Khanate and the Sounds of Despair

Khanate has been around since 2001, when Stephen O'Malley and James Plotkin combined forces with Alan Dubin and Tim Wyskida. This quartet has released 3 discs to date, each more dense and fucked-up than what came before, and with the new Capture and Release disc they assume the throne of the most disturbingly bleak band in the world. Primarily concerning themselves with rumbling tonality and the distorted harmonics produced by massive amplification, their music alternates between the enveloping ambience of O'Malley's other project SUNN O)))) and Melvins-type crawling tempos to create a new form of American music. Tangentially associated with metal, this band is far more adventurous in its song structure to be pegged as such. They are a totally unique band--uncompromising and subtle, while creating some of the most defiantly uncommercial music that I have ever heard.

The aural virus began to spread for me after the self-titled 2001 release. The first time I saw them was with a friend of mine at Pianos in NYC in 2002 on a bill with the Microwaves and Vincebus Eruptum. The bill was a little strange--Microwaves were excellent but have very little to do with metal or metal influence, and Vincebus Eruptum was horrible, just horrible--and when Khanate took the stage I was not sure what to expect. They proceeded to play an hour-long set that featured material from the (at the time) upcoming Things Viral disc. I found their music to be difficult to handle, both overwhelmingly loud and distressingly disjointed. When I cannot figure out a band after seeing them live it intrigues me, so I snagged a copy of the first record on my way out of the club. In the days that followed I listened to the disc almost every day, and it grew on me like skin cancer, adhering itself to my brain with repeated listens. I loved the sound of the band--it was restrained yet remarkably powerful, and the singer's demented and anguished vocals played much more of a role in the recorded material than they did live. Guitarist O'Malley serves as the ringleader, laying down detuned chunks of riffs while bassist Plotkin doesn't play so much as ooze low-end hums and buzzes from his bass rig. Drummer Wyskida plays more sparingly than the Melvins' Dale Crover, sitting out for large spaces while the amps surge around him. Lyrically they are obsessive, with despairing imagery that deals with such light topics as murder, alienation, and suicide. In pieces like No Joy vocalist Dubin spits out impressionistic and simple phrases; other songs like the unsettling Torching Koroviev and Skin Coat feature bizarre and disorienting vocal effects that only add to the sensations of creeping madness.

2003 saw the release of the excellent Things Viral. Load Records released one of the songs as a 12"--the cleverly titled Dead--and the other 3 pieces are loooooong, with 2 nearly reaching the 20-minute mark. Dubin takes more of a leading role on this disc as his lyrics on songs like Commuted and Fields propel the music into deeper regions of the infernal world. Clipped phrases like "follow, stare, erase" and shrieks of "RED GLORY" pop out of the mix and help create what must be the first album ever made from the point of view of a serial murderer. Truly disturbing stuff. Compared to the unyielding bleakness of the first two pieces, Dead comes off like a pop song--instead of committing the acts that lead up to the object's death, this narrative comes from the point of view of a corpse. Great lines, too--"I was...not worth knowing...visible, awful, but not seen..."--that all add up to a healthy, disorienting dose of paranoia. One of the marks of this band's uniqueness is that this second full-length pissed off many a doom-metal fan; in fact it was considered by many fans of the genre to be too bleak and unrelenting. There are no hooks, no steady beats, only the ravings of Dubin in counterpoint to the staggering, jarring interjections of O'Malley's guitar and the thick malovelence of Plotkin's bass. The overall effect of this is to create a spacious, huge sound that moves like waves of oily sludge. I saw them live on the tour for this record at Northsix and they were incredible. The band has a stage presence that perfectly suits the music, turning away from their audience to commune with their amplifiers. It's beautiful stuff.

After this punishing masterwork, where would Khanate go from there? The new release (the band's first for HydraHead) seems to travel on familiar territory--two very long pieces, one 18.13 in length, the other 25.03--with lots of references to time spent with corpses, hunting, and pulling things apart and having the residue stick to your hands. Even the main guitar figures of the two songs (Capture and Release) seem to reference other, earlier songs like Dead and Fields. What has changed on this disc is the sheer expanse of the music. The spare amp buzz that begins the second piece (Release) could almost qualify as ambient, as rich, deep bass tones create a slow-moving current of sound. The band has refined itself further on this outing, staying more in the vein of the material on Things Viral than going back to the first disc. Total ensemble discipline is on full display here, as each musician uses his instrument to paint dark clouds of distortion and rhythm while not drawing attention away from the unity of the band. The compositional style keys off of the vocals much more than in the past, and Dubin is steadily emerging as one of the most unique vocalists in the genre. His voice is harsh but not guttural, screamy but not barking, and his use of effects on his voice helps create an extra psychedelic texture for the music. In general, this release opens up their sound a little bit, making them less claustrophobic without removing any of the weirdness that makes them such a singular band.

To say that Khanate is a band without precedent would be hyperbolic; they are, however, one of the most original bands in rock music in the last 25 years. Nobody sounds like these guys. And nobody could, even if they tried.

A Fatwa from the 700 Club

Can the religious right be stopped? Can they even be censured for their actions? Pat Robertson obviously doesn't think so. This Christian scam artist and professional shithead now feels entitled to call for the assassination of an international leader. Where does his temerity come from? Has he no fear of reprisal? Of course not. Mr. Robertson performed a valuable service to the Bush clan during the primaries of 2000 by pitching in with a bucket of tar for Senator John McCain, helping to slander McCain and paint a picture of him as a dangerously unbalanced freak. Much like Karl Rove, Robertson is now untouchable. His public plea for the death of Hugo Chavez is despicable but it may serve one important function--that of ripping the mask of decency off of the face of the evangelical Christian movement.

Pat Robertson has long been an embarrassment to this nation. His 700 Club requires its members to donate $700 before they can consider themselves truly nestled in the bosom of Christ, despite the fact that the early Christians never charged anyone to join their Church. As if such actions are not contradictory to the precepts he allegedly practices, Mr. Robertson now feels comfortable enough in his self-appointed position as political mover and shaker to call for the death of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. Oddly enough, my copy of the bible doesn't include the gospel where Jesus Christ begins sanctioning hits on other countries' democratically elected presidents, but perhaps I haven't read the text as literally as I should have.

The US attempted to depose Chavez shortly after his election in 2002. When they failed to do so after the Venezuelan people took to the streets to defend the integrity of their political processes, he became a marked man in the eyes of the Bush administration. The combination of Chavez' daring and his country's massive oil supplies makes his defiance towards the US even more admirable. Now, mysteriously, a man who once was the public face of a smear campaign orchestrated by Karl Rove suddenly appears in the middle of this international dustup, making inflammatory statements about a White House enemy. Coincidence? I don't think so....

Robertson appears to have taken a page from the Bush playbook on absurd political linkage. He claims that Chavez' regime in Venezuela is turning the country into "a launching pad for Communist infiltration and Muslim extremism". If this statement is analyzed for even one second its absurdity is revealed--how many atheistic Communists are likely to throw in with Islamic fundamentalists, whose anthropomorphic Allah haunts their every step? How many Jihadists would be willing to work with those who reject the Koran in favor of Marx and Engels? There is not a nation in the world that could withstand the pressures of ideologies that conflict so severely, let alone export this particular brand of revolution beyond their own national borders. The level of absurdity almost matches that created by the braintrust at the Bush White House when they linked secular powermonger Saddam Hussein with ascetic millionaire Islamic fundamentalist Osama Bin Laden.

Calling for someone's murder is not something that a religious leader should ever do. It's that simple. It does not matter whether the offender is Muslim, Christian, or Jewish. It is a moral disgrace for a purportedly religious leader to behave like this. But Pat Robertson is no ordinary Christian soldier. This is a man who has unceasingly fought a war of ignorance by demeaning the achievements of science and technology; a man who equates feminism with baby-killing; a man who has called for the abolition of Halloween due to its hidden Satanic subtext. In short, Pat Robertson is a lunatic--but a well-funded and well-organized one. His money and his organization should not be able to insulate him from a massive fine. The FCC should hit him, and hit him hard. But like Karl Rove and Kenneth Lay before him, Robertson will probably escape with no more than a slap on the wrist for his foolishness.

How is it that the teachings of a 2000-year old peaceful and semi-nomadic carpenter from the Middle East can be twisted into such horrible shapes? Are Christian values really given full expression with the execution of criminals? the starting of wars? or by calling for assassinations? And if this is an example of religion in action, why the fuck does anyone believe in it?

A New Adjective

Bill Frist and intelligent design....strange bedfellows. A doctor, trained at the highest levels of the American university system, now sees fit to reject that knowledge and declare himself in favor of a primitive form of mythological allegory. The good doctor is now in favor of the ridiculous rather than the rational because of his desire to expose people to the "broad range of fact, of science, including faith". An occasion like this requires more than just ironic putdowns or the odd sarcastic comment. It requires a new adjective.

I propose that the word "Fristian" enter the American idiom. The word itself would refer to any person who bargains away their personal integrity for short-term access to power. Similar in feel and tone to the word "Faustian", this word would also be used to help illustrate the potentially painful consequences involved in immoral compromise. Unlike the tragic central figure in Goethe's masterwork (whose deal with the infernal brings self-destruction), the Fristian individual manages to succeed in their various intellectual charades due to a combination of Mesmer's techniques and a paralyzing blandness. Other indicators of Fristian characteristics involve a strong tendency towards sanctimonious pronouncements and a willingness to ignore scientific fact in order to agree with your boss.

One day, GW Bush may decide that the sun rises out of his closet at the ranch in Crawford, TX; he may say that his preacher recommends using ice cream for deodorant; or perhaps he may arrive at the conclusion that anthrax tastes better in coffee than sugar. Either way he can be confident that the Senate's Doctor will back up his claims. Harvard Medical School must be very proud to have such an alumnus, one who feels entitled to readily dismiss the sciences of geology and anthropology in order that he might assure himself of the potential votes of millions of mental defectives when he seeks higher office.

If Jonathan Swift Ran Baseball, or Another Modest Proposal

Charles Bukowski once said that there was no lower form of writing than sportswriting; on his ladder above them were such practitioners of banalities as advertising copywriters and propagandists. With that little reminder stated at the outset, it's time for a few thoughts on baseball. I grew up a baseball fan and an inveterate baseball card collector, and memorized statistics like a maniac when I was young. Like most observers I became a little suspicious of the inflated homerun numbers of the 1990's, but never ascribed to the relentlessly publicized theory that all of this offensive production was due to illicit chemical help in the form of steroids. And even with all of the recent positive tests, I still do not believe that steroids were primarily responsible for the explosion of offense over the past 15 seasons. As a physical activity, hitting a baseball is a skill that does not necessarily depend on freakish physiques or ox-like strength. In many ways baseball is the least athletic of all the major American sports; hitters' talents are a unique combination of vision, decisivenss, and hand-eye coordination. But since most sportswriters behave like megaphones (preferring the town crier approach to disseminate information rather than attempting to examine issues carefully and rationally), they have not analyzed the statistics or examined the rush to construct new ballparks, or closely studied the effects of expansion on the quality of talent in the major leagues. After all, why analyze when you can sensationalize?

The most serious complaint aimed at the steroid users is that the advantages given to them by their use of performance-enhancing drugs were advantages that baseball players of years past could not have enjoyed, since the technology did not exist until the 1970's or 1980's. This statement is hard to disagree with--one of the major appeals of sports and games is their egalitarianism, where pure athletic talent determines the place that each athlete holds within their sport--and compared to the conventional wisdom on steroid use by athletes, this contention is quite valid, as it calls into question the old Bart Giamatti phrase about "the integrity of baseball". The result of all of this is that many ex-players, announcers, and baseball writers are now proposing that the statistical records of those caught with their hands in the drug jar should be stricken from the baseball record books. Bonds, McGwire, Palmeiro, Sosa and the like would be driven from their current elite statistical positions into some weird villainous limbo, sharing space with Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe Jackson and Denny McLain in baseball's hall of shame. In the spirit of Mr. Giamatti's interpretation of actions that jeopardize the integrity of the game, I would like to follow the logic contained within the instrumentalist approach recounted above and strictly apply it to the game of baseball.

If steroids provide an unfair advantage, then all statistics prior to 1947 must be dismissed as having been compiled in an unfair situation. Jackie Robinson's arrival as the first African-American pro baseball player signifies the beginning of true competition in the game, since all black ballplayers were prevented from participating in the major leagues. Included in this ban were Latino ballplayers whose skin tone was too uncomfortably dark for the tastes of the white racists who ran baseball like Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis or NY Yankees' GM/President George Weiss, or racist players like Dixie Walker and Ty Cobb. Every major league player prior to 1947 competed in a league that demonstrably did not field the best possible teams that could be assembled from the existing available talent. Such actions indicate that baseball's executive management tinkered with the integrity of the game for decades.

Another unfair advantage enjoyed by the players of today is medical treatment. Surgical procedures are much less invasive than in the 1950's, and injuries that once ended careers (such as torn rotator cuffs and torn knee or elbow ligaments) are now dealt with arthroscopically; players return quicker than ever from these once-feared operations. Additonally, anti-inflammatory and painkilling medications are much improved since the days of the 1950's; these too represent unfair advantages. I propose that any player with a weight room in his house for offseason training should also be viewed with suspicion, since none of the men from baseball's glory years of the 50's and 60's ever had enough money to afford such physical training advantages. Nutritional supplements also must be counted as offenders against the integrity of the game, since they were never used by the players of the 1950's. They may be more similar to the patent medicines of the 1880's and 1890's, but their prevalence today is clearly unfair to the players of years past. Such advantages translate into expulsion from the record books, as we continue to follow the exclusionists' logic.

It doesn't end there, either--there are obvious advantages in methods of travel compared to 50 years ago. Airplanes have improved and are now used to make even short trips. Needless to say, train travel was not quite as luxurious or speedy--so the player of today gets more rest on the road and consequently may be counted on to perform at a higher level. This extra rest must be seen as an unfair advantage, so any player who flies from New York City to Boston or vice-versa must have their statistics disallowed. Valid statistics after airplane travel would only count after long flights, such as a Los Angeles-to-Washington, DC jaunt.

In my view there is no greater advantage enjoyed by the modern baseball player than their money. Such economic security allows the 21st-century ballplayer to take the winter off, which never occurred before the onset of the free agency period. Players from the 1950's and 1960's had to get jobs in the offseason and therefore could not devote the time to keep themselves in peak physical condition like many do today. With less money in their pockets, the players also were subject to such unusual conditions as stress from poor financial situations. They were working stiffs, comparatively--and this must obviously be viewed as an unfair advantage. There is no such fear in the mind of the modern baseball player, as guaranteed contracts ensure financial prosperity even in the case of physical ruin. All statistics compiled by players making more than 300% of the national average workers' salary must also be dismissed, since they were compiled in conditions of unfair advantage.

So after the strict application of exclusionary logic we are left with the following result: there are no valid statistics in baseball. No Babe Ruth, no Hank Aaron, no Pete Rose, no Joe Carter. Not even wins and losses, or championships either. All that's left are a bunch of people paying a lot of money to go see events that might be construed to have the same competitive validity as professional wrestling. Is that what the alleged purists wish for?

Since 1985 there have been 21 new ballparks added to the rolls in major league baseball. With the exception of Seattle, Florida, San Diego, Arizona, and Detroit every single one of these new stadiums have been hitters' ballparks. Add in the fact that such pitcher-friendly parks as the Houston Astrodome and Comiskey Park vanished in favor of sluggers' havens and it is easy to see where the offensive explosion came from. As these smaller ballparks began to spring up, MLB decided to help the hitters even more by adding four new teams--which in turn allowed 40-44 pitchers who weren't big league quality to become big leaguers. It is a simple explanation but a correct one, which is why the national sports media prefers to focus on the more sensational topic of drug use. Steroids help these players recover faster from the grind of a 162-game season, but in my mind that's the most help that they offer. The skills required to hit and pitch in the major leagues must already be there for a player to prosper; they cannot be purchased in pill or liquid form.

So now that I've dabbled in the lowest form of writing, I need to take a shower. I feel unclean.

I Am George Bush. I Am a Shameless Scumbag.

20 more American soldiers died in the last two days in Iraq. The response from the nation's Chickenhawk-in-Chief was this: he claimed that the soldiers all "died for a noble cause", and "their families can know that American citizens are praying for them". Aside from the obvious weirdness of the second statement (I should hope that all of the affected families can know that their children have been blown up or shot; I also hope that they can know many, many other things--including solace after the wasteful death of their sons and daughters), it is simply amazing to me that this man Bush can face a roomful of cameras and transmit his hollow, poorly-expressed bullshit to the rest of the world. After uttering the aformentioned platitudes, Bush concluded by saying Iraqi forces (rather than defending their country from invading soldiery) were "trying to shake the will of America...they will fail". If the words "oil companies" were substituted for the word "America" perhaps there would be a grain of truth in his statement.

It's bad enough that Bush has destroyed the integrity of the electoral process in the US forever; bad enough that he has withdrawn the US from a variety of international environmental treaties; bad enough that either his incompetence or his diabolism allowed the events of September 11th to occur; bad enough that his chums at Enron picked out the members of his administration with Karl Rove and then split the scene of the crime to avoid punishment while defrauding pension funds and 401k plans; but what is going on in Iraq is disgraceful beyond words. At least true demagogues like Hitler or Napoleon experienced some success in their attempts to conquer the world before crashing themselves and their nations into the abyss of total ruin...the ineptitude of the US military planners is astonishing, doubly so given the fact that they had fought a ground war in the same area of the same country a mere 12 years prior to the Second Gulf War. Yet there has been no dismissal of Donald Rumsfeld, no demotion of Karl Rove--the only one of the neocons held accountable was Paul Wolfowitz, and instead of a Medal of Freedom he received a sideways promotion to head of the World Bank. I guess GW Bush treats his administration much the same as he himself was treated in his life. Failure is rewarded, not chastised--after all, these are his guys we're talking about here--and those who are privileged enough to be given positions of tremendous responsibility deserve to be honored regardless of their performance in their jobs. Perks are perks, and those who hold the levers of power are beyond the reach of ordinary concepts such as accountability or laws. This upper-crust attitude towards the country is disgusting, more so now that undereducated and overly propagandized members of the lower class are dying for Bush and his blueblooded corporate pals.

The only consolation in any of this is that those who are dying in Iraq for Bush's hegemonic schemes voted for him in overwhelming percentages. Bought off in 2001 with a military service tax credit that represented roughly 7% of a low-ranking infantry person's salary, they now fill body bags in the field and pine boxes in the bellies of transport craft as their corpses are sent back home to the US. They had the chance to save their own lives in the election of 2000, but decided an extra thousand bucks over and above Mr. Bush's Tax Bribe of $300 was worth the sacrifice of their lives. As they rot in the ground, I hope that their extra money in 2001 bought them something other than an early grave.

When GW Bush is alone at night, does he cry for all of these wasted lives? Does he ask his Jesus for guidance, or does he ask for blessings for secret plans of conquest and energy resource monopoly? We will never know, for like Reagan, he is too much of a bovine, unreflective cipher to be able to craft a memoir of his time in office. What is all too clear about this man is that he has no sense of shame and no sense of the actual cost of any real endeavor in life, since everything he has ever "achieved" in his life has been handed to him by the powerful friends of his cynical and morally repugnant family.

Vicodin--A Brief Appreciation

As my health collapsed in the last 18 months I gained an unexpected benefit. Pain from injuries led in my case to surgery, which of course led to some substantial recuperative pain that I still struggle with today. Post-operative pain is one of the things best handled by the medical industry, due to their rational and purposeful views towards narcotic medication. Rather than equivocate morally about potential abuse dangers, a surgeon just hands you a prescription for you to use as you please. A smart and enterprising drug fanatic can ensure themselves months of guilt-free pleasure by careful consumption and maintenance of their supply of pain-killing medication.

After two painful abdominal procedures and a shoulder procedure I built up a sizable reservoir of Vicodin. Rather than waste all of these beauties during the intial phase of my recovery, I took small amounts at first, using them as responsibly as a doctor or nurse. The remainder I proceeded to enjoy over the course of six months or so, washing them down with beer to ensure a healthy buzz. As my fondness for Vicodin grew I made sure to use them sparingly, separating days of use with at least two days of non-use so no nasty little habits had a chance to attach themselves to me. The effects of the drug are euphoric, like most painkillers, but also totally relaxing, like Valium. So stupefying are the effects when combined with alcohol that you almost forget you live in Bush's America for the duration of the evening--which, of course, makes this a very valuable pill to me and my consciousness.

More than anything though, my experience with Vicodin has given me a new appreciation for the prescription medication lifestyle. Easy to carry , odorless--I will dearly miss them when they are gone. I'm used to reeking of marijuana pretty much wherever I go, so the pill-bottle cleanliness of the whole Vicodin high is a new thing for me. Playing music or listening to music or reading are all good activities while under the spell of Vics. It's not a drool-on-yourself-and-watch-TV drug, unless that's what you want to make of it. As my supply dwindles, I'll be wistful with each passing pill.

Hydrocodone and acetaminophen are friends with such Americans as Bret Favre, Courtney Love, and Rush Limbaugh. And now they have a devotee in the seaweed-choked waters of the Sargasso Sea.