Very busy shuffling boxes around and snorting dust, writing’s been lean for a couple weeks, though I’m of the mindset to wrap up a couple short pieces, a couple poems, and do the tweaking revisions for the second novel, The Wilderness Within; it doesn’t need much, but I want it all done now!
But as we all know, sometimes life gets in the way…
I’ve mentioned Brighter Death Now a few times in my fiction, I even have a story, “I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl”--one of the handful of best short stories I’ve as yet written, a warped (of course, what with a title like that), surreal excursion into deeply scarred psychological terrain--which tweaks the title of one of their noisy death industrial tracks, “I Wish I Was a Little Girl.”
What? Oh, yes, I am warped as well.
Here’s a review of the CD that song appears on and, yes, a you tube clip of the song for your listening, um…pleasure? Displeasure? Curiosity at least.
BRIGHTER DEATH NOW
May All Be Dead (Cold Meat Industry)
:A power electronics annihilation of the soul:
"I make no subscription to your paradise!" Distorted and raging, the statement defines where Cold Meat Industry ambassador of death and degradation, Roger Karmanik (BDN), stands with the CD release of this 2 LP set from early 1999. It bursts from my speakers, having been grafted on to the beginning of the first track of this sordid collection (re-recorded here, the original version was included on the bonus 7" that the lucky few received with the LPs). With grinding insistence, "I Hate You" commences. The seething machinery throb and clipped vocal attack of this track, doused in spite and portioned out in rapid fire repetitious, chain-link succession ("I hate, I hate, I hate, I hate…"), drags the listener, screaming, through the deluge of true vehemence. What follows, adorned in repetition and smelling of the sewage of the sick-minded, sonically and thematically, annihilates the soul. There's "I Wish I Was A Little Girl" and its sadistic fantasy fulfillment amidst the weary, piston driven machinery rumble and squeal. The diseased noise belch upon which a psychotic stalker/killer fantasy is played out during "Behind Curtains." The monotonous decay of self during the existence as excrement fantasy that is "Payday." "Oh What A Night," twisting lifelessly among the bloodied sheets of caustic noise that unveil the morning after death fantasy. And the immoral finale, disintegrating into the perverse clutches of the schoolyard fantasy that unfolds during "Fourteen," amidst machines that flutter and plod forth in search of depraved gratification. Throughout this exploration of Roger's mental abattoir, each track, like the fantasy it portrays, externalizes the mentally corrupt worldview that a world gone mad inspires. Because Roger's paradise is the warped fantasy presented here, on May All Be Dead. Insidious in ways most cannot comprehend. -JC Smith