I got an e-mail from a previously-unbeknownst-to-me person the other day who'd stumbled across the Pic-Dem via a comment I'd left at another blog:
While scrolling down the page, I noticed the cover art of
Mastodon’s Leviathan on
display. Can I take this to mean that you are personally endorsing this album?
Would I be safe in assuming that you believe as I do that this album fucking rules?
So I figured I had a great excuse to spend some time nattering on about music.
First of all: yes, in fact, Leviathan does in fact fucking rule. I listen to it a lot. It's loud. It's metally. It's about Moby Dick, for crying out loud. And Remission is almost as good. But I haven't had it as long, and it's growing on me.
After a lengthy-ish hiatus from metal–I dropped out when "nu-metal" became the misbegotten spawn of the day–I've been picking up the pieces recently and listening to a lot of, er, progressive metal. Seriously. It's like the best thing ever for listening to while writing. Except for film soundtracks… but see Fantomas' The Director's Cut for a doubleplusgood rendering of both, sorta, in an inimitable Mike Patton sort of way, featuring Slayer's Dave Lombardo on drums. And the two genres have quite a bit in common, what with the loud-quiet-loud intervals and the deeply atmospheric arrangements. (Hee hee. I said "deeply atmospheric arrangements." Whatta douchebag.)
Anyway. What I really wanted to tell you all about, in case you've been living deep under a rock and haven't heard yet, is the new Portishead album, Third. Oh. My. Heavens. Beth Gibbons' voice has gotten only more gorgeously anguished and shivery during their decade-long hiatus, and the new songs all feature a more brittle, less trippy edge that gives the whole record an incredible sense of nervous immediacy.
So basically, even if you just completely skipped over that whole semi-nonsensical last paragraph, you should go out and buy (or stay home and download) Third. That's Third, by Portishead, and it's their Third album.
Also: did you get your CD yet? I made it to the post office. Actually, that's a lie. Long-suffering Beloved Sweetie made it to the post office. I have been trapped in the midst of self-loathing deadline-looming depressive freakout and haven't really gone much of anywhere… except to Summerfest at Village Home today, where I worked the concession table and repeated the sentences "Pie is two tickets a slice" and "The drinks are in the cooler by your feet" approximately 1017 times each. Good times, good times.