, and frankly, I’ll take standing on asphalt in the summer sun in Kentucky for 9+ hours over working any day of the week. Throw in some great music, great food, great friends, and superlative people-watching, and baby, you got a stew goin! Hopefully not a hurricane stew like last year, though.

Carl Weathers was an American treasure.

Further pros, re: the new layout include shade trees throughout, and access to the air-conditioned Kentucky Exposition Center (“an immersive merch experience…featuring festival gear, additional activations, and lounge seating” – if there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s access to air conditioning and seating), which is pretty fuckin cool. The biggest addition to this year’s setup is the inclusion of Kentucky Kingdom Theme Park in the cost of our admission. The park will be closed to the public all four days of the fest, and per the official website:

Your pass now includes:
• FREE access to 18 amusement rides inside Kentucky Kingdom, including the Giant Wheel (ferris wheel), Lightning Run (rollercoaster), Scream Extreme, Skycatcher, and more fan favorites.
• Extra shaded areas, picnic spots & restrooms •Select concessions, shopping & air-conditioned indoor dining.
• Ride hours run daily from 2PM to 9PM — with the Giant Wheel staying open until 10PM for late-night spins. Please note: Hurricane Bay waterpark will not be in operation during the event for festival goers or the public.

I’ll be surprised if I take advantage of the rides (unless bumper cars are part of it, then you just try and stop me!), but the addition of park access will certainly help keep the crowds spread out a bit more, and if there’s one thing I appreciate, it is a well-distributed crowd.

Meet the new map, different from the old map.

That’s about all the time I’ve got for today. Dinner still hasn’t found a way to cook itself. Thanks for reading, and be sure to check back for more Louder Than Life-related stuff (hopefully) leading up to, and certainly following, assuming the simulation doesn’t reset before then. I’ll be so pissed if it does.

Before you see the light, you must die.

Only 35 days, 12 hours, 7 minutes, and 25 seconds to go!

Did I Shave My Balls For This? (With Apologies to Deana Carter)

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

I’m supposed to be vasectomized and goofy on anesthesia right now, but none of my doctors told me I needed to stop taking one of my medications three days ago, so the anesthesiologist cancelled the surgery, and I got a Monday off instead. I’m not complaining about the Monday off, but I am gonna complain a little bit about the situation that led to me sitting here annoyed and writing instead of out of my mind on propofol and giggling at Regular Show.

YOU MAKES NO SENSE!

The whole thing really kinda amplifies modern life in these United States. Surgery I was gonna have to pay for even though I currently have health insurance, scheduled almost four months in advance because the doctor only performs that operation on the second Monday of each month (and his appointments don’t begin until 1:00 PM) cancelled because at least two different people dropped the ball (no pun intended), re: relaying a simple message to the patient.

What really refries my frijoles is that I did everything else right. Every single thing they told me to do or not do to get ready for the procedure, I did, or did not, as it were. I would’ve followed the rule, if they’d told me the rule. I got it rescheduled easily enough (the doctor even offered to do it this Friday, which didn’t work for Sheila or me because we both cast our lot with the service industry decades ago), but that’s not the point. I was very relieved that I would never have to alter my private area with a razor again (utterly harrowing!), and now I do have to alter my private area with a razor again because at least two separate individuals in at least two separate locations (all of them professionals in the medical field) failed to tell me I would need to cease taking a pill three days prior.

I didn’t have much use for country music in the late 90s, but she has a real nice voice, and “Strawberry Wine” is a jam.

But I’m not here to talk about the busted-ass healthcare system in this country, or about my private area. Today, I wanna talk about Louder Than Life, because it’s been a while since I’ve written about it (a little over 8 months!), and also because the 2025 edition kicks off in 63 days, if you count the pre-party the night before Day One, which I most certainly do. In approximately 5,443,200 seconds, I will clock out from work and cease to forget that I even have a job for nine days, and Sweet Baby Jeebus am I ever excited!

This is definitely the most thrash and death metal heavy lineup in LTL’s history.

This year’s lineup is the biggest ever (“160+ bands” according to the official website), and as such, it’s also maybe the most mixed bag I’ve ever seen for this particular festival, as far as my interest in the bands. Thursday’s main stage lineup is jaw-droppingly heavy and badass, with the sole exception of Marilyn Manson, who can fuck directly off and into the sun. The guy’s a super creep, but more importantly, I never liked his music, so his inclusion (likely killing my momentum between Down and Lamb of God) is disappointing to me. The cool thing about the way LTL is set up, though, is that I can fuck off and do something else while he’s lowering the property value on that side of the festival grounds, and I might not even have to miss any of Down or Lamb of God.

However, as I’ve mentioned before, the cruel nature of the multiple stage setup means that in addition to wanting to stay in the vicinity of the main stages all day, the second stage also has a lot of things that tickle my fancy, and the Kroger Big Bourbon Bar also has four bands I’d really like to see. Thankfully the third stage doesn’t have anything for me on Day One. The rest of the weekend should be easier to maneuver (unless the schedules are put together by someone with personal vendetta against me), and I’m already excited about being able to leave early on Day Two and again on Day Four, because I’m definitely gonna need that to make it out alive.

Long-time readers of my nonsense may recall that I wrote back in early December that if Acid Bath got announced for Louder Than Life 2025, I would “shit everyone’s pants”, and if you look toward the top of Day Three there, you’ll see that come September 20th, I’ve got some defecatin to do. I’m gonna lose my mind when they play “Graveflower” and “Pagan Love Song”.

My family doesn’t tend to live a particularly long time, but I do come from a long line of celebrated poopers, on both sides.

I’ll definitely be writing plenty more about Louder Than Life over the next 90,000 or so minutes (and beyond), but for now I’m gonna wrap this up. Thanks for reading, and be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss any of the excitement of my rambling essays about LTL2K25, how much I hate working for a living, and/or my private areas.

You’re screaming because there’s nothing left for you to say.

We Yabba Dabba Doo All the Way to Shangri-La: A Thing About Self-Inflicted Burdens, and Also a Band Called Clutch

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

I decided to take a break from writing wedding vows to try to unpack some boxes from the corners of my brain. Speaking of boxes: for as long as I can remember, I’ve had boxes of stuff. All kinds of stuff, most of it garbage. Regular readers of my nonsense/knowers of me personally are no doubt already aware of this, but I’ve always been a nostalgia junkie/pack rat/sentimental fool, and throwing things away just does not come easily to me. The number of boxes has fluctuated over time, but I’ve always had at least a few, and I’ve often had a lot. They’ve gone with me every time I’ve moved, out of one closet and into the next, sometimes under the bed, sometimes in the basement, one time in a pyramid in the middle of my bedroom that I had to walk around to get from one side of the room to the other (that was a very sad year for me).

Nineteen years ago, while packing up to move back home from Texas, I chose five boxes at random, taped all of them shut without opening any of them, and threw them into the dumpster at the apartment complex where I’d been living with my soon-to-be ex-wife. This was the absolute peak/nadir of my box-having life. I left at least eight more boxes (probably closer to twelve) in the walk-in closet, also without opening any of them. My reasons for doing so were threefold:

  1. I simply didn’t have room to bring everything back with me. Some of the boxes would have to stay behind, full stop.
  2. If I’d started looking through all the boxes to decide which ones were most important before loading up the truck, I’d still be there today, living with a new family and internally debating whether I should continue to hold on to my fourth grade report card, or my birthday cards from 1993, or my official Mason Shoe salesman certification that I signed up for as a joke in when I was 12 years old.1
  3. A teeny tiny part of me wanted to be a petty bitch and make my ex have to deal with some of my collected detritus and ephemera.2

I know I left some good stuff behind, and every now and then I’ll remember something specific, and I’ll get a lil sad, but by and large, it was all garbage, and should’ve been disposed of much sooner. I currently have the smallest number of boxes that I’ve had since I first left home in 1996, and it’s a nice feeling. There’s still plenty of stuff in those boxes that I do not need to hold onto (I’m looking at you, SAT results from 1994 and cheap acrylic paints from 2007), but some of the stuff is quite essential. For example, I have a shoe box full of letters my dad wrote to my mom when he was deployed in Vietnam in 1965-66. She kept every letter he sent to her, and I have all of them, and that’s pretty awesome.

Speaking of non sequiturs, I’m gonna see Clutch live this weekend, and I’m incredibly stoked for that. It’ll be my 13th time, and my first in nearly two years, which is pretty long time for me to go without seeing Clutch live these days. They’re touring on the 30th anniversary of their massive self-titled second album, and that just happens to be one of my favorite Clutch albums. They were originally talking about playing the album in its entirety, which would’ve been extremely cool, but they apparently decided to not do that, and have instead been favoring songs from the album on their setlists, which is still fine by me.

I have plans for the future, guess they’re futuristic plans.

They’ve opened with “Animal Farm” a couple of times on this tour, and I can’t begin to imagine how I’ll survive an entire show if they pull that insanity with us.

Well I’ve been appointed to inform you your days are numbered.

One of the cool things about seeing Clutch live is that you legitimately never know what they’re gonna play next. The four members take turns writing the setlists, so every stop on a given tour gets a unique set. They have some standards they almost always play, and large stable of songs that they often pick from, but they’ll drop a legitimate deep cut into the set surprisingly often.

I didn’t get to see em play “Rats” until my twelfth time, and it’s not even really that deepa cut.

In the doorway is a cutaway of flesh and bone.

They’re playing some casinos on this tour, which I’m pretty sure is a first for them, and the casino nearest us, which happens to be one of their stops, also happens to be the casino we visit most often, which happens to be pretty fuckin rad.3 We don’t go there terribly often, but we go often enough to get free or discounted rooms, free slot play, and free food when we do go. I know it’s not really “free” if we’re spending money every time, but we’re basically breaking even, and we’re having fun without hurting anyone, so as far as I’m concerned, everyone’s a winner.

I gotta wrap this up. As far as I can discern, enchiladas haven’t figured out how to make themselves yet, which is too bad. There’s some AI I could get behind. Thanks for reading. Sorry if you were expecting a nice tidy conclusion. That’s not really my thing. Before you go, dig this screenshot from the Wikipedia entry for “Yabba Dabba Doo”. It made me snort-laugh.

Ah yes, Froyd Flintstone, husband to Walmon, father to Pubblers.

If you enjoyed this, it’d be cool if you told a friend and/or subscribed (for free!) to receive more content like it, and occasionally some content that I actually put a modicum of thought into. Okay, that’s all.

  1. Undoubtedly, I would eventually decided “yes” to all three, and when I finally made it back to Bloomington, I would have to use those boxes to build a shelter, because there’s no way I could afford to live in this city if I wasn’t already established here. ↩︎
  2. A few months after I moved back, I saw a post on her Myspace wall asking if anyone was interested in a loose box of football cards from the 1970s, so I was at least mildly successful. That’ll teach her to cheat on me. ↩︎
  3. That sentence could’ve been much clearer, but here we are. ↩︎

Oops! I Did It Again: Adventures in People-Pleasing

/ Rev. Joel / 1 Comment

I had a complicated, confusing relationship with religion growing up. That doesn’t make me special, but it’s a fact about me nonetheless. That’ll be discussed here someday, or maybe it won’t. What’s pertinent for now is that I started to consider myself agnostic in my early twenties, and since my mid-thirties, I’ve generally considered myself atheist, if only because I don’t believe in capital-g-God. I’ve experienced enough to know there’s more to the world than what we can perceive under normal circumstances, so I’m not averse to the idea that there’s something bigger than us, but to me, the fact that human suffering is a thing means that the capital-g-God of the Torah, Bible, and/or Quran cannot exist, or if they do exist, they’re the biggest prick to ever do so, and if that’s what’s real, then I have no interest in pursuing it beyond this realm.1

To that end, I became an ordained minister with the Universal Life Church in the summer of 2000, when I was 23 years old, as a larf. Cut to Spring 2007: my brother calls me up and asks me if I can “still do weddings”. I ask him what the hell he’s talkin about, and he says “I thought you were ordained, I’m gettin married and I wanted to see if you’d do the wedding”, and I say “oh shit, I guess I can still do weddings”, and I agree to do his wedding, and thus begins my brief foray into wedding-doing.

I went on to preside over a total of seven weddings, to the best of my recollection, the last one in (I think) 2015. My stats are kinda interesting/depressing. Five out of seven of those couples no longer exist today. Two out of seven were second marriages, and in both cases, I also presided over the first wedding. One of those two couples is also one of the two still-married couples.

I never turned anyone down flat when asked to officiate, because I’m a people pleaser, although I did politely decline when asked to perform a possible eighth in 2017, because I was given the opportunity to politely decline with no hard feelings. I’m thankful that Jamie gets me. See, the thing about me is that I r e a l l y hate talking in front of people. I know most people don’t like it, as such, but I truly, honestly, and sincerely, if given the option, would rather eat live hornets than ever again talk in front of more than five people, and even then I’ve gotta know at least four of those five people pretty fuckin well to even be kind of okay with it.

What I’m saying is: every single wedding ceremony I officiated was a waking nightmare for me. I was told by at least one guest at each wedding that they liked how “quick” my ceremony was. I was told by a lot of people at all of those weddings that they couldn’t really hear me. Every single time, I’m up there sweatin like Ted Striker tryna land Flight 209 at Gates 8-25…

I just want to tell you both good luck. We’re all counting on you.

…and I’m standin there tryin not to puke like Davie “Lardass” Hogan at the The Great Tri-County Bake Off and Pie Eat…

Like Charlie Hogan’s brother. If he had one.

…and the whole time, I’m trying so goddamn hard to remember to enunciate, and speak up, and slow down, all of which I never do in day-to-day conversation, and every single time, I prayed to an empty sky that no one I cared about would ever again ask me to officiate their wedding, because I wasn’t sure I could go through that again.

Cut to the day before Easter, 2025: Sheila and I are visiting my father-in-law and his fiance. Both were married once before, and both lost their beloved spouses tragically within the past three years. They’d recently become engaged and had already moved into a new house together. The four of us are sitting on the back porch enjoying the spring weather and some cocktails, and the topic of their wedding comes up. Without even thinking, I offered to officiate. Time froze around me. I could see the words floating toward them, and I was powerless to stop them. I was already so fucking nervous.

They thanked me and said they’d keep it in mind. A couple days later, they set a date much nearer than any of us (including either of them) had expected, based solely on the fact that my brother-in-law would be in the states in early July. Sheila went to visit on Mother’s Day while I was working2, and they discussed details and made plans and much to my relief, they’d booked a venue where the proprietor was also an ordained minister and a DJ.

Tom and Jerry cartoons contain pretty much everything you could ever need.

Cut to, three days ago: Sheila gets a text and says “Dad wants to know if you’ll officiate the wedding”.

Me: What?! Why?! No! What?! I thought that was included! That guy’s gonna do it, right? I can’t!

Sheila: I think he just wants to include you, and probably make the ceremony a little more personal.

Me: What if they want me to mention God?! I don’t think I can do that! Oh God, Sheila, I can’t lead a prayer!

Sheila: I think you should just talk to him about it.

So I texted him and told him I’d be happy to do it, but that I wouldn’t feel comfortable performing any kind of religious ceremony or leading any prayers, and he said he wouldn’t dream of asking, and they just want simple ceremony. When I asked if they wanted anything specific, he asked me to “come up with something nice”, and said he had faith in me. When I asked how long they’d like it to be, he responded “not long – short but witty”, and here we are, less than 37 days away from me sweatin like Striker and tryin not to puke like Lardass while I talk in front of a group of people, all because I though it’d be funny to call myself “Rev. Joel” twenty-five years ago. I’m definitely retiring after this one. My shirts and my guts are both depending on it.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, why not tell a friend?

  1. The only church I’m interested in is Drug Church. ↩︎
  2. It’s not without its perks, but by and large, working in the hospitality industry is for the fuckin birds. And not the good birds, like goldfinches, but the shit birds, like European starlings. ↩︎

Even the Losers Get Lucky Sometimes

/ Rev. Joel / Leave a comment

You know what I’d really like to sit in right now? My homeboy Jim’s old green-and-beige plaid swivel rocking chair, that’s what. That was a perfect chair. I don’t know where he got it from, but it was in his bedroom when we were kids (after his older brother moved out, and he took over the bigger room), and to this day it was the most comfortable chair I ever sat in. At some point he no longer had room for it, so he lent it to me, and I had it in my possession for approximately 4 years. Four of the most comfortable-sittin years of my life.

I gave it back to Jim before I moved to Texas, and I’ve missed it ever since. That chair would make our recently-cleaned study/vidja game room the bee’s knees. Right now it’s the cat’s pajamas. If it had that chair and a sweet rug to tie the room together? Duck’s sunglasses. I’m sure I could find a similar chair, but it wouldn’t be as comfortable. Nothing could ever be as comfortable as that chair. And look, I know nostalgia is coloring my opinion of the chair, but I also know comfort (and sitting), and I’ve sincerely never had a more comfortable sitting experience than in that chair. That includes our dope purple velour mid-century-style armchair from Joybird, which is probably the second most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in.

I’ve got some great memories with Jim’s old chair. I watched Twin Peaks for the first time while sittin in that chair. I read On the Road for the first time while sittin in that chair. I fell in love with The Beatles while sittin in that chair. I completed Super Mario World with a 96* for the first (and so far only) time while sittin in that chair. Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol saved my life one night while I sat in that chair.

One time I got real stoned, ordered a pizza, and later fell asleep watchin Grosse Point Blank while sittin in that chair. When I woke up the next morning, I picked the pizza box up off the floor next to me and ate the rest of the pizza in the dark and silence while sittin in that chair. I suppose I wouldn’t call that a “great” memory, as such, but it’s a vivid one, to be sure. That was a weird time in my life. I plan on writing about my wilderness years at some point, but I wouldn’t get too pumped for it just yet, or maybe at all.

I texted Jim and told him I was thinkin about the chair. He responded “didn’t I give that to you?” followed by “WTH happened to that?” I guess the chair didn’t leave the same impression on Jim’s brain (his butt either, apparently). He’s always had a bad memory, though, and I’ve always been a slut for nostalgia, so it’s not terribly surprising that things turned out this way. Anyway, I hope the chair is up in heaven, being sat in by Harry Dean Stanton. He deserves a good sit.

Charles Montgomery Burns mediates on the pleasures of sitting.
You said it, ya weirdo.

Last time, I talked about high school reunions, and earlier today, I started reading through my unfinished high school reminiscence project. A quick correction: in my previous post, I indicated that the working title of said project was “Unfinished High School Reminiscence Project”, and when I found the file today, I was reminded that at some point I changed the working title to High School, or “My Obstacle“. Clockwise Circle Pit regrets the error.

As in: GET THE FUCK DOWN OFF OF MY OBSTACLE!

A lot of it is way outdated, on account of I started writing it during the first summer of Li’l Bush’s second term, and plenty of it is embarrassing, on account of I started writing it 20 fucking years ago. Some of it is less embarrassing, though, and today I’m gonna share one of those less embarrassing parts. This was on my mind when I was writing my high school reunion thing, and when I realized it also mentioned Jim,  from up yonder, I figured I was fated to share it here. It must be your lucky day. I corrected some grammar and gave it a general tidying up, because I’m a better writer now than I was when I was 28 years old. Here it is.

Average Joe(l)

My identity in high school was pretty low key.  I was the nice guy that a decent cross-section of people knew, and I made small talk with a wide variety of people and cliques, but I had a pretty small core of actual friends. The core changed and morphed throughout my high school career, but it always included Jim, as it always has since that fateful day of kindergarten registration, when I stood behind my mom, clutching her leg in horror as Jim peeked around the wall of his parents’ living room, each of us too shy to speak a word to the other. 

As the days, months, and years ticked by, Jim and I both changed, and we had our ups and downs (as true friends do), but we never lost sight of what was the foundation of our friendship – that we could always rely on each other, no matter what. Now, our lives have taken drastically different directions, but I know I can still call Jim, and we can still hold a conversation as if we haven’t been apart.

Perhaps nothing illustrates my social standing circa 1995 better than the final issue of our sub-mediocre school newspaper, The BNL Star. On an otherwise regular spring morning, just as first period was beginning, two intrepid reporters for the Star came into my classroom and spoke to the teacher. The teacher told me I needed to go with them, causing everyone in the room to turn and look at me, an event which haunts me to this day. On the way down the hall, they told me I’d won a senior survey category.

Not “Best Looking” or “Most Popular” or anything like that. What I won was “Most Average Person”, a category I don’t recall even noticing when I filled out my survey, though to be fair, I only voted for “Best Sense of Humor (Girl)” (my friend Liz) and “Best Sense of Humor (Boy)” (me). We arrived at my locker, and I stood sweating in my Jimmy Page & Robert Plant 1995 tour shirt while an ace photographer from the Star took my picture. A week or so later, I turned to the senior survey and located my picture way down in the bottom-right corner of page 7, way past the “Most Talkative” and total bullshit “Best Sense of Humor” categories, down below “Favorite Movie” (Forest (sic) Gump) and “Favorite Car” (Mustang), along with a caption: “‘Mr. Average Nice Guy’ – Joel Hearth”. How nice.

Just to the left of that was the official, less pleasant, designation, “Most Average Person”. The name beneath that illustrious title? My cousin Billy, with whom I share no physical resemblance. Turns out I was so average, they didn’t even know which Hearth I was.

That concludes the old part of this post. Here’s proof of concept.

I had to go back to class after this picture was taken. Everyone looked at me again and I hated it.

For the record, I would never say “rock the house”. Can you even imagine? This concludes the new part of this post. I hope you enjoyed both. Thanks for reading.