That's Not Metal "Studio Update" #2: NSFW

This is the manliest video ever created, based on specific requests from a certain one of my viewers. It's also NSFW, unless that is of course you work in a bear bar. Either way, I'm positive the grand majority of internet dwelling metalheads will definitely enjoy it:

UPDATE: That's Not Metal in the "Studio"

Admittedly, the new article was a greater project than I first imagined. So far, it's over 2500 words, and I don't even feel halfway through. It will be my densest article yet. Or rather, the densest most content-heavy blog post ever produced in the history of man. Currently, I have a computer with only 8 gigs of RAM and a 64-bit operating system, and with almost 14,000 characters to process, I am running into constant setbacks. I have called Intel about a 128-bit processor, and they're working on it, but I don't have the right plug-ins for Google Chrome and Blogger to utilize it's power, so I have to wait for that to be sorted out as well. Hang tight though, my friends! The new article will definitely, definitely be out next month. Or next year. Give me 4 more years. And 6 months. The official Nuclear Blast release date is in 20 minutes. You might get half of it.

Sex [Redux]

A select few of you may remember the article I wrote about sex once upon a time. Yes, I did actually write regularly this blog once, and that one article was probably the only thing of any significance I ever contributed. Some of you laughed, some cried, some masturbated furiously in protest. I even raised the ire of Brenocide himself who is well known for his voracious carnal appetite and affinity for wenches and mead.

Well, hide your prophylactics and wipe your search history folks, because I have returned to whip this dead horse a little more and re-explore the topic of sex.

Let us also re-explore unnecessarily gratuitous sexual imagery

Before we begin, I want to stress to you that this is in no way an inclination that I may have possibly been incorrect in some of my assumptions and arguments in the last article. I was right then and I am even more right now. I decided it was necessary to revisit this topic for a number of reasons:


#1  Like any good intellectual, I am constantly reassessing and reimagining my ideas and theories. Do you think that Nietzsche birthed a full philosophy on his first try? Of course not, he had to struggle with a myriad of intellectual pitfalls and inconsistencies in order to create a more rounded mindset. My work is no different. Except with more creampies.


#2 I have subsequently discovered that not everyone is disgusted by the human body and all of its oozing liquids and strange odours. I’ll admit, I forgot that Misanthropy and Metal Elitism are more or less mutually exclusive and that there are some headbangers out there that actually like a select few human beings. I’m willing to let this slide and make some concessions on your part and offer you some advice from the perspective of someone who has observed humanity like a swollen pus-filled zit. Besides, this puts me on a whole new level of elitism anyway.


#3 Dick jokes are easy to write and I’ve more or less ran out of ideas stopped giving a fuck.

The first and biggest change of viewpoint from my last article is this: The act of sex itself is not inherently false. It is rather, the motivation and emotions leading to the act of coitus that can often make it false. Last time, I was working on the assumption that the only way any of you were going to get any action was by getting on your hands and knees and begging for it like the shrivelled little disappointments you are. That you were scrawny little beings governed by lust and desperation, whose resolve stood as strong as Lars Ulrich's little piggle dick. Apparently some of you took offence to that.

You can surely see how weak, cowardly and downright unmetal behaviour like that is. Letting another individual control your sex life is a sign of weakness. It’s saying that you have no ability to command and conquer, that you are completely unable to be satisfied unless they allow you to be satisfied. You are completely powerless over your own body. That’s about as weak and unmetal as it gets.

In a genre where, let’s be honest, the percentage of pasty, socially awkward males vastly outweighs the number of females, I made the assumption that said display of inadequacy would be the norm when it came to human courting behaviour. For women, this can actually be a positive. With hordes of men attempting to force strained and awkward small talk with them, they live in a lucrative buyer’s market where they can pick and choose only the most majestic and beardy suitors. 

Real men. Men like Brian Blessed.

So, for argument’s sake, I’m going to highlight a few situations where it is perfectly acceptable for a metalhead to get in touch with their sexuality and VIOLENTY CLIMAX.

They want you real bad: This is a purely hypothetical realm for some of you, but in situations where you are the one being relentlessly pursued, it is okay for you to throw the dog a bone as it were. As you’re the one that is being coveted to the extent where you can smell the sour-milk pheromones from across the room, it puts you in a position of power. A position that allows you to assert your dominance over another individual (not in any way that will get you arrested though). Again, we find ourselves in a situation where it may be more likely that women have the balance of power tipped in their favour. Well shit, I’m an equal opportunities kind of guy ladies, if you’re put in a position where you can dominate your man, then fucking dominate him. They sell strap-on dildos don’t they? Make him get on all fours and eat from a doggy dish. Force him to call you mistress and step on his face. If he’s gonna plead and beg for sex like a little bitch, then treat him like a little bitch. Remember, metal is a competition and everyone should be out to prove themselves a champion, regardless of gender. I’m not saying that every act of consensual sex should be S&M play, but for humour’s sake, I’m going to ignore the touchy-feely crap.

Although, Rob Halford seemed to be into it and you should always imitate your role models.

Masturbation: One of the biggest points I need to make is that you should in no way feel ashamed of your body or your desires. Unless, you are in any way inadequate, then you should probably kill yourself. The point is that becoming aroused is a perfectly natural bodily function that simply cannot be avoided, no different than sweating or having murderous thoughts. Rubbing one out should be thought of no differently than wiping your ass as in fulfilling a bodily function. So for the most part, being a first class wanker is ok. The only real thing to worry about is practising in moderation kids, and not the same kind of bullshit moderation you’re supposed to practice around drugs and alcohol, where your only real risk is dying. With the internet the way it is today, it is far too easy to get access to porn and we all know that too much porn makes you lose taste for the low class of people willing to fuck you. It may start out straight laced and fairly innocent, but soon enough you find yourself only able to get half hard to gaping anus porn and nipple insertion.

Hiring a prostitute: Many people find the act and trade of prostitution to be an abhorrent practice, degrading to both parties that partake in it. However, this is the world’s oldest profession for a reason and a natural extension of the idea that sexual satisfaction is simply fulfilling a biological urge. They saw a need and they filled it. It’s a business venture, plain and simple. Besides, there are enough corporate whores in the world that have to figuratively lick ass for a living, why should everyone get so up in arms when someone chooses to do it literally? Alternatively, I suppose you could do what some douche from the other 90% of the population does when they want instant sexual gratification with another human. Namely, going to some obnoxious club with terrible music (metal or otherwise) and lying through your teeth for the small chance of obtaining a phone number and spending the next 3 months navigating through the tedious process of human relations. Yeah, I'm sure you'll be glad you wasted all that time, effort and money so you can achieve a full 3 minutes of coitus before she gets freaked out and leaves after you produce a rubber fist from under your bed. You definitely won't regret that you didn't splurge that $135 on that Portuguese hooker with no gag reflex. 

Well, I don't have anything funny or clever to end on, so I'm just gonna wrap it up here. Besides, I'm sure you all are busting to leave a bunch of nitpicky and hilarious comments. I'd love to stick around and read them, but I have to go do something less painful, like push rusty nails covered in lemon juice through my eye sockets.

- Mattassacre

Soft Cotton, Slim-Fit, Fruity Pebbles Band Shirts

You all look like you caught Rainbow the Clown in a money shot sort of mood.

Way back in the summer of 2010, Shane Blay, lead chirpy riff player for Texas Christian douchecore outfit, Oh, Sleeper wrote an "eye-opening accounting" of how you don't actually make any fucking money when you're a touring musician. (Gasp!) He got so in-depth breaking down the costs and profits of touring in a van, that you'd think he wrote this under the impression that most of us didn't already realize performing metal made zero fiscal sense whatsoever. Regardless, I still think it's really worth a read. Especially for those of you young hopefuls, still out there with your B.C Rich guitars, playing your hearts out in the basements of the world, thinking you're ever going to amount to shit.

While there were a lot of noteworthy price points to consider in Blay's comment, which was originally posted during a debate about the subject on a Metal Sucks article; there was one particular cost and explanation of said cost for the members of Oh, Sleeper, that stuck out to me like a sore butt:

 "Merchandise is bough(t), printed, and shipped on the band(')s dollar. We print most (of) our shirts on American Apparel. They obviously offer the best fitting shirts, and kids are smart about looking good now(a)days. They won(')t sell unless you have slim fitting, soft shirts. The demand for better quality shirts from bands is higher (than it has ever been) in (the) last few years. 


 American Apparel shirts are very pricey to print. usually $7.50 a shirt. More for v-necks, 3/4 sleeve shirts, etc."


Alright fellas. Let's not say it all at once.

Two years is a long time, and I hope since that writing, Oh, Sleeper has made a big enough name for themselves to maintain a profitable enough line of v-neck shirts. (I'd be devastated otherwise.) So what's the point I'm trying to make here? Well, I focus so much on Oh, Sleeper's choice of merchandise not only because it solidly defines so well the pussy-face attitude of the current false metal scene, (gasp, you wouldn't catch me dead in one of those non-slim fitting, non-soft, non-American Apparel t-shirts!) but it also brings to light a very clear Violation in terms of heavy metal attire. I'm not exactly sure why I failed to bring it up sooner. I don't think you can draw a harder line in the sand between them and us, than by taking a good look at their merch in comparison to our merch.

Poseur Mail Part 2: All Reading Comprehension Shall Perish

Ben Orum playing for a bunch of Disturbed fans in 2011 who didn't know music could get this heavy.

Here's a funny story for you.

So I wrote this obnoxious post a couple weeks ago; as I am known to sometimes do. The subject of said post was in regards to a one Andrew Baird, full-time drummer of San Francisco tech death outfit, Fallujah. There's a chance you might not be familiar with Baird or his band, as they're not exactly a top-tier metal act. They seem to have a decent following, and they're big enough to have albums and cool-looking t-shirts for you to buy, but they're still up-and-comers and they still struggle a lot. You'd expect any band this size to struggle, of course, but the lives that make up Fallujah legitimately suck. You see, Baird has been undergoing chemotherapy treatments for the testicular cancer he was diagnosed with a couple months ago. An incredibly unfortunate and shocking circumstance for a guy that looks like he's barely out of the womb and keeps himself in great shape.

So fast forward to the Summer Slaughter Tour contest. There were ten small time metal/core bands gunning for the chance to play as openers for this year's roster. Every band and all of their members were pleading desperately with their fans to go vote as soon and often as possible. Andrew, however, decided to take things one step further in his appeal. On the American Cancer Society Facebook page, Baird spilled his guts out. He spoke of his personal health and of how he desperately dreamed to play a tour like this one. I'll say that again; opening for fucking Cannibal Corpse was this guy's biggest dream. He definitely tried like hell to put himself out there with the point that because of his suffering, him and his band certainly deserved a good chance to make his wildest dreams come true.

As I'm sure you have figured, all hell broke loose.

Poseur Mail Part 1: Stretched Wide Butthurt

Stop mommy! I think you're stretching it.

It's safe to say that I missed a tremendous amount of things about writing for TNM during my extended absence. (Web groupies, etc.) Yet during those several quiet months of inactivity, there was but one thing that I longed to do more than anything else: Answer my hate mail. For the entirety of my hiatus, my fingers did nothing but itch furiously for the chance to type out some swift internet justice once again. It has indeed been a long time coming, but I am happy to announce, my fellow Defenders of the Faith, that time has arrived. Six months of unchecked, unspent, wildcat-level aggression pent up in my psyche, left to boil and fester; about to be unleashed in an atom bomb of face-melting, butt-hurt creating mayhem. For those of you who know, you already backed the fuck up and battened down the hatches. For those of you who don't: This is Poseur Mail Saturday. Nobody gets out alive.

So before we really kick things off, I'd like to ease the tension a bit with a simple multiple choice question. Just keep in mind that there's only one wrong answer:

Tell me, what exactly about the following comment makes the most sense to be upset about:

"Nice gauges, faggot."


Is it:

a.) The use of the word "faggot" in this example is incredibly homophobic and crude.
b.) The comment is ridiculing a person for their own personal sense of self expression.
c.) THERE NOT CALLED "GAUGES" DUMASS THERE CALLED "STRETCHED EARS", IF UR GUNNA MAKE FUN OF SOME1 U SHOULD DO THE RESERCH IF U DONT WANNA LOOK RETARDED. 

Reflect on those potential answers for a moment. In the meantime, I'm going to talk to you about something that happened during my absence regarding a post I wrote back in 2010...

News that Matters: Paint Norwegian Planes with Euronymous

Thanks to Patrik Asplund for bringing this to my attention:

If your hearts were broken over the outcome of The Summer Slaughter Tour vote, then fear not. By some miracle, your worth as a democratic metal fan have remained in tact. You can still make a difference in the world, by bringing black metal to Norwegian skies.

An airline in Norway, mysteriously named Norwegian Air Shuttle, is holding a vote online for people to choose their favorite popular Norwegian individual of cultural or historical importance. The person who gets the most votes will have their image immortalized on the tails of the airplanes to celebrate the company's 10th anniversary. Here's the company's description of the contest if you'd like more information:

"Her kan du blant annet stemme på en av kandidatene som en lokal nominasjonskomite bestående av: Fabian Stang (ordfører), Hans Edvardsen (Bymiljøetaten) og Lars Emil Hansen (Oslo Museum) har nominert. Komitemedlemmene er håndplukket basert på deres lokalkunnskap og engasjement. Se nedover på siden for flere nominerte kandidater. De fem kandidatene med flest stemmer etter at nominasjonsfasen er over, går videre til det endelige valget. Du kan avgi én stemme hver dag i hele nominasjonsfasen som varer frem til 28. mars kl. 23.59."

The late Øystein Aarseth, or as we all knew him, Euronymous of Mayhem, somehow made it onto the polls. The article I read about this on Gun Shy Assassin was posted two days ago, and at the time of that writing, Aarseth was in a bleak 23rd. At the time of this writing, he made it all the way to 5th place. The progress is staggering, and I want this to happen so bad now that I can taste the goat's blood.

To cast your vote, click here. The website isn't in English, obviously, and I know how you guys have a hard enough time as it is reading and writing in your own fucking language. However it shouldn't be too hard to figure out for those of you that aren't retarded. (Click the heart, mongoloid.) 

Spread the word like hellfire. We already got him to 5th in two days, so there's no reason we can't make this happen. You can vote through March 28th.


Edit:


Look to the skies, Norway. FUCK YOU.

Internet Tough Guys Put Fallujah Pussy with Cancer in His Place

FAGGOT.

So recently there's been a pretty big stir in heavy metal land about some sniveling, frail little cunt hair who will only be referred to as the drummer from Fallujah from here on out, because he's too much of a fart-stain pea-dick shit smear to deserve a man's fucking name. Andrew Baird is a name reserved only for a real, man's man, with manly intentions and who partakes commonly in manly activities. An "Andrew Baird" is the kind of guy with severe five o'clock shadow, shopping for groceries at 6 PM right after he got out of work so he can feed his middle class income family their mediocre dinner. Specially prepared by his unappreciative wife. Not you. You are the fucking drummer from Fallujah.

So why exactly does the drummer from Fallujah deserve this blood-soaked tsunami of hate crashing upon him with unrelenting force? Let me tell you, but sit down first bro, because you're gonna be so pissed:


He has cancer.

I know, FUCK HIM, right?

Brenocide Returns

This is you.

I suppose if I was a glasses-wearing, chubby faced, curly headed Hispanic guy standing there, trying to enjoy an afternoon of live metal, only to find myself surrounded by the sweaty, mouth breathing, butt metal loving troglodytes that are pictured above; I myself would face extreme difficulty not strongly observing some of these winners instead of the performing stage act, while contemplating discussing with their mothers the option of a well overdue abortion. I mean, just look at these pathetic human accidents. Vaginal contact or earning a livable salary is already well out of the question. 


As you are all well aware; that kid was me. I might not be a Mexican with an afro, but the rage, the discomfort, the scornful look and maybe the admitted fatness; that's all me up there. I was continuously finding myself, night after night, rendered incapable of enjoying the live metal performances I spent so much of my hard-earned money on. I was so preoccupied with harshly judging you fuck-faced human losers surrounding me. Not to mention unsuccessful in ignoring the sour, oniony body odor your unwashed bodies emitted, as you clapped feverishly with Down syndrome-like glee at the music being played just for you.  

Yaay! My favorite song from Dystopia, yaaay!

This is sincerely how I feel about every single metal show attendee that isn't me. I'm done looking at you fucking retards. I used to delightfully pay for tickets with the sole intention of laughing at a room full of you dweebs, but the joke isn't funny anymore. You're just beyond redemption of any means. There is only great sadness in that. It's like you all walk into the venue with this intricate plan to do everything wrong, and execute it masterfully. Some of the names you kids proudly adorn on your t-shirts are not only musically sub-par, they bring the hard rock genre to a level of unmetal butt fuckery so severe that I wouldn't even sully my precious cornhole wiping myself with the black cotton they were printed on.

My silence over the last several months was directly correlated to my frustration. I think I found myself being recommended Septic Flesh's latest album one too many times and I just couldn't see the point in trying anymore. By the way, in regards to my extended absence, I have never heard a greater gaggle of baby butt rash having little dick sniffers sob and moan so hard in my entire fucking life. The whole lot of you are just a group of pathetic, suckling piglets, blind and frail; with all of your moist, quivering lips, puckering hopelessly in longing for the massive, sopping wet, rocking tits of Brenocide's unparalleled true metal genius. (No, I'm not talking about my hairy man-cans, it's just a metaphor.) I can't say I necessarily blame any of you for wanting more of me so direly. In terms of raw trutality among all things on the internet (AKA: your universe), I truly reign supreme. Of course you want more of what I have to offer, and you want it all the time. However, all of your incessant pleading, moaning and queefing falls upon deaf ears. Ears that have been specially deafened by years of listening to heavy metal music that is insurmountably better than the heavy metal music that you listen to. The aural assault on my unprotected ear canal was strictly intentional, rendering me totally incapable of listening to the people who are less metal than I am and that I don't give a shit about. (See: everyone.) I give such an insignificant microcosm of a shit at this point, that the fact that I only have to read your comments, and not literally listen to them -- thus voiding my entire explanation of why I haven't been considering any of your opinions -- doesn't even fucking matter to me. I will write posts when I am damn good and ready to write posts, and nothing you poseurs say or do will change that fact. You can either deal with that, or keep reading Metal Sucks and pretending to be entertained.

I will admit that you have all suffered the greatest amount of time in between writings since I started this blog. An entire five months. Holy twinkle toed tap dancing Christ shit. The brash audacity of me to make you wannabes have to go without for so long. Don't you twats have anything better to do with your time? Is porn already illegal or something? Judging from the entirety of my comments section, I'll assume most of you probably have the reading comprehension of a fourth grader. We're talking like an inner-city fourth grade, too. If you can even tie your shoes at this point, it would statistically be a miracle. So it more than likely took you longer to read my last violation than it takes someone to listen to the average death metal album. Yet Dying Fetus gets two to three damn years and nobody says a peep. Oh great; pig squeals, and blast beats. Great work and thanks for that Fetus, see you in a couple years, buds. In the mean time I'll go buy one of your t-shirts so I can walk around pretending to be hard. Fuck you. If any of you mindless drones want me to write posts faster than I'm willing to write them, you can blow me...

Alright, fair enough.

So where was I? Right -- I would go to these shows just to watch the bands perform and then I would leave. That was it. I would barely talk to anyone, I wouldn't look at anyone, I wouldn't even mosh anymore. My rage was always real, I would take it too far, and then one of you cunts would run and tattle; selfishly ruining the quiet night of the 6-7 bouncers it would take to physically remove me from the place.

Hope you brought backup, Dumbo. 

Let me tell you, I'm not afraid to admit that the last several months have been incredibly therapeutic. Believe it or not, I actually managed to fall in love with my favorite musical genre again, all because I made the effort to ignore its fans. Doctors marveled as my blood pressure dropped to much healthier levels. My back pain vanished somehow, as if almost magically. My overall quality of life vastly improved after I stopped concerning myself with you mortal wastes of time and the heavy metal laws you so commonly violate. Indeed, the world of Violations and even That's Not Metal felt well behind me, and this was a fact I was happy to accept. Brenocide it seemed, had cleaned his blade of the blood of poseurs, and mounted it for good. Never to grasp its leather-bound hilt again...

Left: Brenocide while he was writing TNM.
Right: Brenocide after he stopped writing TNM.

However...

Metal... she is a cruel mistress. Even though in my day to day life I had neglected to heed her call, in my nightmares she haunted me. The cries of true metal warriors pleading for the valiant return of their champion and savior were pushed to the back of my mind, where they resided to silently suffer. Choosing to ignore them didn't make them any less real. To make matters worse, my newfound outgoing, positive demeanor only left me more open for unwanted friendly advances from my fellow music listeners (if I dare call you such). Each of you with your own suggestions in how I should add increasingly shittier music to my playlist. It was as if in my new found happiness, I had brought on an even greater form of turmoil upon myself. It was at this point that I realized no matter how I approached life, I was doomed to be unhappy. If I'm going to be miserable anyway, I might as well be miserable while writing reviews of fake metal albums I know I'm going to hate. So fine. I'll start writing for the delight of you ingrateful sperm smears once again.

I hope you queefs are happy.

- Brenocide \,,/


P.S, 
Victoria, feel free to e-mail meeting places, scantily clad photos and any future sex-craved pleading to brenocide@thatsnotmetal.com 


Thanks