March 22

So here I am in Warsaw. 


Let me get my first complaint out of the way. Anyone who’s been to continental Europe knows the pain of the shelf toilet. An American, John Crapper, invented the pull flush toilet. Go America. Of course, this caught on everywhere, but with variation. Apparently, in Europe, the variation was to put a shelf in the toilet above the water, so that your crap could proudly be displayed for you. With no water surrounding it, you truly get to take in the ambiance of the smell, the texture… everything you shouldn’t have to experience when taking a crap in a well crafted toilet. For what reasons the Europeans would want this, I cannot fathom. Perhaps they like to be able to smell and fully view their crap so they can gauge their health? It is a mystery… a stinky, horrid mystery. 

Our flight over was without incident. Lots of planning and organization on our part, perhaps a first for Impaled, has paid off. Well, except for the quaint lunch we enjoyed at Heathrow Airport in London that ended up costing us seventy-two American dollars for four people. Keep in mind, Sean and Raul ordered sides of “chips” and you might understand how ridiculous the price was. Lesson learned… my veggie burger was good, but not twenty dollars good. Oh well… I’ll enjoy a twenty dollar shit. And thanks to European ingenuity, I’ll be able to smell it, too!

We ended up taking the same flight from London to Warsaw with Deeds of Flesh. The main difference was, our luggage arrived and theirs did not. It’s the ultimate band nightmare; not knowing where your guitar is. They found out theirs were in London still, inexplicably unloaded onto the airplane. Hopefully, it will arrive tomorrow for them, because they will not be happy having to play our equipment. Our equipment is shit. 

Our tour manager, Browar, picked us up and seems nice, and his name is cool as all hell. It’s like a bunch of drunk dudes battling it out over who’s better, Exodus or Forbidden. A Bro War! Tally ho. Of course, the first music played for us once we enter Poland? Vader. Damn, they love that band here. 

For all you world travelers, I’ll lay out a second recommendation; lose the Verizon phone. Apparently, my cell is completely useless throughout Europe. T-Mobile not only goes throughout Europe, but they have wi-fi stations in lots of places that you can use and have the time charged directly to your account. Now, I’ve always had a problem with T-Mobile, because they have Catherine Zeta-Jones as their spokeswoman, and she fucks the pasty potato sack known as Michael Douglas. Is this superficial? Probably… but I will be switching to T-Mobile as soon as I get home. 

Warsaw is a very dull, very gray place. Seriously gray. Everything is caked with a mysterious soot. The snow here is gray, the cars are gray… everything. The buildings are low, largely depressing, and caked with soot. I like it. Reminds me of the good ol’ days of the cold war, when I was scared of nuclear annihilation instead of being dragged off and tortured by my own government. Now those are nice memories. 

We’ve been put up in a hotel for the evening. This is very interesting, as they say we have two beds per room. The beds, however, consist of one 12-13′ long stone hard mattress and a pair of duvets. Tonight, me and Raul will be playing footsie. Oh, and there’s no television. I didn’t realize how much I like television until now. It makes me feel like I’m not cooped up in a small room, which I am. Instead, I have my laptop (thank God) and a Euro-power adapter. Oh, we also have beer. Beer is good. Beer makes me forget. Thank you, beer. I asked at the store for good, authentic Polish beer. Tastes like Budweiser. Oh well. 

We ate at the “restaurancj” or whatever they call it, and got very light, very unsatisfying meals of what I’m guessing was frozen food microwaved or boiled. At least we got that. And you have to love this funny monopoly money. They don’t use Euros in Poland, apparently, so I feel all rich having turned 100 American dollars into 280 Polish dollars. Dinner’s on me!!!! I’m fucking Bill Gates! George Soros! Look at me! Cuban cigars for everyone! 

On the way in, I had a glancing thought about Polish women. See, two times, we have toured with Polish bands, Vader and Decapitated. Both times, the large Polish communities in Chicago and New York came out to support their brethren. What this meant was, loads of really tall, svelte, beautiful Polish women. Guess what? They look like that in Poland, too. Holy crap, there’s some amazingly beautiful women here. But here’s the catch; the shelf life. See, there’s all these beautiful women in their twenties, but then it seems that Polish women go into some hut for about thirty years, and they come out looking like sacks of potatoes. They’re hunched, wrinkled, and worn out. There is no in-between. You either get young, beautiful Polish women or old hags. Their shelf life is bad. That’s the best way I can describe it. 

Jeez, I just can’t believe this hotel with crazy elevators that don’t stop on the right floor doesn’t have wifi. I’ll have to save this for later.

job announcement

“If you really want to hurt your parents and don’t want to be gay, go into the arts.” – Kurt Vonnegut

Wanted! Unmotivated alcoholics for apathy and debasement

Are you ready for a life of thankless poverty? Do you imbibe various chemicals as a way to offset your constant depression and / or ennui? Do you want to tell people of a like mind about your woes in verse or through pictures? Then we may have a position for you!

You could be an Artist!

Continue reading “job announcement”

Back Home

I forgot to mention something in my journal that was good. Lordy knows these things tend to make one spew bile and bitterness, so here’s the good thing. I totally doubled my money in Vegas. That’s right, I made 200% of what I gambled. Hells yeah. I walked away, you know, because I knew my luck wouldn’t hold.

I bet a quarter and walked away with 50 cents. Fuck yeah. I screamed “Dreams come true in Vegas!” much to the chagrin of my bandmates.

So after I finished being a total nerd in L.A., we got to play. Our set was probably not good, but I wouldn’t have guessed it seeing the crowd. I’m not a big fan of L.A. I walked around the neighborhood of the club for about six miles total. L.A. is kinda gross. Wow, though, I love playing there. For thirty minutes, we weren’t thirty-something burn out alcoholics playing nonsense for no one. For thirty minutes at the fest, we were thirty-something burn out alcoholics playing nonsense for a whole shit load of people.

Interesting thing about the L.A. fest… I saw a lot of bands of youngins who had their hair done like Twiggy or some other sixties femal model and wearing jeans that made my balls ache from across the room. I guess that’s become a regular thing, so no biggee, right? Well, I didn’t expect these kids to be playing br00tal slam metal. When did that happen? I thought they were all either ripping off At the Gates or having singy parts where they complain their daddies don’t understand them.

My conclusion… this is their world. They’re just letting us rent a wheelchair here. I’ll make the most of it.

Some great moments of the fest were Fetus Eaters completely ridiculous set of the best grind I’ve ever heard with a slide whistle. Also, they make a Fetus Eater beer and it’s GOOD. Spring Break cracked me up as well… good music plus good comedy equals Ross happy. Keen of the Crow was also another I enjoyed, playing some pretty emotional metal. No, I didn’t cry, I was chopping onions. So fuck off.

One thing I’d been complaining about all day was the fucking club kids around the Knitting Factory. Everytime I play there, these drunk kids come out and cause problems. Ironic eh, when the metal heads are the level heads.

Sure enough, we were loading our van, double parked due to an intense prevalence of vans, and I guess we were blocking traffic. Well, we can load our van in less than ten minutes, so these damn clubbers can wait. Except for one couldn’t. He had to come up to us, start yelling at us, and basically completely stop us from loading while we all sat around threatening each other. At first I thought he was security, then I realized he was a douche after Jason asked him if he wanted to help us and got REALLY pissed. Oh Jason, you card.

I walked up, yelled at him as he looked like he was about to hit our friend Brad. He got in my face. I told him, “There’s six of us, what are you going to do? Get outta here so we can finish” and he said “I’ll take all six of you on.” We all laughed at that. Of course, we also had a van and equipment to take care of. A few more “fuck offs” and we jammed our van packed and took off. Lordy, I wanted to hit that man upside the head with a guitar. Oh well. We were just a bunch of wee alcoholics who really just wanted to play crap music and get some Del Taco. Leave us alone, you big bully. Waaaa!

That was really the only bad thing in L.A., and compared to all the other stuff, I’m totally grateful. We stayed with our friend Brad in a warm apartment, drank some, bonded, snorted coke off a whore’s ass (just seeing if you’re paying attention) and left in the morn. All was good to San Francisco.

Here was the bummer about San Francisco… we started to like the other bands we were playing with. That’s the problem with these short road tours: it’s only on about the third or fourth day when you get to know the other bands and start being able to really joke with ’em and get along. Also, we really liked listening to all the other bands. Strong Inention, Neuraxis, and Disfear. Kill the Client was great, but they didn’t make it to San Francisco… I’m not sure why. I thought they were coming. Anyway, yeah, the night was good, everyone played well, but the end was a bummer.

The most worthy things of note were that I tried Swedish Snus, which is like chewing tobacco, but different. And it fucked me up. Thanks, Swedes!

Secondly, these sisters approached me after our set, and the one told me that not only had she graduated high school with an Impaled logo painted on her graduation cap, but we’d also inspired her through our lyrics to enter the medical field. She’s training as a nurse now, and is going to be dissecting cadavers! That is probably the coolest, sweetest thing ever. For once, we didn’t inspire people just to drink more! Or inspire people to leave the club! We actually inspired someone to do something worthwhile! All it took was 9 years, 9,000 beers, and 90,000 dollars for bullshit to reach one person! W00t!

Also, in regards to that show, we’d like to thank the Impaled booster club for coming once again and headbanging in unison at the front during our entire set. You guys rock.

hola from the road

Well, I’m at the metal fest in L.A., and my choices are to either answer email or write something. My battery won’t last forever.


Battery? You betcha. I’m at a metal fest, sitting at our merch table, leeching some more wi-fi, and being a total nerd with the glow of computer ambience striking my pallid face. Jason is across the room doing the same thing. We IMd each other. What the hell is wrong with Impaled? Or maaaaybe… what the hell is right?

No, it’s very, very wrong. But whatever… we’re stuck here from one pm until midnight. Working. There should be a law.

So, let’s count the disasters that have befallen us so far, shall we? Yes, Ross, let’s.

We left at five am on Friday. Rather, we would have left at five if I’d not been dumb and not plugged in the speaker to my alarm. Raul to the rescue! He called, I got my ass going, and we left in plenty of time. The fun part, however, was hitting the central valley around 6, finding out it was incredibly cold, and that the heater on my van no longer worked! Oh for fun!

9 hours or so later, we hit Chula Vista and rubbed our frost-bitten feet back to life. We were about a half hour late to the meet up point to enter Tijuana, but only Kill the Client knew that. Everyone else was late. In fact, Disfear was five hours late, and we somehow got stuck with the job of carting their stuff into Mexico. See, they had to go to Guitar Center to get new guitars. I assume this is because Sweden is rad, and the government pays musicians to do things like go to other countries to buy brand new Gibson SGs. Well, we were pretty pissed, but apparently, this Guitar Center was staffed by the retardededs, and they couldn’t get them out in a swift manner. Come to think of it, every Guitar Center is staffed by retardededs. Especially the one Raul works at.

Finally, we get into Tijuana, or rather, into customs. About an hour into it, we’d gotten to see plenty of handcuffed Mexicans and one crying 18 year old brat who was trying to sneak back Viagra, so he could become the skinniest porn star ever. I assume.

Tijuana was cool. Apparently, you drink while driving. At least, we did. The venue was fun, full of smelly crusty punks bestudded with vests galore. It smelled bad, the venue was hard to load into, and people had no idea who we were. So basically, it was like a gig in Oakland.
Strong Intention, Kill the Client, us, and Disfear all seemed to have decent sets. Oh wait, no, ours sucked. It was well received, though God knows why. Thank you punk rockers! The sound guy apparently had started on the job training that day, and our own Raul was his only help, the only problem being, Raul had to be on stage. Three mics magically turned into one as they kept failing to work. Sean and Jason and I had to waltz and share the one mic. Good thing we took those dance classes together.

So, we got out of Tijuana okay, and then had to wait another hour or two for Disfear to get their balls grabbed by horny customs agents. Once they finally found us, we gave them back their gear, and they took a surprise detour to Phoenix. Huh? Oh well. And we were off… to fall asleep in our cold van outside an Arco around four or five am.

The next day, we got up, at total garbage at some dive, hated life, and headed to Vegas. Here’s the thing… I hate Vegas. It’s the sign of all that is wrong with America. It’s open-air, yet air conditioned nightmare that sucks all the energy and water out of California into the desert of Nevada… and has miniatures of everything. Pyramids, New York, celebrities … I fucking hate it. We played in lounge. Some kids came, even ones to young to get in, and despite misgivings, we had a good time and we’re glad to play for people out there. Seriously, though, people… fucking move. It’s a desert.

We decided that night we should buy beer and treat ourselves to a hotel stay. It was a great idea with one hitch: every hotel from Las Vegas to L.A. was completely booked. I shit you not, we checked maybe thirty to forty hotels in various tiny towns built for the sole purpose of housing idiots like us. Nothing. Please, motel hotel industry, start using those light up “No Vacancy” signs instead of tiny ball point pen signs that we have to get out to read. It would save us a lot of time.

Seriously, though… what the fuck were people doing out there? EVERY hotel booked? I’ve never seen anything like that.

So our planning was for naught. We had no choice but to go to L.A. We’d checked all the hotels and were a mere hundred miles away before we gave up. So I called my friend Elaine there around three in the morning begging for a place to crash for just a few hours. I was so freakin’ tired. Elaine’s awesome, an old friend and always there when I need her. We were set to get there in not too long… except for the blizzard we ran into.

Have you ever felt like you were almost going to die? I have, twice. Now, three… fog, snow, slush, and a van that was a great refrigerator. We couldn’t stop, and we were worried we wouldn’t be able to go on. Luckily, the police escorted a bunch of cars through it, and we did make it.

Finally, we got to L.A. and the heat… oh the heat was on at the apartment. We crashed, and crashed hard. Hard, for like, three hours. Oh eight hours of slumber, what a blessed dream ye be! We had breakfast at Canter’s, a world famous Jewish restaurant with my super famous peep who hangs with Ashley Simpson on a regular basis. She’s THAT cool. But I’m not name dropping, oh no.

So far, it has been good here. We only got a few hours sleep, but the best thing was showing up to the fest on time and finding a good place to stow our gear (if it doesn’t get stolen) and grabbing a sweet merchandise table (as opposed to having bands give us dirty looks while we ask for a four inch by four inch corner of their table). It’s a cut throat business, death metal… mainly because it’s a shitty business.

Why do these sound guys think that blowing out subwoofers makes a band sound good? It’s terrible. It sounds like shit in here, but the karate kids are doing their thing, so I guess they’re happy. Hopefully they’ll hit each other and do us all a favor.

We’ll just have to see how our set goes. Can’t wait to hear nothing and watch the faces of shiny, happy people mouthing “WTF?”

And of course, I’m having a blast. Wouldn’t have it any other way.

Fuckin Up!

I have some kind of weird-o workaholic ADD complex that they don’t make a pill for. That’s probably for the best, because I’m sure that pill would have unreported heart-attack side effects. In any case, I keep myself busy, too busy, to keep from ever getting bored, but then I screw over my friends and don’t get much done anyway. I wish I was on some government stipend, and didn’t have to work, but I’m sure I’d manage to overfill that time, too.

Friday and Saturday morning, I tweaked (not literally, though I had wayyyy too much coffee) on some Impaled songs I’d been working on. Sean redid one of my new songs, and raised the bar, so I really felt like I needed to get my musical shit together. I did, but I’d also forgotten about a practice (which ended up being cancelled) and was nearly late for the next event…

Continue reading “Fuckin Up!”

bass

Q: Why is the bassist always out on the porch?
A: Because he never knows when to come in.
When Ludicra was on the road, our drummer, Aesop, was talking about how we’re the Eagles of black metal (no pun intended). He talked about how John was Glenn Fry, he was Don Henley, Christy was Joe Walsh, Laurie was someone, and I was Randy Meisner, the kicked out bassist who was the only one to NOT have a successful solo career.

Flash to today, and I’m listening to Air America’s Morning Sedition radio show. They are interviewing a filmaker about his documetary on Arthur Kane, former bassist of the New York Dolls, and his obscure existence as Mormon just wishing for the band to reform.

Let’s think about this for a moment, you know, being a bassist. What’s the guy who got the boot from Queens of the Stone Age doing now? How about Krist Novaselik from Nirvana? The Rolling Stones keep rolling without Bill Wyman. The Doors didn’t even need a real bassist. Whatever happened to Blacky from Voivod? Jason Newstead used to get his mattress pissed on and has since faded into obscurity post-Metallica.

Speaking of Metallica, there’s the string of dead bassists. Cliff Burton is of course well known for being dead. Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott died under tragic circumstances. Sid Vicious was a fucking mess waiting to die. There’s been plenty of underground bassists in more recent years, myself included, who have been the major victims in band-related auto-accidents.

The revolving door… that’s the bassists position. How many bands stop playing after they kick out their bassist?

I know, there’s a FEW bass success stories. Tom Angelripper and Les Claypool come to mind. Les Claypool, however, is a victim of his own annoyingness and WAY too many strings on his bass. Paul McCartney doesn’t count… he was a guitarist in disguise. And Gene Simmons? Gimme a break… he’s not a bassist, he’s a salesman. His “signature” song God of Thunder was written by Paul Stanley, anyway.

So yeah, the lot of the bassist kinda stinks. It’s a four-string curse.
Q: What is a bassist’s best form of birth control?
A: His personality. 

All that having been said, this is the email I just got…To: ross the boss mcsalad toss….
Message: u make people want to play bass.thank you. 

That’s cool. Misery loves company, anyway.

Ludicra “tour”

Yes, tour in quotes, as Ludicra doesn’t really play that many shows. This little jaunt has only lasted four days. San Francisco went really well, like, really really well… apart from the drum monitor catching fire and me having to save Aesop’s life by dousing the fire with my bottled water. Yes, bottled water… go to hell, I’m no yuppy. We played with Keen of the Crow (ex-Morgion), Aldebaran (members of Splatterhouse) and Grey (ex-Baba Yaga) and had an awesome time.


In L.A., we played with Intronaut, Leon del Muerte’s band, which was cool as hell. I hadn’t seen them live yet and enjoyed them immensely. Well… I enjoyed everything but Leon’s farts. Those brought back memories, but not good ones. We had some technical difficulties, but being only our second LA show in 5 years, it went pretty well.

Then we played Phoenix, AZ. That show was at Metal Devastation 2, and was a lot of fun. The major bummer of the evening was finding out that some metal-core straight edge kids had been involved in a stabbing the night before, beat up the owner of the all ages venue, and spit on his daughter. Fucking idiots. You shouldn’t shit in your own backyard, assholes. The venue was maybe going to close down, but now they’ll just not be having punk or metalcore shows. Good. Stew in your own shit and enjoy the nights you have nothing left to do except be pissed off not drinking beer and eventually becoming giant meth-heads.

Jesus Christ, I fucked my hand up but good beating the hell out of my bass during our set. Like… bleeding bad.

We went to a bar later that evening with all the bands. I couldn’t get a god damned beer to save my life, so I gave up and headed over to karaoke. After a rousing rendition of “King of the Road” everybody seemed to start having a damn good time. Christy sang “Heartbreaker,” I followed up with “The Humpty Dance” and the whole damn place was in an uproar. I found out, according to Aesop, that apparently I can break dance pretty well. I had no idea, really. Well, it was a crap load of fun.

Today we played a house party in Flagstaff, AZ. There was a crap load of people loaded in a 15×15 room rocking out and even crowd surfing. We played over our set, until the cops showed up. Oh well. But man, what fun… and yeesh, punks can cook some amazing food.
Right, and they also have wireless. Punks have wireless connections, and metal heads have… more beer? Fuck all this shit though, I’m drunk and going to bed. I got a 13-14 hour drive ahead of me and then straight back to work. Bleah.

fire

I just got home from the Impaled tour and I’m out for a few days with Ludicra.

I don’t want to come home. At least… rather, I don’t want to go back to work and watch porn.

Some incredible stuff has / is / will be happening.

At the Ludicra show tonight, Aesop’s drum monitor caught fire. Quite literally, flames began leaping from the speaker. Aesop kinda stood there and I threw my bass down and threw water into it and put out the fire. I’m a god damned fucking hero. Look for my name in the paper tomorrow. The headline will read “Great White Again? Nope, Thanks to Great Ross!”

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vmjVbZRle0]