The Word Masseur

Posts Tagged ‘Metallica’

Electricity, as has been made well known in educational programming ranging from Crossfire to She’s the Sheriff, has one source and one source only:  Zeus the Almighty, God of Thunder and expert at, among other things, impregnating unsuspecting villagers and throwing a fastball that would make Randy Johnson’s mullet turn yellow.  From his great power plant in the clouds above the island of Crete doth the Almighty dole out that most valuable of nature’s resources which powers our alarm clocks, our Zune docking stations, and, for those bars lucky enough to have them, our tabletop versions of Galaga and Dig Dug.

As stated in the Pamphlets of Prestos, which outline how natural resources are to be procured from the gods, obtaining electricity for your home, car or various other tools of pleasure is a simple matter — in fact, there are only three things you must do:

1) Confirm that the product requiring electricity has been manufactured in Greece by the nimble-if-slightly-unmotivated fingers of any one of the 147 Great Greek Labor Unions, otherwise known as the Tornados of Chaos.  Any product not manufactured in Greece, i.e. anything manufactured in Sweden, Sardinia or Cicero, IL, is forbidden to receive the quality voltage which Zeus provides.  Any products found to be manufactured by those godforsaken Macedonians will not only be denied electricity, but their owners also summarily whipped.

2) Memorize the lyrics to the Metallica song “Orion”, homage to that greatest of all Grecian hunters, he who is ten-time winner of the Richard Dawson MVAK (most valuable ass-kicker) Award.  If you did not within three seconds of reading this say to yourself “Aha! This is a trick request, for the song is an instrumental!”  you are barred from using electricity and are hereby ordered to choose between kerosene and Soul Glo.

3) Ensure on the day of petition for electricity that you have properly attired any daughters aged fourteen to twenty-two in daisy dukes, six-inch pumps and tube tops sporting the visages of either Mark Slaughter or Kip Winger, for the Almighty Zeus will from time to time appear in person to approve an order and receive any tokens of appreciation for providing his shiny, crackling nectar.  Yes, we’re still talking about electricity.  For those who have sired only boys, all sons aged twelve to eighteen shall be presented for inspection by Dionysus for possible inclusion in his upcoming production of Caligula on Ice.

Most Fondly,

Thoth Trismegistus: Progenitor of the Line of Horus, Holder of the Global Zaxxon Record and Smartest Man Alive

Kool & The Gang is the opening act for Van Halen’s 2012 world tour.  My first reaction was, “What took so long?”  My second reaction was, “Would this have happened if Sammy Hagar was still in the band?”  I’ve got no beef with Kool and his Gang – “Victory” got me pumped up for my park district basketball games in 5th grade, and “Ladies Night” has been a staple on my stepdaughter’s new karaoke machine since Christmas.  But opening for Van Halen?  Nope, not feeling it.

Anyways, I decided to make the best of this peculiar news and started brainstorming other weird opening act/headliner combinations:

The Osmonds opening for Slayer
NKOTB opening for Motorhead
Gallagher opening for GWAR
Megadeth opening for Metallica (or vice-versa)
Captain & Tennille opening for L7
Hanson opening for Iron Maiden
David Garrett opening for Pantera
Yanni opening for Danzig
John Tesh opening for Porcupine Tree
Engelbert Humperdink opening for Loggins & Messina opening for Sepultura

I haven’t seen Van Halen live since the ‘91/’92 F.U.C.K. tour.  I’d like to see them again – but with the Red Rocker, who I prefer over DLR.  I know, I’m a douchebag.

IOH: -3.7

Here’s who Eddie et al. should have chosen as their opening act.  This is one of the best songs of all time. And when I say “all time”, I mean dating back to at least the Mesozoic.

During my senior year of high school, my friends and I plugged in our instruments and attempted to cover AC/DC’s (yeah, I have to cite the band because people like my dad read this) “Back in Black”.  Though we assembled in a garage, it would be a stretch to use the term “garage band” to describe our collaboration — the term “band” implies you’ve assembled a group of people that sound even remotely cohesive, and that wasn’t us.  We had one guy that was proficient on guitar, a guy that was ok on bass, and two guys who royally sucked on their instruments – the rhythm guitarist (me) and the drummer.  In our defense, the drummer and I had just started playing our instruments three months before, but we could have at least had the good sense to practice a little bit more.  On top of all of this, we didn’t have a real singer – in fact, I believe I handled vocals that night.  Suffice to say, Sebastian Bach wasn’t quaking in his butt-less chaps.  What did I sound like, you ask?  To best achieve the noises my St. Ides-addled throat was able to conjure up in the fall of 1991, I advise a three-step process:  1) grab a possum by the tail, 2) jab a fork into its ball-sack repeatedly, and 3) record the sounds it makes and then play them backwards.  To say I made AC/DC lead singer Brian Johnson sound like Susan Boyle would be a gross understatement.

Of course, it was obvious before the first note was struck that we were doomed – but we made sure our names were etched forever in Lucifer’s ebon registry by deciding to add a keyboardist to our lineup.  That’s right – a keyboard.  In an AC/DC song.  Can you hear the wind whistling through my head?  Not sure if the keyboard was a Casio, but it was definitely straight out of Toys R Us’s 1989 “Have a Radical Christmas!” catalog.  Anyways, being the rock savants we were, we thought it’d be cool to double not only Angus (or was it Malcolm?) Young’s opening guitar riff with the keyboard, but every other guitar part in the song except the solo – which I can’t confirm or deny we ever got to because the first ten seconds were so mind-numbingly bad that I blacked out.  Looking back, we should count ourselves fortunate that Zeus Almighty didn’t materialize in my friend’s garage and ram a lightning bolt up each of our asses for such an egregious affront to great music.  Words fall well short of describing the atrocious, steaming pile of monkey poo that we splattered all over one of rock’s most recognizable anthems – but if I may make an LOTR analogy, it would be like taking the Balrog from Fellowship and equipping it with a pair of penny loafers, a fanny sack and a t-shirt that says “I Love My Miata”.  Good effing lord.

It wasn’t about the keyboardist – he’s a great guy.  And it wasn’t about the instrument – when employed correctly, a keyboard can be a huge asset to a rock/metal band’s sound — see Dream Theater for further reference.  No, it was just a horrible decision by five dopes who should have known better.  God, I can still hear that infernal keyboard.  Its hellish timbre is burned into my soul, a lasting reminder to never tamper with perfection:  “Plink! P-p-plink! P-p-plink! P-p-p- plink-plink!”

The following summer, four of us (sans keyboardist, who knew a dead-end deal when he saw one) got together and actually made it through Metallica’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls” from beginning to end.  Since the cloves-smoking, sloe gin-swilling septuagenarian high school janitor who gargled with thumbtacks was unavailable, I once again assumed singing duties.  I’m happy to report that I improved, to the point where one could describe me as a “poor man’s Don Johnson doing a poor man’s James Hetfield”.

IOH:

Garage bands:  + infinity
My singing:  - infinity

Here’s a cool song with a keyboard: