Zed Cutsinger

Record of Week 07 ‘10
Burzum - Belus (2010)

The last time Varg Vikernes fucked me was back in 1996. He gave it to me hard with Filosofem. He cuddled me even harder with his synth ambience. When he was convicted of murder, Varg promised me we’d keep in touch. But fuck me he did not. Now, nearly fifteen years later, my asshole is once again gaping like a black hole: sucking that Burzum dick deep into my intestines.

If you didn’t catch my drift, you’re wondering, “Does Belus suck or slay? Get off that homo tip, Zed, and be literal. Please.” I’ll never get off that homo tip, but worry not, friend, rejoice: Belus be killer.

Belus isn’t as ferocious, noisy or ambitious as Vikernes’ previous output. There is occasional singing. There is even some spoken word. The recording is hi-fi enough where bass notes can be distinguished. Belus is a beast: no synth, no ambience, non-stop black metal head banging. There’s no reliance on novelty or gimmicks. But you still can, and should, enjoy Burzum in 2010 because he’s really fucking good at writing kick-ass songs.

Did prison make Vikernes’ go soft? His inspiration for Belus comes, “from the wind and weather, from deep forests and running water, from the sky and the sunset, from misty mountains and from yellow leaves falling from age old trees.” Not sure about soft, but the man is either druid as fuck or on some hippie level shit. Regardless, let’s not forget, Belus will be heard as “noise” and “screaming music” to ninety nine percent of the population. And hey, Odin damn it, these songs, mannn. There are eight minute plus jammers that’ll knock you into a hypnotic trance. Not too far removed from the atmosphere contemporaries Wolves In The Throne Room instill. Oh mannnnn, some dude definitely has his nuts in a bundle about that WITTR reference.

And so what if Vikernes is questionably NS/WP? He can hate the shit out of my Jewish ancestors and myself, because, motherfuck, Belus’ lyrics are Norwegian and about Belus, an “ancient European solar deity of light and innocence.” Sounds good to me. Let’s be adults; we can separate art from the artist, yah? And, as an adult man who waited ~fifteen years for a good ass reaming, it feels good not to be disappointed.

burzum.org

This post will have spoilers in it.

I went into Shutter Island, confident with spending $12.50 without reading a review because: I’ve heard the book it’s adapted from is awesome and it’s Scorsese. You know the guy, the director guy who’s good at his directing thing. And if the source material is good, described to me as a “total mindfuck,” fuck my mind, I’m in.

With Shutter Island we delve into the “psychological thriller” genre. In 1954, Leonardo Dicaprio and Mark Ruffalo are on Shutter Island to find a missing patient. Did they escape? Were they helped? The first half of the movie feels mystery-noir-ish. The island is filled with patients who are criminally insane. Nutjobs who have broken the law in a violent manner. The second half of the movie is a…mind-fuck. Conspiracy theories are thrown around, and we, the audience, begin to feel uneased at what is real and what is not. We eventually find out Leo is one of the island’s patients who is so delusional he has forgotten his crimes and the doctors have role play alongside him for two years because reality isn’t where he lives.

The main cast also includes Ben Kingsley (the head doctor) and Michelle Williams (Leo’s dead wife), all of whom do a great job. Whereas in Revolutionary Road Leo’s acting felt overshadowed by Kate Winslet, here, he shines. His third act breakdowns are gut wrenching, they’re heart wrenching. Kingsley plays a normal psychologist who isn’t a cartoon villain trying to cure all patients with sedatives. He feels real. At the end of the movie when he confronts Leo about the fact that he killed his ex-wife and that he wasn’t an FBI agent, he tells him roughly, “If this doesn’t work they are going to lobotomize you.” The anguish in his voice and face is so pure and sad. When Williams eventually drowns all three children, her step into looney town is uncomfortable and genuine feeling.

Scenes such as the time dash backwards to the lakehouse where Leo shoots Williams, wide panning shot of the US troops executing the Nazis under a barrage of bullets, insane zoom in on the car that Leo and Ruffalo board when first boarding the island will be chilled into your memory and will slip into your dreams. Every dream sequence Leo has is fucking beautiful: the Kubrick-esque bloody children with the mom, Williams burning as the room fills with ash…it’s something that wouldn’t have fit in The Departed, but feels perfect in a movie where you can never be sure what is delusion and what is reality. Not that far off from the surreal scenes in Williams’ past acted Synecdoche, New York. Just in terms of disturbing imagery, the Holocaust scenes are a disgust. The Nazi captain who mis-shot his suicide, brains hanging out the side of his head as he twitches…ugh!

I don’t recall the soundtrack being prominent in Shutter Island, but whenever it came in, like the violins in There Will Be Blood, the already uncomfortable scenes were splattered with aural unease. Whereas most movies in this era are filled with doowop and rock ‘n’ roll, there are no musical era influences anywhere to be found on Shutter Island. The movie easily could’ve taken place now, but then they would’ve had to deal with texting and computers, so the nineteen fifties are perfect for an isolated feeling of horror.

I’ve read some “critics” complain that they figured out the “twist” of Shutter Island in the trailer. Well, that’s unfair. If figuring out an explanation of Leo’s delusions for five minutes was predictable, that still leaves over two hours of enjoyable film. When we watch Titanic, we all know the ship is going to sink. But we still enjoy the lead up to the end. In our culture nobody wants a spoiler. Vonnegut would reveal the ending to the reader in the first few pages of his novels, but everybody still read and enjoyed. We need to get over the spoiler. If you want to be surprised so badly, play peek-a-boo with your uncle. My only complaint with now having seen the movie and knowing the ending is that I now want to see it again (spend another $12.50) knowing what Leo (and all the other characters) are going through. It should also be said that I hated The Machinist because of the ending, which was essentially, “It was all a dream!” Even though Leo envisioned unreality on the island, everything else (not in the dreams) did in fact happen. Which makes it more like Fight Club/Sixth Sense in the sense that it’s not a cop out ending.

Let’s discuss the ending, the final scene, which I’ve read some confusion about. After finally being cured, Leo says a line that appears as if he’s fallen back into his state of delusion. Ruffalo’s reaction is that of abrupt disappointment, sadness. He knows this means Leo will be getting the lobotomy. Scorsese so nicely lets us see the doctors with long white napkins in their hands, never showing the scalpels, but we all know they’re hidden there. The final line of the movie, by Leo is, “Live like a monster, or die a good man?” At that point we know the radical treatment worked and that Leo is finally aware of reality. But, he’d rather undergo the lobotomy then live aware of his children’s deaths and the murder of his wife. What an epic ending line!

I’ve heard Wolfman sucks, so see this instead. Shutter Island is the first movie of 2010 that I’ve been stoked on. It’s that good :)

I said, “I hid my erection from you the whole time.”
She said, “That’s a disgusting thing to say in public.”
Another she, a stranger, interjected, “I thought it was funny.”

Record of Week 06 ‘10
Best Coast - Something In The Way (2010)

I don’t know about your city, but today Brooklyn’s streets are cold. Snow banks between cars, under cars, and on top of cars. Coffee’s hot, but that brings you to fast, loose stools in that coffee shop’s bathroom. So, like, February is so gross. So, how about some summer escapism? Perfect timing, Best Coast, drop that warm lo-fi beach sound on us! You know when the sun is setting on the Pacific and everything looks gold? That’s what Best Coast sounds like. That, or, more literally, contemporary sisters such as Dum Dum Girls. Early sixties pop structured songs that are okay with shitty production. “How did something this good come out of nowhere?!” you ask/exclaim. Well, singer/guitarist of Best Coast, Bethany Cosentino, was previously in hippie-drone Pocahaunted. If you’re okay with better weather, catchy choruses, and crushing on girlie vocals, Best Coast is your ticket to June. And perfect lyrics? I’m always waking up with something in my head/It’s 6 a.m. and I’m in someone else’s bed/I wish he was you/I wish he was you Yes, perfect lyrics. All the meanwhile Bethany overdubs “Ooh”s and “Ahh”s. Hurry up, Summer! I wanna jam Best Coast while wearing shorts and shades!

myspace.com/bestcoasty
bestcoasty.blogspot.com

I submitted an essay to Chris Gethard for his Nissan Road Trip contest. I think the actual title of the contest might be different, but you get the idea. So here’s the essay in its full glory. Thought it was worth sharing.

Chris Gethard-

Hey, man. It’s Saturday night, 7:26 p.m. I recall your essay deadline is in a day or so, so here goes nothing! The prompt (goal) was to convince you as to why the entrant would not be a good candidate to go on a road trip with? My memory is dependable (for the most part), so here goes nothing! As to why I would be the worst candidate? Because, out of any essay submitted to you by February first, this one will outshine all competitors with factual representations, through anecdotes, to why I am by far the worst road tour partner.

Last, last summer I spent thirty eight days on the road. From the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. From Canadian cities to Texas’ tail. I covered this region in ruckus and planted my seed of unbridled enthusiasm for every second of the 54,720 minutes along the way. I will rely on my memory to share these reasons as to why you’d never want to hit the highway with me. Because, simply, why would you want to travel with someone who has an equal appreciation for the strange and discolored panels in the walls of America?

The first night of my 2008 tour I wandered around Portland, Oregon with my West Coast friends. We scouted the city for dick. If that statement draws any confusion, don’t look for a deeper meaning. The four or five us literally walked around downtown Portland shouting at guys, “Show us your dick.” Half of the yelled-at-guys laughed. The other half got defensive and angry. Sadly, no fraction showed their dicks to us. So, the first night was a failure. Up until the moment that followed. These moments, like an open mouth filled with a friend’s urine stream, were filled with my urine stream filling my friend’s mouth. The lead up to this event, the reasoning as to why it happened, could only detract from such a magical moment. And without a doubt, I’m confident in the statement that this type of discourse, this type of lowly behavior, is that of someone who you’d never want to share a car with on long stretches of highway. Especially if I included the specific image of his mouth filled to the brim, to the lips, with my amber liquid waste, that the volume splashed its way out onto my friend’s face. His scummy mustache wore its title by properly soaking said expelled liquid. And before you judge my friend, the recently deceased JD Salinger is said to have frequently drank (drinken?) his own urine. What a selfish beast, a crummy phony.

Before you get pissed off at the bottom half of the above paragraph, don’t forget the outlandish display of sexism when a crew of mentally disjointed California boys solely requested to see penises and not vaginas. In the year two thousand ten, we’re past a lot of prejudices. Sexism is one I’m sure you scoff at. So scoff at me. Scoff at us. Don’t ever get into a car with me.

But, if it makes you feel any better, any more safe about our prospective road trip, I would never pee on you, in you, or (ever) in your general direction. With or without an erection. That was a one time experience. But still, my thesis stands, don’t consider me for your road trip.

It’s too early to depart from my itinerary of Summer of 08 stories, but the idea of luck popped into my head, and now has sprung up on this page. Writing is fun like that, yah? So, the summer of 2005 included a brief excursion (Whoa, just like this brief-story! Think about it!) from Northern California down to Southern California to witness Sink With Cali III. A three day festival of punk bands getting rowdy. It was wild; noses exploded bloody and teeth were bludgeoned missing. But the ride home was when shit hit the fan. A better metaphor would be: “like side-view mirrors hitting glass.” Because that’s what happened when the driver fell asleep at the wheel. That’s what happened when tons of metal, plastic and skin traveling through time and space at 80 miles per hour veered off the highway and into a series of wooden fence posts. That’s what happened when said fence posts were quickly introduced to a speeding hunk of metal’s side-view mirrors. The relationship ended as soon as it started. They hello’d, and before either could utter, “Goodbye,” both mirrors crashed through both windows, front left and front right, and met one another (for the first time) in the middle of the dashboard. It wasn’t a private party, hundreds of glass shards attended this dashboard get together. And, all four automobile sleepers awoke in the cacophony.

Let’s reflect (OHHH!) Was this bad luck on my part? Such a disastrous, near-death event isn’t very fortunate. Or fortunate at all. I’d search for the antonym to describe our explosive wake up call. So in that respect, I have successfully supported my thesis. But, maybe I shouldn’t include this, because on the other side of the coin, none of us died or were dealt an injury, our organs and bones remained intact. So, god damn it all, I might actually be a token of good luck. Now, i could easily delete or distort this honest fact, this optimistic perspective on a hazardous failure of an event, but, you, Chris Gethard, should be dealt the facts and arrive at your own conclusion (without me as your passenger…) Man, this essay is horrible.

Okay, not that we’re done with that off road tangent (Eh? Ehhhh?) back to the Summer of 08. And more reasons to never navigate America with me.

How about the time I ejaculated on the kitchen floor of a Kansas City stranger? You’ve already heard this story, so no need to tire your eyes with an abundance of words that will only serve to remind you of images you’ve tried to delete from your memory. See what I mean? Why would you want to share a night like that Kansas City one where all who shared the room nearly passed out from laughing so hard they forgot to breathe? You would never want to forget to breathe. It’s a memory that you’d be foolish to delete. And you’re not foolish. See, there I complimented the reader in hopes of getting on your good side.

Now that I’m there, here, let me hit you with this fact: I’m a licensed driver that has been known to drive—-without accident or swerving—-for eight hour stretches of time. But, you wouldn’t want that. You’re a man, Chris Gethard. Not some boy who wants to comfortably relax, chair tilted back, in the passenger seat, as the miles and minutes float on by. This attribute I so humbly flaunt before you is one I should hide. But, god damn it, I’m here, on this page, to make a point: don’t you dare take me on the road with you. In a Nissan. Or any car for that matter. It’s just not a good idea. Sorry to disappoint.

And now it’s Sunday night, 9:48 p.m. I’m rereading what I’ve written so far and see no reason why you should take me on your Nissan trip. So, this essay is damn successful. Except for the fact that I searched your facebook for details on the essay and now realize that I misremembered the prompt. Entries were never to address why the entrant would be an awful co-road-tripper. Instead we were supposed to convince you of why we’d be passengers. But, I definitely secured the required at least five hundred words. Regardless, I should still answer a question you posed that I haven’t touched on.

“What would we do on this trip?” I’m paraphrasing.

The answer? I don’t know! That would be the fun of it. The adventure of deciding an itinerary together, closer to the date, and sometimes, on the date. For a question with no correct answer, I’m pretty sure my answer is that of failure. You wanted more of a finite answer, ideas of adventure planned out on this very page, screen before you. But, there are two hours remaining in January and I don’t have the patience to muster plans. Let alone fictional plans.

So, let’s make this fictitious adventure non-fiction and sail the highways with four wheels and a certainty of radical times. And nothing but awesome songs by awesome bands from awesome times will flood our ears. Let’s make our time, this time, that time, your time, my time, our time, just as awesome as time itself. The fourth dimension is upon us. Choose wisely, Chris Gethard.

-Zed

Record of Week 04 ‘10
Scapegoat - Winter Tour Cassette (2010)

In a matter of three hundred thirty seconds, Scapegoat will blowout your speakers with destruction and utter fucking contempt. That’s five and a half minutes of new material, followed by an Anti-Cimex cover and a live California set from the summer of 2007.

Scapegoat’s previous release, a 7”, was cavity crushing power violence via Crossed Out worship. But unlike the previous release, Scapegoat have shed the fast/slow heavy/fast/slow heavy formula for all fast, no slow. They have maintained the heaviness, but just upped the tempo. So yeah, prepare to be pummeled. It’s in your best interest to wear padding. Or at least a helmet. Health insurance wouldn’t be a bad idea either. If you need it spelled out even further, imagine Thor hitting you with Mjolnir (his majestic hammer) in the head for a fraction of an hour. Anymore and you’d only be recognizable by your dental records. You do have dental insurance, right?

From what I hear, Painkiller Records will eventually distro Winter Tour Cassette. Scapegoat has a few other proposed releases on the near horizon, including a four way split with Iron Lung, Mind Eraser and Hatred Surge. It’ll be titled Brutal Supremacy. Seriously.

www.myspace.com/scapegoatpowerviolence