Monday Morning Commute: Bourbon-Soaked Orgy
Voodoo-prescribin’ witch doctors once invited me to a party.
It was the summer of 1987 and I was in the middle of one of the worst hangovers of my entire life. Since April, I’d spent every waking hour thrashing to Among the Living and doing lines of gasoline-soaked blow. As far as I can recall, it wasn’t until mid-July that I even realized I’d made it all the way to Nova Scotia.
Don’t let anyone tell you that heavy metal and drugs won’t lead you anywhere. They will. Specifically, to the beautiful port-town of Yarmouth.
Anyways, I stumbled out of buck-toothed Ambellina’s bedroom, leaving behind my Walkman and cocaine in the hopes of finding something slightly more transcendent. Fortunately, I found the Tim Hortons whose manager seemed eager to keep my coffee cup filled to the brim, free of charge. (In hindsight, I think must’ve let him look at my Polaroid collection. You ever see a Yeti’s genitals? No? Well, then you haven’t seen my Polaroid collection.) After my thirteenth cup of black wonder, I saw them.
The witch doctors.
There were three of `em. They were all black dudes. They were all wearing sleeveless Wham! t-shirts tucked into blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into work boots. And their accents couldn’t’ve been more diverse. The fat one spoke with a Cajun twang, the old one spoke through a metrosexual French patois, and the tall one sounded German.
In a flash, they’d all taken the liberty of joining me in my booth. Surrounded on all sides, strung out, and shaking in an over-caffeinated stupor, I had no hope of escaping `em. Which wasn’t really a concern of mine until the old one pulled a decapitated chicken out of his backpack and started rubbing it on my face. “Ah, mon ami, you need to stop stressing out!”
“Ja! Too stressed” shouted the tall one, loud enough to turn the heads of patrons.
“C’mon,” encouraged the fat man, “un p’tit boug hain’t gotta worries! We fixxya!”
I was vexed, absolutely sure that these three were going to murder me. I finished my coffee, the best last meal I could ever hope for, and prepared for my demise. “So, you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?”
Uproarious laughter.
The old man put the chicken back into his bag and did me the favor of wiping the grease and blood from my face. Granted, he cleaned my visage with his bare hand and then proceeded to clean his hand with his tongue, but the sentiment was there. He then did his best to reassure me.
“Eh bien! Murder is for poets! We are witch doctors! And we’ve got a prescription for you!”
I was curious. “Okay…what is it?”
“ES IST VOODOO!” bellowed the Bavarian.
“Um…” I equivocated, “what type of voodoo?”
Toothy grins spread across the trio of shadowy faces. And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, four of the ugliest, skankiest Canadian girls I’d ever seen appeared behind the witch doctors. If I had to bet, I’d’ve put my money on at least two of `em havin’ VD.
The old man grabbed my shoulder and cackled, “The type of voodoo that starts with a bourbon-soaked orgy!”
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Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the feature in which I write whatever nonsense pops into my mind and then run through the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. At that point, it’s your duty/honor/begrudging privilege to hit up the comments section and share your own ennui-destroyin’ elixirs.
Enough feet-draggin’, let’s rock!
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Bumpin’/James Blake
A friend showed me James Blake over the weekend and I haven’t been able to stop listening. I’m not even sure how to describe Blake’s music. Dub step? Electronic soul? Atmospheric sound-revelations? I have no damn clue.
All I know is that this dude is using combinations of sounds I’ve never heard before to make my heart dance. Novelty and affection? I’m on board.
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Finally Watchin’/Mad Men (Season Five)
After slackin’ off like a real donkey, I’ve finally caught up with the fifth season of Mad Men. This is, as I’ve maintained for some time, easily my favorite show currently on television. Now, I’ll acknowledge that there’re a boatload of shows (critically acclaimed and otherwise) that I don’t watch, so I won’t go as far as to say that Matthew Weiner’s drama is the best show out there. But I’m very careful about where I send my free-hours, and I have yet to regret forking over my time to the folks at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.
Also, I’m pretty sure that Mad Men is responsible for my decision to buy a suit last week. Now, I’ve needed a suit for a few years now, so the purchase isn’t completely unjustifiable. But I’m not going to lie – I’m really looking forward to hanging around in new duds while drinking liquor. Jus’ sayin’.
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Eagerly Anticipatin’/EPICLOUD (Devin Townsend Project)
The Devin Townsend Project was originally conceived as a way for the strapping young lad to express himself after having previously sworn off a music career. Newly sober, emotionally stable, and ready to write, Devin Townsend concocted four albums that ran the musical spectrum. By the time the DTP sequence was completed, the listeners were gifted sounds of the folk, pop-rock, mind-crushing metal, virtuoso-befuddling, ambient, spiritual, warlike, and peaceful variety. Devin Townsend could’ve stepped back, looked at the four albums, and then said, “Goddamn, I’ve done it.”
But then he started talking about EPICLOUD.
We can’t be sure whether it’s pronounced epi-cloud or epic-loud, but there are a few things known for sure. Come September, EPICLOUD will be the fifth album to be released under the DTP banner and it’s promising to be a rock-and-roll party. There’s been talk of a return of Anneke van Giersbergen and the inclusion of choral singers and a re-recording of Kingdom.
Holy bananas!
The only musical hint we’ve been given is the demo version of Back Where We Belong (as heard in the second video above). As such, I’ve kept my eyes glued to Devin Townsend’s Twitter, hoping to tack on something new to the small, but enticing pile of information we’ve received thus far. It seems like I’m always waiting for a new DTP release, and that’s okay by me.
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So that’s my week – electronica, shady advertising executives, and Canadian rock’n’roll.
What’s your week lookin’ like?