South of Heaven – 20 years of brutality

Heavy Metal is loud and stupid. So is Doomlund. A match made in heaven…

July 5 marks the twenty year anniversary of a metal classic – a little slab o’ vinyl we call “South of Heaven” by the foremost thrash metal outfit ever, Slayer.
South of Heaven was the fourth studio release by these giants of brutal tunes produced by Rick Rubin (associated with everyone from Danzig to Johnny Cash) who helped create Slayer’s landmark record, “Reign in Blood” two years prior. “South of Heaven” revealed another side of the band. A set of slower songs with a previously unheard attention to detail, both song and production-wise. The record wasn’t recieved very well by critics who held it up against it’s predecessor, “Reign in Blood” an instant classic of fast, relentless and hardcore-like thrash metal which to this day still holds it’s own.

Never the less “South of Heaven” is today considered a masterfull album of solid metal and a valid follow-up to an album impossible to top. Guitarist Kerry King has publicly stated that “South of Heaven” is his least favoured album, and blames it’s flaws on his own absence at the time (he had just married and moved to Phoenix). However “South of Heaven” is a stunning display of what Jeff Hanneman (second and more anonymous guitarist of the band) was capable of as main songwriter. Twenty years later songs like ‘Mandatory Suicide’ and the title-bearing ‘South of Heaven’ are still considered groundbreaking work in the world of metal.

Doomlund salutes ”South of Heaven” and Slayer who are scheduled to appear at this years Roskilde Festival in Denmark on July 6. So if you’re going, here’s a little tune to get you in the right headbanging, beer-guzzling and thrash-worshipping mood:

Slayer – Mandatory Suicide

On another note, I’ll be gone the next couple of months. I’m going to California in a week. A friend of mine said; “Oh, you’ve never been?” (I actually thought that refered to Paris??) “Well, you’ll love it! The climate and the general mentality… it’s just fabulous!”, and since I have always been partial to heat and cynicism I decided that it was time to visit la-la land.
I probably won’t post anything for a while, but then again who knows?… Actually, I won’t.

Yours, with flowers in his hair,
TD.

A Total Eclipse of the Brain: Movie-post 1

Doomlund admits to being a sucker for movies. But not just any type…

 

Sometimes when you’re at the movies, you leave the theater with a feeling of having discovered something new. A really good, well-written and well-produced movie can make you look at the world differently. It has the power to make you reexamine your life and your choices. Think about your fellow man or even the well-being of mother earth. From time to time it may even change you fundamentally and for good.

As in my case, however, it might also bore you so hard that you seriously contemplate choking yourself on popcorn within the first five minutes.

I hate serious movies. The movie-format is a stupid medium with a stupid demographics and an even more stupid output. If you want contemplation, existential problems and ultimate enlightenment, read a damn book! However, if you can accept the movie-medium for what it really is – a retarded cousin of the performing arts – then we’re on the same page.

 

Doomlund’s biggest heroes are Ernest Hemingway and Leatherface
 

I love hack ‘n’ slash and blood ‘n’ gore! The more guts that are spilled the happier I am. Why? It’s very simple actually. Slasher-flicks fulfill a primeval desire in us to witness the destruction of our own species. A fascination of and drive towards – yes, you’ve guessed it – death. Man is a stupid creature with stupid delights so this can hardly come as a shock to anyone.

A couple of days ago I saw a flick that met those exact requirements – and thrilled me beyond belief. It’s called “30 Days of Night” and it features vampires and Josh Hartnett. Now, I usually hate both (vampires because they’re always portrayed as gothy, Tim Burton-like wusses and Josh Hartnett… Well, that really goes without saying), but in this movie it all worked out for the better. The vampires were tough as nails, face-deformed-like-freaky-mongoloids russian type guys with blacked-out eyes, animalistic demeanors and razor-teeth. They we’re totally on top of everything – slaughtering an entire Alskan village during a winter black-out where the sun is absent for a month (and that’s the entire plot-line right there). Josh Hartnett leads a small group of survivors as they struggle to wait out the darkness and thus escape when daylight returns. Fortunately the vampires succeed in butchering most of them, so only a couple of clueless idiots survive. The beauty is that Josh Hartnett isn’t one of them.
 

Retarded vampires rule!
 

I really liked “30 Days of Night” and here’s why: This movie doesn’t pretend that it’s better than me. It’s not up it’s own ass with messages, and instead of trying to have a point beyond showing in impressive graphics how you decapitate people with a rusty axe, it admits to being a total whopper of a brain-drain (Josh Hartnett couldn’t be deep if his life depended on it). This movie is the quintessential movie because it fits the medium so brilliantly. If Hollywood would make it over and over again and just change the scenery and cast a little we wouldn’t need any other movie.

In conclusion: Thumbs up to Russo-Alaskan mongoloid vampires and Josh Hartnett’s pitiful acting skills. “30 Days of Night” is an adaption of a graphic novel by same title written by Steve Niles and illustrated by Ben Templesmith. It’s good stuff and comes highly recommended.

 

I also saw another movie the other day, called Indiana Jones and the something something. Here’s a list of things that I found amusing about it:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sincerely, waiting for you by the popcorn-vendor,

TD.

The Identity Post

In this week Doomlund ponders the very fabric of his own existence

 

Who are you? Who am I?
Actually just forget about the first question (I don’t really care); the latter however, now that’s interesting!

From time to time (usually when I’m not watching TV ) I get in an existential mood. I think about why we’re here, what the grand purpose is and whether or not man will ever evolve to a physical state where it’s possible to fellate yourself without having to remove part of your ribcage (which is a painful procedure!).

A couple of weeks ago I found myself packing up all my stuff because I tricked my girlfriend into letting me move in with her (she thinks I’m joking when I tell her that I’m probably the worst roommate in the universe). Because I’m a slob by nature and posses about as many organizational skills as a mongoloid on heroin I had previously piled up all my personal papers in a huge, intimidating stack of receipts, paychecks and random crap accumulated over the past fifteen years. In short, the paper-version of me was an image of total chaos.
Needless to say I spent the following five hours cleaning everything up and organizing all my papers. “I don’t know what the hell to do,” I called my girlfriend and said. “It’s a mess up here. You know that final scene in ‘Platoon’ where everyone gets blown to bits? Well, this is worse.” My girlfriend, being the sound rational pillar of strength that she is, told me to calm down: “Go to a super market and pick up one those plastic briefcases they sell. You can easily store all your stuff in one of those. And when you’re there pick up a bottle of organic orange juice as well, will you?”.

Quite ingenious idea, I thought. I rushed to the market and back again and started organizing everything. And as it turned out it had quite a therapeutic effect on me. I didn’t understand why, but the more papers I slid into that thing the more grown up I felt. Like I was really on top of things – a smooth cat who handles himself with poise and enough self-confidence to wipe out a small African village. As if organizing things around me meant that I was somehow organizing myself. Composing my identity in a miniature file-cabinet. For a second it felt like I had it all together.

As I left my former apartment I ended an era. I had moved in to that place as a pimply-faced, insecure adolescent whose life was randomly piled up in a corner-stack of papers. But I was leaving it a man. And it was all due to that little briefcase in my hand. In it I had my passport, my insurance policy, my tax papers, my apartment lease contract, my BA diploma, my high school graduation diploma, my sailor’s permit (I took the course one summer when I was thirteen and bored of my ass), my drivers license and every paycheck I’ve ever received. In short, I was in-fact hauling around a portable identity.

That and a bottle of orange juice.

 

It occurred to me that who you are isn’t really a solid structure of ‘you-ness’. There is no ‘I’ except the one you choose. Once you’ve organized your paper-based identity in a small plastic briefcase you come to that exact realization: that it is just that. A plastic briefcase full of paper.
I guess, it really all comes down to you and your decisions and what image you want to create yourself in. But the prospect of total freedom in that regard can be truly terrifying. If you don’t know who you are then who does?
At the end of the day I choose to remain optimistic (for once). For what it’s worth at least I know I’m the guy who brings my girlfriend organic OJ.

 

Yours truly, optimist in a blink of an eye,

 

TD

 

 

 

 

Nightlife strife

I hate going out. I really, truly, hate going out. On any given weekend Copenhagen bars and nightclubs are about as much fun as full-blown herpes. It’s impossible to get around, impossible to get a drink much less have a thought to yourself amidst the dance music driven, sweat-spewing nightmare that is Friday night out on the town. But still from time to time I do go out. Why? Because as much as I hate the nightlife, I truly do love drinking. In fact, I am a formidable juicer if I have to say so myself. I’m not picky, I love all of it. If it’s semi-liquid, loaded with alcohol and blows your throat out the back of your neck, odds are I’ll like it. And drinking at home just isn’t the same as the experience you get at a bar – a real bar I might ad. The old school kind that brings a nostalgic tear to your eye. Where the smell of piss and stale beer creates an atmosphere of pure comfort and encourages complete serenity. It gives you a chance to reflect. A chance to slow down and smell the roses. And more importantly it gives you a chance to pass out as you vomit your guts out in a toilet stall that has witnessed more deprivation than a fuck-doll in a catholic monastery.
Really, the only problem is finding the ideal watering-hole – a quest that requires constant vigilance, as you drag yourself from one shit-hole to another.

Now and then you do get lucky and find a perfect, unspoiled little gem amongst the trash. But you can rest assured that if you know about it, it won’t be long till everyone else does too and BANG; a swarm of locusts descends and you’re out on the street searching once again.
However you’re also bound to strike out sometimes. You will wind up in places from time to time that’ll make you wish you were never born, because your friends might not have the same excellent standards and taste in hangouts that you have (they also might be completely and utterly retarded).
Some time ago I found myself in that exact position:

Copenhagen-nightlife: I think the one on the left is having a stroke.

We’re standing outside on a cool evening in the fall. The air is crisp with early frost and my friend and I are waiting in line to get into a place in the city called LA Bar (which quite possibly is the lamest name for a bar on the planet).
From the outside you get a perfect view of the place through a giant panoramic window. The dance floor is packed with horny business majors and middle-aged management directors desperately looking for a bit of extra-marital attention. About a dozen of thirty-something women have found their way to this place all looking for a bit of love – a notion, during the course of the evening they will have to discard as prospects of giving head to some sweaty guy in an alley outside looks more and more like where things are going.
Now, the actual bar is a world of its own. Still viewable at safe distance from the window the giant bathtub-like bar in chromed steel takes up most of the space in the room next to the dance floor, resulting in people fighting for both beer and survival at the same time. The waitresses are perky, teeth-whitened, leather-tanned girls in their twenties sporting huge racks and zero brain-activity. They’re appealing in the same way the idea of sniffing glue is. It’s a ton of fun, but eventually you will wind up a retard.

At the entrance some guy who’s strung out on cheap coke and equally cheap cologne, is the sovereign ruler of a state whose policies border on outright fascism. A state known only as ‘The Wardrobe’.
The guy throws me one single look and yells as to penetrate the thick layer of crappy Euro dance that dominates the atmosphere:
- “You have to leave your coat here. It’s a 100 kr. You can pick it up out back between 4 – 5 am. No refunds for lost items. In or out?”
Contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete idiot. Being patronized by a jack-ass with a snowy moustache isn’t my idea of a good time. So for a second I consider my options: I can act like nothing, and hand over my battered up old jacket that the guy is looking at like it’s the spawning place of the Ebola virus. I can pound his nose through the back of his head, or just quietly leave. I don’t know whether it was because of the looks I got from the rest of the crowd waiting to get in, or the fact that I’d probably just end up hurting my knuckles more than his face, but I decided to split. And like a slain fool with my tail between my legs, I whisked away into the night.

From time to time I ponder if the only solution would be for me to open up my own bar. As I write this a cold shiver of arctic proportion runs up my girlfriend’s spine. But, now here’s a thought, right? I think, if I had my own bar I’d place it in my living room. It’d save me the trouble of walking far, my bed would always be near by and I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable wearing only boxers to the bar (seeing as it is in my own living room). I would serve everything in this bar of mine, and go through a rigorous screening process to find the right bartender. The result is a guy who’s even uglier than me, so female guests will think I’m the Tom Cruise look-alike in our little low budget, dip-shit remake of ‘Cocktail’. He’ll have to be strong enough to carry me home after a bender (shouldn’t be too hard though, as my bed is only about ten feet away). And finally he’ll have the common decency NOT to call the authorities whenever I issue idle, drunken death-threats.

Another humongous plus about having your very own bar, is that you get to decide the music. Now, I’m a really big fan of classic rock, but with popular music you run the risk of having some mongoloid sing along to songs he doesn’t even know the words to. This is, however, not a problem to him at all and the rest of us will suffer all night long. I think I’d go with elevator music, or the kind of easy listening crap that always makes a trip to the supermarket a super joyous occasion. It’s ideal when you think about it. I mean, you avoid having to bash some douche’s head in for moaning along, because there are no lyrics, and elevator-music is already designed to annoy people in cramped spaces (my living room isn’t really that big).
I actually, really think I’m on to something here. I mean, there must be tons of people out there who share my views, and long for the idyllic utopia of a bar that I’m prepared to convert my living room into. Perhaps ten to twenty guests per night the first couple a weeks, and then it’s really going to take off. Who knows, I may be sitting on a regular goldmine serving up people that would otherwise go home suicidal after a night on the town. In fact I’m not just opening up a bar: I’m doing the community a great favour!

So when it finally dawns on the coke-snorting emperor of the wardrobe from LA Bar that my place is the hippest joint on the planet, and he shows up among thousands of other hopeful scenesters, I will make sure to check him in personally:
- “You have to leave your coat here. It’s gonna cost you three grand, and you wont be able to check it out anytime soon, because I’m heading straight to the bathroom where I will light your cheap-ass, imitated skin, ugly as sin damn-jacket on fire! No refunds. IN OR OUT?!”

How’s that for an offer?

Yours truly, soon to be licensed barfly,

TD.

—-

This nonsense was written under the influence of vodka & cranberry juice and the soothing sounds of sticky fingers on the stereo.

New balls on the soup!

Subject is a quite ingenious Danish idiom which roughly translates: time for a change.

Yup, that’s right. It’s time for a change – in the future I’ll be posting in English and my topics won’t be restrained by previous boundaries such as music. I’ll be breaking not only a linguistic barrier but also a narrow topoi, literary pun intended (suggestion: google Comp.Lit Majors and find out why everyone hates us).
All this is happening because I, a) want to branch out - five point six million Danish readers just isn’t enough - and b) well, I don’t really have a b-reason. I just think monumental decisions need a profound basis, and if nothing else the illusion that it’s a well-contemplated move.

So here it is, Ladies & Gentlemen. The new and improved ‘Mmm… trippy’ for all you people who don’t command my sublime native tongue (at 9,95,- it’s yours) and don’t give a hoot about music/lit/art/wrestling, but just enjoy scrolling through a couple of blogs as you wait for Firefox to stream youporn.com properly.

Even though I never really got to it, I will still write about whatever cultural-hooha crosses my path, and awakes my interest/pity/rage/disgust/boner and so forth. However I will also try to hurl my attention at the lesser things in life such as my joy of home grinded coffee in the morning, beautiful sunsets on a crisp summer sky, beating off in the shower and all the other pittily crap that makes floating through space on a giant rock easier for all of us.

I look forward to posting regularly on this page, just as you – the readers - anxiously await the enlightenment I imagine. So rest assured. I shall bring light to your dim little worlds and banish the demons of reason, plausible argumentation and common sense! You have my word.

Batman says; “Heck yeah! New balls!”

Endelig!

Rocking retards…

Jeg har ikke været inde på det før nu, men jeg har altså det her band. Det er der jo ca. fire milliarder andre mennesker på kloden der har, men nu vover jeg mig altså ud i at sige det oplagte alligevel: Mit band er ikke helt som de andres…

Vi startede alle sammen med at komme i Ungdomshuset (det er den dér usynlige bygning, der fylder godt i gadebilledet på Jagtvej). Det var her vi lærte hinanden at kende og spille sammen, og fandt et fælles ståsted i forhold til en myriade af andre ting. Vi lagde ud med at spille hardcore punkrock, men som tiden gik og vi blev bedre, er vi gradvist gledet over i en mærkelig hybridgenre, der måske bedst kan beskrives som Black Sabbath på amfetamin. Om man gider det eller ej, så har vi i hvert fald fået aftale på en plade, og nu sker det endelig. På torsdag skal vi til Malmö og begynde indspilningen.
Jeg glæder som et lille barn til at komme i gang med processen, og har høje forventninger til resultatet.

Selskabet der udgiver hedder Hjernespind Recs. og man kan læse updates på udgivelsen på følgende adresse: www.hjernespind.com

Jeg får ikke så meget tid til at skrive det næste stykke tid, men jeg vil alligevel poste en liste over nyindkøbte plader. Jeg regner stærkt med at skrive lidt om dem på et tidspunkt, når recording-ræset er overstået.

Roky Erickson & the Aliens – I Think Of Demons

Green Bullfrog – s/t

Dead Moon – Trash & Burn + Dead Ahead

Captain Beyond – s/t

Go marts,

-T

Danish Music Awards – 3 måder at spotte en dødsejler på

Dúné fra Skive vandt tre priser ved årets DMA. Her ses de i bedste Children of the Corn-stil.

I weekenden var jeg til DMA i Glassalen, for at tage nogle billeder for mit arbejde. Danish Music Awards er blot en skygge af sig selv i dag. Da jeg var barn var ‘Grammyerne’ noget hele familien parkerede røven i sofaen for. Det var et folkeligt event på højde med en håndboldkamp. Dengang løb det hele af stablen ved et kæmpe show i Forum. I dag sidder fem ludere og en lommetyv stuvet sammen på bænkene i Tivolis Glassal, mens quasi-berømtheder slås om at stå under en spotlampe på den halvanden meter lange røde løber udenfor. Nej, det er down-hill for pladeindustrien lige i tiden og dermed også prisfesten. Og der er i hvertfald 3 måder hvorpå man kan se, at det hele går af helvede til.

1. Jan Gintberg er vært
Jan Gintberg er uden tvivl den mindst komiske komiker i Danmark. Han er ikke engang ufrivilligt sjov. Vægtapet i knækket hvid er mere underholdende.

2. Showet transmitteres kun på ‘Myspace Tv’
Danmarks Radio, der jo i forvejen er kendt for økonomisk snilde og gode beslutninger, havde helt valgt at blive væk fra årets prisuddeling. I stedet for blev transmissionen sendt over internettet via den virtuelle opslagstavle Myspace.com. Logikken (eller undskyldningen) var så, at endnu flere folk nu havde mulighed for at følge showet, og Jan Gintbergs hjerne-kræftfremkaldende vittigheder. Selv folk i Indonesien kunne se med, og så meget ved vi trods alt: Hvis der er noget indonesere er pjattede med, så er det Jan Gintberg og et fuldkommen ubegribeligt sprog.

3. 2.Bs samspilshold fra Skive Gymnasium vinder samtlige priser
Nej – ok. Det er måske lige at være grov nok. Man kan sige mange, mange, ja, helt utroligt mange dårlige ting om Dúnés musik, der mest af alt lyder som når et Cassio keyboard voldtager en GameBoy. Men når de optræder er der fandme smæk på drengen. Den cadeau skal de alligevel have.
Såvidt jeg kan forstå lovprises det unge ensemble for deres innovative tilgang til electropop. Problemet med den innovation er bare at mindst tyve andre danske bands også gør krav på den. Og når den eneste fordring er at man har skamhørt David Bowie og lidt post-rock, bliver det hurtigt til en fad vælling af ensformighed.

Men det er måske i virkeligheden der skoen trykker. Pladeindustrien er ganske enkelt for nervøst anlagt til at satse bredere, og ikke bare på de grupper der allerede får massive rotationer på Radio Ligegyldig. I stedet for at frygte teknologi og fildeling som var det den sorte død skulle pladebosserne måske undersøge nye muligheder og de fordele der er ved teknologien for dem selv. Fildeling har demokratiseret popmusikken, og hvorfor er det så forfærdeligt? Det er i hvertfald ikke derfor at pengene fosser ud af industrien i disse år. Der er ingen der poster penge i pladebranchen, fordi det er en gammel skamskudt dinosaur der har for travlt med at hytte sit eget skind i stedet for at dyrke det, der er dens egentlig formål. Nemlig musikken.

Måske er der i virkeligheden ikke så meget at fejre ved DMA. Og med mindre pladeselskaberne begynder at tænke i nye baner vil pengene blive ved med at fosse ud indtil vi er nødsaget til at nedlægge dansk kulturliv. Hvem ved? Næste år er der måske ikke engang råd til statuetter. Så bliver det ”Velkommen til Danish Music Papirhat-Awards 2009″.