CoH – IiRON 8.4

                 Ivan Pavlov outdid himself this time. Remember his album ‘Iron’ which tongue in cheek celebrated metal music? Well, he continues down that path yet again, coming up with even better results this time around.  Apparently some of this stuff has been sort of sitting around for a while (“War end War” was written in 1988) so I’m glad to see he got around to recording all of it.

                What makes this doubly nice is how he directly references metal in these songs. An actual electric guitar appears in all of the songs, often possessed and distorted beyond recognition in CoH’s trademark technique. If you’ve liked CoH’s rhythmic experiments before, you’ll really enjoy stuff like the opener “Red Square”. Beginning with acoustic guitar extracted from USSR tapes from 1988-1990, it bursts into action complete with chopped-up rearranged guitar.

                Songs have slow, steady builds. The guitar only makes what are already strong tracks even better. “Soii Noir” builds up into a frantic noise-riff. My favorite has to be the closer “Satsugaii” which turns into a bizarre hoe-down track. It is so excellent, aggressive, especially the mid-section when it gets at its thickest. 

                Most of CoH’s contemporaries (especially in the experimental scene CoH works in) lack the humor and range to tackle a project like this one. Employing KTL to do the artwork, Mark Fell working on the sounds and Andrej Kolesov for rescuing the guitar from tape was a wise decision. This works really well altogether, with each song bleeding into another effortlessly. Also, the names of the songs sometimes relate to various metal bands, so it works on that level as well. 

                Even in the notes, he manages to crack a smile.

                “Hail to World Peace and Death to False Metal”

                Amen.

Russia’s Worst Spy: Larry the Cable Guy

Russia proves to be that reliable, “Aw shucks you’re still spying on me” kind of enemy. As much as you want to be angry at them for doing it, they do it in such an adorable way. Take Anna Chapman for example. Yeah, she didn’t really get any actual secrets, but she was a hot Russian redhead with leaked nudes. Last time I remember getting naked spy pictures was with the infamous Hipster Grifter (she worked for North Korea). As icing on the cake, Anna’s fellow spies were described in detail as being “sort of lazy”. What a great enemy to have.

None of these spies possessed the incompetence shown by one tireless trooper, whose nudes I hope never leak. Single-handedly, he has done less to harm the United States than overpriced free trade coffee and tariffs on antique Soviet cameras. Yes, I’m speaking of Vlad Badenoff, a skilled cryptographer from the former Soviet Republic of Belarus or, as you might know him, Larry the Cable Guy.

Vlad was born in Belarus to a lower level political functionary. Almost immediately his teacher noticed his penchant for torturing flies by ripping their wings off and for sending mysterious codes to his other classmates. Being placed into an accelerated track, he shocked others with his easy grasp of cryptography. However, ominously, people complained of his tendency to tell off color and inappropriate jokes.

Working in the Soviet Union in the 80s, he tried to help the war effort in Afghanistan. Noticing a large defection rate from his unit, Soviet officials investigated. They learned people in his unit grew offended when he asked them “Have you ever farted so hard that you cracked your back?” In the USSR, telling fart jokes was a crime punishable by death. Fearing losing one of the greatest minds in the field, they transferred him over to East Berlin, where he helped torture political prisoners with his comedy routine. 

After the fall of the Berlin Wall, Soviet officials racked their brains thinking of what potential use the irritating cryptographer could provide. On one hand, they sort of wanted to eliminate him. But they knew their time was tenuous, and that any move towards harming him might result in a destabilization of their power. Instead they sent him out to the US to ineffectively spy on the US.

While in the US, he shared such damning information like “There’s a bunch of rednecks here” and “Nebraska is boring”. Being set up in a secret Russian village in rural Nebraska, he began to gain a cult following with his awful attempts at humor. The nonsense spewing from his mouth got considered ‘funny’ by those living in the Deep South. After visiting that area, he found a place he could fit in.

Upon watching the Russian economy tank in 98-99, the Russians set him on a course to ruin American cinema. Doing this they felt it could make Russian-produced movies appear better in comparison. Despite Vlad’s lack of skill and general awfulness, he couldn’t make Russian comedies about Heroin-Addicted pregnant teenage prostitutes appealing beyond the general Sundance Film Festival set.

His uncovering by intelligence agencies occurred during his Roast on Comedy Central. Upon hearing his actual voice, the FBI wanted to storm the stage. Worrying about Gary Busey’s mental stability and possible possession of nuclear weapons, they held off. They tried after the show, but found Larry’s connections to the Blue Collar Comedy Tour were far too strong. Russia remained adamant that they wanted him under no circumstances whatsoever, or else they’d release nude photos of Larry.

Fearful at the havoc this would cause on the internet, creating a Meme even greater than Insane Clown Posse’s “Fuckin’ Magnets, How Do They Work” the US government held off until they found a suitable option. Republican congressman supported Larry remaining in the country, (rightly) claiming that he was useless as a spy. Upon negotiating the many compromises of extending the Bush tax cuts, one of the conditions was that Larry remains in the US to continue what is popularly referred to as a ‘career’. 

Normally I’d be worried at the prospect of revealing such secrets, but since Larry is illiterate in English, I’m not concerned. Hopefully this will exemplify how concerned we should be about the former Red menace.

Effing Twenty Something: A True Story

                  I thought it would be different. Society glorified your twenties as some remarkable, un-reproducible piece of your life, something you’d look back on with fondness. 

                “You’ll have so much fun” the television blared in front of me “All that awkwardness will be eliminated, to present to you the prime time of your life” various advertisements tell me on the internet, radio, newspapers, magazines, songs, movies, etc. 

                All of it was wrong. None of it told the actual truth, of what it is like to be a twenty something. Perhaps my parents warned me of this, of their problems which make mine seem miniscule. They fought in wars; they watched the USSR’s rise and fall. Plenty of horrible stuff occurred during their time growing up, yet somehow it felt better. Reasons, evidence existed that things would get better. Where’d that evidence go? 

                Why the lying? I don’t get it. Who felt there was a need to create this great illusion, this false reality I could believe in? I got promised so much, and received so little. Sure, I’m fortunate enough to have this computer, this roof over my head, this car, this money, this job, but it isn’t exactly what I hoped for. 

                Now as I try to explain to people what’s happening to me, they tell me “Oh, it gets better in your thirties.” When I was in my teens, these same people told me it gets better in your twenties. What is the waiting time before things get better, more interesting, more exciting? Do I have a time line for this, or will my satisfaction constantly get pushed further and further into the future so by the time I get to that terminal endpoint I’m given a sticker that says “Relax” in big bold letters. By the time I realize that things don’t get better, that the entire universe moves in a constant state of entropy, of moving from high to low energy, those liars will be long gone, passed onto another realm. 

                Everything I was supposed to do I did. That 401K got set up. At work I maintain a perky, cheerful attitude that brightens up the office. My tastes would be considered ‘cool’ or ‘hip’. I take care of other people, have empathy for others. Yet after I do all this careful planning, all these things that are supposed to make me better, I don’t feel better.

                Trying to complain, I’m told I can’t. Venting is apparently wrong. Whenever I have problems I try to tell other people, they tell me to think about all the people who have it worse than me. I don’t understand who the fuck installed this fascist bubbly optimism regime, but I hate it. 

                Instead I jump up and down on my bed as my music plays. Lately it seems that technology has become the new opiate of the masses. No matter what bad thing happens, if I get lost, get delayed on a train for 8 hours, so long as I have an IPOD, I can tolerate it. Every time I scroll through the meticulously well-picked songs I got for myself, it reminds me that someone I’ve never met cares.

                Is this what being in your twenties is supposed to be like? All this disconnection can’t be good for me. Occasionally I wonder whether or not I’ll ever be able to find that other voice in the dark, shouting, longing for someone to understand. The more I speak with my friends; I realize they have the same issues. 

                By society’s standards, I’m a loser. Yet I’ve traveled to multiple continents, have helped people in the direst of situations, and have been there in general for countless numbers of people I may never meet. Somehow that doesn’t even count, I haven’t created my own company like the smug asshole Mark Zuckerberg, I haven’t gotten my book published, I haven’t accomplished as much as people tell me I should’ve gotten done. While I’m being told of everything I need, am supposed to do, I’m told I ought to be having fun. Maybe if everyone stopped talking at me and began listening, I might not feel so sad, so trapped, and so small. 

                How can this be the prime time of my life? I know there’s that silly saying of “No pain, no gain” but I at least thought I’d have some company in this twenty something misery.

Origin Story Number Two

I grew up in a beautiful town out in the Soviet countryside. The middle child, I nonetheless experienced the nourishing tender love and care from my good communist mother and father. My father worked as an engineer and served for many years in the local Communist party. Due to his heavy participation in the party, he was justly rewarded with a plum position working at a local power plant. Playing in the lush green fields, we were happy to call this ravishingly beautiful city home. Even now, I remember my friends being jealous of my good fortune of living in Chernobyl. 

One day I woke up and everything changed. Unbeknown to me, my parents were fighting against the Soviet occupation of their beloved Ukraine. Quickly we were rushed to live in an underground bunker and for several years we crossed between Ukraine and Belarus, seeking the liberation of each country. After the disaster in my old town, I understood why they did it. We were fighting against an evil empire, as Ronald Reagan stated over the radio. His voice reassured me that all was right with the world. Our father promised us that after Ukraine became independent, that we could head over to the US, to a land of milk and honey.

Milk and honey is what we lived off of from local farmers sympathetic to our cause. Finally when I was 12 I saw the empire keel over and die. Excitedly we packed our bags and headed over to America. Worried about the influence that a big city could have over my younger sibling my family moved to rural North Carolina. 

As I entered Middle School there, I realized I was different. I didn’t speak any English, so I forced myself into American culture. I bought Nirvana albums and dressed all Grunge. My parents worried about my style of dress, thinking that American culture would take over my Ukrainian roots. Upon my constant grouching about everything, they felt reassured that indeed I would fit their hopes of me growing up into an embittered, disillusioned, over-educated member of society, just like they did. According to them, the Ukrainian way involved being deeply weird and being kind of a dick, but acknowledging that you’re an asshole. I passed this test with flying colors after I hurled a beer bottle at someone at school, only to half-apologize to them in front of the principal.

Upon graduation from Edenton, North Carolina’s school system, I decided to move to a big city. I missed being around large groups of people. Telling my parents I was going to study Dentistry in Chicago, they initially were concerned. After I told them about the high suicide rate that Dentists suffered from, they gave me a thumbs-up of approval. 

Living in Chicago in the late nineties ended up being a magical time. Around that time, a record label called “Thrill Jockey” grew in importance. In order to pay for school, I did side gigs touring with the famous band Tortoise, playing the vibraphones. Since so many people were in the band, my name usually got mangled. More than a few times some of the musicians who opened up asked me for drugs, thinking I was a Russian gangster. Asking about this profession, I learned that apparently being a Russian gangster paid more than touring with a relevant indie-rock-jazz fusion band. I stood in disbelief, unable to comprehend crime paying so much better than underground rock.

Following my passion, I joined the Russian mob. Since I was technically Ukrainian, I had to pay a higher Union membership fee. My job consisted of manipulating stocks and setting bags of poop on fire. During my years with the Russian mob, I saw more money than I’d ever seen before. After the FBI raided my workplace, I was out of a job. Bored at being a dentist and having genuinely enjoyed my artistic experiences, I decided to write a show about my time with the mob. It was called “The Vakhovskayas” and the pilot was rejected for having too many philosophical references.

Distraught at my attempt to create a hit TV show, I worked as a Dentist in the greater Los Angeles area, still pitching my ideas to whoever was interested. One day a dorky looking bald guy came into my practice. He stated that he read my work would fit his concept for a show. Intrigued, I asked him to proceed. Explaining how it would take place on a deserted island and would explore sci-fi and philosophical arguments, he told me how it could be one of the greatest shows that Television had ever seen. Throwing a few titles out there, he told me, they decided against “Airplane Crash” and went with the simple name “Lost”. 

After having wasted most of my afternoon listening to this, I told him to get the fuck out of my office. This idea he had, I said, would not earn him a dime. Plus, I cancelled several dental cleanings in order to hear him yammer on about his gibberish, money that would take hours to earn back. Later that evening, I left a flaming bag of dog shit on his doorstep with a note that said “This is what your show will be”. 

Even though the show ended up being mildly successful with tepid critical praise, I made the right decision. Instead of focusing on my writing, I turned to music. Working with James Ferraro, I helped the nascent hypnagogic pop and chillwave genres turn into the cultural powerhouses they are today. Due to my participation in this genre, I have made literally hundreds of dollars. However, after my street cred is converted into actual dollars, I’ll have enough money to buy a small Indonesian island.

My coverage of chillwave and hypnagogic pop on this blog isn’t exactly benign. I make no apologies for this, but rather ask what you would do in the same situation. Would you simply keep the good music for yourself, or would you share it with the world, like I have. Thank you for your continued support of this blog. It means a lot to me.