naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (El Dorado: Miracle/Cheat)
Dear god, PLEASE tell me I have some Crimson Glory fans reading me.

I have loved Crimson Glory since Sargon introduced me to them almost 20 years ago. Their singer, Midnight, was . . . one of THE voices of metal. IS one of THE voices of metal. Razor-sharp, indescribable. Seriously, indescribable. That trademark wail either earns die-hard fans or drives people off, wincing, but nobody can be indifferent to it. The human voice doesn't really do that kind of thing, so listening to him was always kind of uncanny. Unreal.

They put out an incredible album, Transcendence, and things went downhill from there. Their next album was a flop. Midnight couldn't keep his shit together so he left the band, and they only put out one more album because without Midnight, they were just a really good metal band with a string of stand-in singers trying to fill in for a guy with one voice in a hundred million.

Midnight's death a while back hurt like hell, because it put the last nail in the coffin of hope for a reunion tour and album. Never going to be another voice like him.

Except there totally, totally is.



Shit oh my fucking Christ. My hackles went up and my jaw dropped and I still can't believe I fucking heard that. That is not Midnight. That is some guy named Todd La Torre. And he sounds almost exactly like Midnight. So much so that it is genuinely kind of frightening.

They've taken him on, of course. Crimson Glory have made kind of a career fucking up despite being awesome. Please, please, PLEASE, let them put out just ONE album with this guy. Getting handed second chances like this DOES NOT FUCKING HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE. EVER.

Except it did, and it's fucking awesome.

A link to the original version. Just so those of you unfamiliar with Crimson Glory can investigate.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (El Dorado: Miracle/Cheat)
Dear god, PLEASE tell me I have some Crimson Glory fans reading me.

I have loved Crimson Glory since Sargon introduced me to them almost 20 years ago. Their singer, Midnight, was . . . one of THE voices of metal. IS one of THE voices of metal. Razor-sharp, indescribable. Seriously, indescribable. That trademark wail either earns die-hard fans or drives people off, wincing, but nobody can be indifferent to it. The human voice doesn't really do that kind of thing, so listening to him was always kind of uncanny. Unreal.

They put out an incredible album, Transcendence, and things went downhill from there. Their next album was a flop. Midnight couldn't keep his shit together so he left the band, and they only put out one more album because without Midnight, they were just a really good metal band with a string of stand-in singers trying to fill in for a guy with one voice in a hundred million.

Midnight's death a while back hurt like hell, because it put the last nail in the coffin of hope for a reunion tour and album. Never going to be another voice like him.

Except there totally, totally is.



Shit oh my fucking Christ. My hackles went up and my jaw dropped and I still can't believe I fucking heard that. That is not Midnight. That is some guy named Todd La Torre. And he sounds almost exactly like Midnight. So much so that it is genuinely kind of frightening.

They've taken him on, of course. Crimson Glory have made kind of a career fucking up despite being awesome. Please, please, PLEASE, let them put out just ONE album with this guy. Getting handed second chances like this DOES NOT FUCKING HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE. EVER.

Except it did, and it's fucking awesome.

A link to the original version. Just so those of you unfamiliar with Crimson Glory can investigate.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Kiss Kiss!)
I'm looking for a sexy song on behalf of an acquaintance, and am hoping you can help. It apparently made the rounds of the internet a few years back and featured a woman singing/talking about being a puppy girl for her lover. It was apparently really sexy, and featured a lot of talk about the things she did for him, him punishing her, etc. Not getting a solid lead on the genre of music, but we know it's not Lords of Acid's Doggie Tom.

This is rather obscure and as I have not heard it in person, I realize my description may be unhelpful, but you all have pulled through long shots before, and honestly, how many puppy play songs are there out there? I figure you lot of darling perverts probably know them all.

Help me, internets!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Kiss Kiss!)
I'm looking for a sexy song on behalf of an acquaintance, and am hoping you can help. It apparently made the rounds of the internet a few years back and featured a woman singing/talking about being a puppy girl for her lover. It was apparently really sexy, and featured a lot of talk about the things she did for him, him punishing her, etc. Not getting a solid lead on the genre of music, but we know it's not Lords of Acid's Doggie Tom.

This is rather obscure and as I have not heard it in person, I realize my description may be unhelpful, but you all have pulled through long shots before, and honestly, how many puppy play songs are there out there? I figure you lot of darling perverts probably know them all.

Help me, internets!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Tricky Pixie: Daughter of the Glade



Self-described as "gypsy celtic folk rock." S. J. Tucker has a wonderful voice, and goddamn, seriously, it's five minutes of super-sexy wish-I-still-danced music. Lyrics are totally awesome and readable at the link.

HOT.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Tricky Pixie: Daughter of the Glade



Self-described as "gypsy celtic folk rock." S. J. Tucker has a wonderful voice, and goddamn, seriously, it's five minutes of super-sexy wish-I-still-danced music. Lyrics are totally awesome and readable at the link.

HOT.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Juggernaut)
Shortly after leaving for Oklahoma City and the Nightwish concert with more than an hour to spare, we discovered that the turnpike was backed up for six miles, with no way to get off the goddamn thing. And when I say backed up, I mean that we were creeping along at about three miles an hour for most of it. It briefly opened up halfway through, and we burned it up until we hit another choke point and finally passed the road crew laying hot asphalt.

By that time, we were not just wishing that the people responsible would die, we were wishing that they would die slowly, painfully, in front of their children, and that it would hit YouTube.

I was becoming so enraged that I required enough antilycanthropic serum to make my tongue go numb. No lie. I was deeply glad it was [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and not me or Sargon who was driving, because I think either of us would have pulled some kind of kamikaze stunt right through the fence on the freeway shoulder and into the trees beyond.

So we got away from the construction, finally, and we realized that we were going to be late. Like, half an hour to an hour late.

"We will never make it," said Sargon.

"Stop saying that," I said.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND THESE SLOW FUCKERS WHO DRIVE THE SPEED LIMIT IN THE PASSING LANE." [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva said,* and there was promptly a hollow thud as her lead foot hit the floor.

We went about eighty-five most of the way, except for one brief stop to get food, which was made up for by the experience of passing a semi rig in a minivan going about a hundred. No lie.

We were not going to miss the Nightwish signing. This possibility simply did not exist in our continuum, and somehow [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva made the lost time reappear by hauling ass like a Formula One driver carrying medicine to the home for blind orphan puppies with bee stings. It was, indeed, driving like a [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva out of hell.

We got there in the nick of time. The signing was almost over. We were the last ones in line but for two extremely teenage girls and their mom. Close.

The guy ahead of us was, like, 17, and had written the band a letter. It had something Finnish written on it. He had been listening to Nightwish since he was "like, six years old." Thank you, anonymous Okie boy. I need practice feeling old. No, really.

I thanked the band for coming way the hell out here. Seriously, the venue was this . . . this cross between a roller skating rink and a honkytonk bar, with wood floors they use for line dancing most nights. It was really big, but the parking lot was gravel, with empty lots all the way around it and on the other side of the road. Empty lots with, like, yucca plants and shit. Serious boonies. I can only hope that they didn't feel it was too far beneath them. Dear god, the impressions people passing through must have of my state.

Anyway, I got to say hello to Marco, which was all I really wanted, and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I expressed our admiration for Tarot. And that was pretty much all there was time for.

The opening act was a band called Volbeat, a Southern Rock band. From Denmark. That was about as strange as you are imagining. Not my thing.

While we were waiting for them to finish up and for Nightwish to get set up, we ran into [livejournal.com profile] nilesta and co. You know, the peoples who adopted Jack. Jack is apparently doing really well, which is great to hear. It was good to see them, really good.

Nightwish finally came on, and opened with Seven Days to the Wolves. The show was pretty good. Anette was okay. Not bad, but not consistent, and you could hear her bouncing off the limits of what her voice can do. She does not have Tarja's range. I don't dislike her, but I don't think she has enough charisma to make up for the fact that she hasn't got the chops to sing live for a band with as diverse and difficult a repertoire as Nightwish. She did well in the studio for Dark Passion Play, but live she just can't hack it. I have seen other videos. It's not that she's bad, it's just that she's not extraoridnary, and this isn't any ordinary band, this is Nightwish

Marco, who has been in this business for something like twenty-five years, was fucking astounding, and spot-on the entire time. They did The Islander, which sounded amazing.

The band performed Ghost Love Score as an encore, which surprised me (and made me really happy, since I adore that song). Then they astounded me completely and did Wish I Had an Angel for a second encore, which had both [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I freaking out. Marco's all sexy growly during that song.

I, of course, howled my motherfucking head off** the entire time. The whole concert. Then double-time during the encores. All that practice in the car apparently paid off. My throat seems okay. Felt really good. Really, really good.

Overall, it was a damn good show on Nightwish's part. Kamelot were better, but fuck, there's no dishonor in that. Kamelot are a class act the likes of which I have never seen.

So I have a signed Nightwish poster, and two Tarot CDs signed by Marco, and a tee shirt.

Major props go to [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, who carried the day. Really and truly, without her stunt-car driving, we would not have made it in time to do the signing, and I would have been murderous with rage. She also put up with my high-volume howling the whole night. Mostly, I doubt anyone could hear it. That music was LOUD.

It's way late, so I must go to sleep now. And I do it completely satisfied, which is rare enough that I feel I should take note.

It was a good night.

* If it had been a speech balloon it would have had the wiggly, uneven lines around it, like Agatha in Girl Genius when she gets her rant on.

** I do not scream at concerts, because I am almost 32. I am not a man or drunk, so I can't pull off the drunken "WOOOOO!" So I pretty much have to howl.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Juggernaut)
Shortly after leaving for Oklahoma City and the Nightwish concert with more than an hour to spare, we discovered that the turnpike was backed up for six miles, with no way to get off the goddamn thing. And when I say backed up, I mean that we were creeping along at about three miles an hour for most of it. It briefly opened up halfway through, and we burned it up until we hit another choke point and finally passed the road crew laying hot asphalt.

By that time, we were not just wishing that the people responsible would die, we were wishing that they would die slowly, painfully, in front of their children, and that it would hit YouTube.

I was becoming so enraged that I required enough antilycanthropic serum to make my tongue go numb. No lie. I was deeply glad it was [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and not me or Sargon who was driving, because I think either of us would have pulled some kind of kamikaze stunt right through the fence on the freeway shoulder and into the trees beyond.

So we got away from the construction, finally, and we realized that we were going to be late. Like, half an hour to an hour late.

"We will never make it," said Sargon.

"Stop saying that," I said.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND THESE SLOW FUCKERS WHO DRIVE THE SPEED LIMIT IN THE PASSING LANE." [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva said,* and there was promptly a hollow thud as her lead foot hit the floor.

We went about eighty-five most of the way, except for one brief stop to get food, which was made up for by the experience of passing a semi rig in a minivan going about a hundred. No lie.

We were not going to miss the Nightwish signing. This possibility simply did not exist in our continuum, and somehow [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva made the lost time reappear by hauling ass like a Formula One driver carrying medicine to the home for blind orphan puppies with bee stings. It was, indeed, driving like a [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva out of hell.

We got there in the nick of time. The signing was almost over. We were the last ones in line but for two extremely teenage girls and their mom. Close.

The guy ahead of us was, like, 17, and had written the band a letter. It had something Finnish written on it. He had been listening to Nightwish since he was "like, six years old." Thank you, anonymous Okie boy. I need practice feeling old. No, really.

I thanked the band for coming way the hell out here. Seriously, the venue was this . . . this cross between a roller skating rink and a honkytonk bar, with wood floors they use for line dancing most nights. It was really big, but the parking lot was gravel, with empty lots all the way around it and on the other side of the road. Empty lots with, like, yucca plants and shit. Serious boonies. I can only hope that they didn't feel it was too far beneath them. Dear god, the impressions people passing through must have of my state.

Anyway, I got to say hello to Marco, which was all I really wanted, and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I expressed our admiration for Tarot. And that was pretty much all there was time for.

The opening act was a band called Volbeat, a Southern Rock band. From Denmark. That was about as strange as you are imagining. Not my thing.

While we were waiting for them to finish up and for Nightwish to get set up, we ran into [livejournal.com profile] nilesta and co. You know, the peoples who adopted Jack. Jack is apparently doing really well, which is great to hear. It was good to see them, really good.

Nightwish finally came on, and opened with Seven Days to the Wolves. The show was pretty good. Anette was okay. Not bad, but not consistent, and you could hear her bouncing off the limits of what her voice can do. She does not have Tarja's range. I don't dislike her, but I don't think she has enough charisma to make up for the fact that she hasn't got the chops to sing live for a band with as diverse and difficult a repertoire as Nightwish. She did well in the studio for Dark Passion Play, but live she just can't hack it. I have seen other videos. It's not that she's bad, it's just that she's not extraoridnary, and this isn't any ordinary band, this is Nightwish

Marco, who has been in this business for something like twenty-five years, was fucking astounding, and spot-on the entire time. They did The Islander, which sounded amazing.

The band performed Ghost Love Score as an encore, which surprised me (and made me really happy, since I adore that song). Then they astounded me completely and did Wish I Had an Angel for a second encore, which had both [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I freaking out. Marco's all sexy growly during that song.

I, of course, howled my motherfucking head off** the entire time. The whole concert. Then double-time during the encores. All that practice in the car apparently paid off. My throat seems okay. Felt really good. Really, really good.

Overall, it was a damn good show on Nightwish's part. Kamelot were better, but fuck, there's no dishonor in that. Kamelot are a class act the likes of which I have never seen.

So I have a signed Nightwish poster, and two Tarot CDs signed by Marco, and a tee shirt.

Major props go to [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, who carried the day. Really and truly, without her stunt-car driving, we would not have made it in time to do the signing, and I would have been murderous with rage. She also put up with my high-volume howling the whole night. Mostly, I doubt anyone could hear it. That music was LOUD.

It's way late, so I must go to sleep now. And I do it completely satisfied, which is rare enough that I feel I should take note.

It was a good night.

* If it had been a speech balloon it would have had the wiggly, uneven lines around it, like Agatha in Girl Genius when she gets her rant on.

** I do not scream at concerts, because I am almost 32. I am not a man or drunk, so I can't pull off the drunken "WOOOOO!" So I pretty much have to howl.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Panic Noodles!)
I hate nightmares.

The hell of it is that I can't explain what was so scary about it. It just was.

I was in a movie theater with my friends, going to see a movie adapted from a book that you, [livejournal.com profile] the_xtina, had written. I have no idea what it was supposed to be about, though oddly enough I know that it was a thick book. Anyway, not so bad.

Then the horrible pre-movie music turned to Art Garfunkel's "Bright Eyes", and I leaped out of my seat and ran out of the theater before the first verse was even finished. It was playing in the lobby, too, so I ran outside. And it was still playing. I couldn't get away from it.

This is playing into two fears; first, the fear of movie theaters in general, which I dislike. Second, the fear of that fucking song, which creeps the ever-loving shit out of me.

I downloaded it the other night and listened to it, just to see if I got a response, and I didn't. It was a very different mix than the one in Watership Down, and while still identifiably eerie, it was just sort of "meh."

My subconscious clearly disagrees and is now using it to terrify me.

So now I'm wide awake after five hours of sleep, with my hackles up, and the horrible, sneaking suspicion that someone I know is going to die.

Fuck you, Art Garfunkel. Fuck you and the undead zombie rabbit you rode in on.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Panic Noodles!)
I hate nightmares.

The hell of it is that I can't explain what was so scary about it. It just was.

I was in a movie theater with my friends, going to see a movie adapted from a book that you, [livejournal.com profile] the_xtina, had written. I have no idea what it was supposed to be about, though oddly enough I know that it was a thick book. Anyway, not so bad.

Then the horrible pre-movie music turned to Art Garfunkel's "Bright Eyes", and I leaped out of my seat and ran out of the theater before the first verse was even finished. It was playing in the lobby, too, so I ran outside. And it was still playing. I couldn't get away from it.

This is playing into two fears; first, the fear of movie theaters in general, which I dislike. Second, the fear of that fucking song, which creeps the ever-loving shit out of me.

I downloaded it the other night and listened to it, just to see if I got a response, and I didn't. It was a very different mix than the one in Watership Down, and while still identifiably eerie, it was just sort of "meh."

My subconscious clearly disagrees and is now using it to terrify me.

So now I'm wide awake after five hours of sleep, with my hackles up, and the horrible, sneaking suspicion that someone I know is going to die.

Fuck you, Art Garfunkel. Fuck you and the undead zombie rabbit you rode in on.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
I'm eating Dove ice cream, by which I mean it's ice cream with Dove chocolate, not actual chunks of bird. Though the cherry flavoring and reddish blobs are rather suggestive. It's yummy.

Anyway. Music.

I have obtained the new H.I.M. album and am unduly annoyed by the fact that it's not as good as I wanted it to be. It's not bad, exactly, but it's not nearly as good as Dark Light. Plus, this one has a comparatively stupid cover. Every other H.I.M. album has had really great graphic design. This one . . . not so much.

I'm also annoyed by the fact that the new Nightwish is . . . well, I'm annoyed it's not a Tarot album, frankly. Which is stupid, because Tarot and Nightwish are two completely different animals, the shared presence of Marco Hietala in all his fork-bearded lycanthropic cuteness notwithstanding.

I can't help it, though. The last Tarot album was so fucking awesome, and the new Nightwish album is so relentlessly . . . just . . . not a Tarot album.

Like when you have a craving for chocolate cake, but go to the ice cream parlor instead. It's rather stupid, under those circumstances, to bitch that the ice cream doesn't taste like cake – it's fucking ice cream, okay? And if you wanted cake, you should have gone to the fucking bakery. But that doesn't change the fact that if what you really, really want is chocolate cake, you're fucked.

I'm afraid I was wanting more cake, and I got ice cream, and while it's good ice cream, with chunks of dead bird, it's still not pushing the cake button. Yeah, Marco sings on a couple of the tracks, and you can hear more of his influence on this album than on previous releases, but their new singer, while quite gifted and obviously less difficult to work with than Tarja, is simply not quite the singer Tarja was. Why did they not hire Simone Simons away from Epica? Anyone? Answer me that.*

Then again, with the new singer, maybe their lyrics will take a turn for the less stupid. Come on. Songs about Disney movies? I realize that was several albums back, but the fact that it happened AT ALL should be cause for concern. Jesus Christ. When you have a genuinely gifted lyricist like Marco available, make use of him, for fuck's sake.

Incidentally, while I'm talking about bands that are fucking awesome, you remember a couple of months back when Sargon got to interview Roy freaking Khan from Kamelot? Yes?

Well, the interview is up on the Crypt, so enjoy.

Kamelot are still unbelievably fucking cool, just FYI, and you should still buy their albums.

If I can violently downshift into a different musical gear, thank you guys for all the help finding versions of Hallelujah. A bunch of you sent stuff, or uploaded it, so I now have virtually every version of the thing I could possibly want, including an embarrassingly bad version by Bono of U2.**

My favorite remains that live cut of K. D. Lang's, but the studio version is almost as good, and the Jeff Buckley version is very pretty. I have to confess that the original Cohen leaves me cold, and if I'd heard that version first, I would never have given the song a second listen. I'm glad it didn't happen that way.

In the comments to my original entry, [livejournal.com profile] shadowkeeper delurked (Hi!) to link me to this site, which has quite a few versions archived, including, I believe, the Bono version, which you should really listen to if only because my misery wants company. The live version in the YouTube video wasn't available, but I've uploaded it to YouSendIt here, if you want to grab it before the link goes down.

And forgive me, all, for leaping to Christian conclusions when faced with Old Testament symbolism. Leonard Cohen is Jewish, or was at the time of that writing, or at some point after it, or whatever – I understand there's debate on this point. So the symbolism is Jewish. Except for the "holy dove" line, which, though couched in a nice OT-style sexual metaphor, I think may be a bit New-Testamental. Not that I'm really all that interested in splitting patriarchal, monotheistic hairs, here. At any rate, mea culpa. I've just been smacked with the OT often enough that I no longer associate it with nice Jewish folks, but with douche-swilling fundie assholes who want to make sure I can't legally marry Angelina Jolie or vacuum miniature Republicans*** out of my rusty old uterus.

My bad.

* If any of you actually know who I am talking about and give a shit, let me know. Fuck, if you enjoy listening to any of the bands I'm talking about, sing out. I always want to know who's got similar taste in metal.

** I am dead serious when I say that this version needed to be shot deader than Old Yeller. I don't have a hate-on for Bono – well, okay, I think he's a douchenozzle – but this song was almost enough to make me repudiate the love I have for Mysterious Ways. He has been known to sing well, but believe me when I say that this was not one of those times.

*** I only support aborting asshole Republicans, which isn't all of them, but I still wouldn't take any chances with my zygote. I'm actually registered Republican, and Sargon's an asshole. I think both are dominant traits. At best, our zygote would be heterozygous for Republican and/or asshole, which would do nothing for the gene pool. At worst, it would be homozygous for both, and I can't risk bringing another asshole Republican into the world for fear he might grow up to vote. Thank goodness wide-stanced dickface doesn't run in my family. That shit skips a generation, but it's fierce, and those fuckers go into politics and try to ruin the penis-loving for everyone.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
I'm eating Dove ice cream, by which I mean it's ice cream with Dove chocolate, not actual chunks of bird. Though the cherry flavoring and reddish blobs are rather suggestive. It's yummy.

Anyway. Music.

I have obtained the new H.I.M. album and am unduly annoyed by the fact that it's not as good as I wanted it to be. It's not bad, exactly, but it's not nearly as good as Dark Light. Plus, this one has a comparatively stupid cover. Every other H.I.M. album has had really great graphic design. This one . . . not so much.

I'm also annoyed by the fact that the new Nightwish is . . . well, I'm annoyed it's not a Tarot album, frankly. Which is stupid, because Tarot and Nightwish are two completely different animals, the shared presence of Marco Hietala in all his fork-bearded lycanthropic cuteness notwithstanding.

I can't help it, though. The last Tarot album was so fucking awesome, and the new Nightwish album is so relentlessly . . . just . . . not a Tarot album.

Like when you have a craving for chocolate cake, but go to the ice cream parlor instead. It's rather stupid, under those circumstances, to bitch that the ice cream doesn't taste like cake – it's fucking ice cream, okay? And if you wanted cake, you should have gone to the fucking bakery. But that doesn't change the fact that if what you really, really want is chocolate cake, you're fucked.

I'm afraid I was wanting more cake, and I got ice cream, and while it's good ice cream, with chunks of dead bird, it's still not pushing the cake button. Yeah, Marco sings on a couple of the tracks, and you can hear more of his influence on this album than on previous releases, but their new singer, while quite gifted and obviously less difficult to work with than Tarja, is simply not quite the singer Tarja was. Why did they not hire Simone Simons away from Epica? Anyone? Answer me that.*

Then again, with the new singer, maybe their lyrics will take a turn for the less stupid. Come on. Songs about Disney movies? I realize that was several albums back, but the fact that it happened AT ALL should be cause for concern. Jesus Christ. When you have a genuinely gifted lyricist like Marco available, make use of him, for fuck's sake.

Incidentally, while I'm talking about bands that are fucking awesome, you remember a couple of months back when Sargon got to interview Roy freaking Khan from Kamelot? Yes?

Well, the interview is up on the Crypt, so enjoy.

Kamelot are still unbelievably fucking cool, just FYI, and you should still buy their albums.

If I can violently downshift into a different musical gear, thank you guys for all the help finding versions of Hallelujah. A bunch of you sent stuff, or uploaded it, so I now have virtually every version of the thing I could possibly want, including an embarrassingly bad version by Bono of U2.**

My favorite remains that live cut of K. D. Lang's, but the studio version is almost as good, and the Jeff Buckley version is very pretty. I have to confess that the original Cohen leaves me cold, and if I'd heard that version first, I would never have given the song a second listen. I'm glad it didn't happen that way.

In the comments to my original entry, [livejournal.com profile] shadowkeeper delurked (Hi!) to link me to this site, which has quite a few versions archived, including, I believe, the Bono version, which you should really listen to if only because my misery wants company. The live version in the YouTube video wasn't available, but I've uploaded it to YouSendIt here, if you want to grab it before the link goes down.

And forgive me, all, for leaping to Christian conclusions when faced with Old Testament symbolism. Leonard Cohen is Jewish, or was at the time of that writing, or at some point after it, or whatever – I understand there's debate on this point. So the symbolism is Jewish. Except for the "holy dove" line, which, though couched in a nice OT-style sexual metaphor, I think may be a bit New-Testamental. Not that I'm really all that interested in splitting patriarchal, monotheistic hairs, here. At any rate, mea culpa. I've just been smacked with the OT often enough that I no longer associate it with nice Jewish folks, but with douche-swilling fundie assholes who want to make sure I can't legally marry Angelina Jolie or vacuum miniature Republicans*** out of my rusty old uterus.

My bad.

* If any of you actually know who I am talking about and give a shit, let me know. Fuck, if you enjoy listening to any of the bands I'm talking about, sing out. I always want to know who's got similar taste in metal.

** I am dead serious when I say that this version needed to be shot deader than Old Yeller. I don't have a hate-on for Bono – well, okay, I think he's a douchenozzle – but this song was almost enough to make me repudiate the love I have for Mysterious Ways. He has been known to sing well, but believe me when I say that this was not one of those times.

*** I only support aborting asshole Republicans, which isn't all of them, but I still wouldn't take any chances with my zygote. I'm actually registered Republican, and Sargon's an asshole. I think both are dominant traits. At best, our zygote would be heterozygous for Republican and/or asshole, which would do nothing for the gene pool. At worst, it would be homozygous for both, and I can't risk bringing another asshole Republican into the world for fear he might grow up to vote. Thank goodness wide-stanced dickface doesn't run in my family. That shit skips a generation, but it's fierce, and those fuckers go into politics and try to ruin the penis-loving for everyone.

Hallelujah?

Sep. 8th, 2007 04:25 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I can't believe I have never heard this song before.

Y'all know I'm not one for the Christian iconography, but oh my god, this is a beautiful song, and it totally works here. I suddenly want to go back to playing the guitar just to learn this song so I can give it to people.



I don't know if an mp3 of this even exists, but if anyone can provide me with this version of "Hallelujah" by K.D. Lang, I'd be much obliged. It's not just a beautiful song; that is an incredible performance; she knocks it right out of the park.

And if someone has the Jeff Buckley version, that'd be much appreciated, too.

(My email is my username at livejournal.com.)

Hallelujah?

Sep. 8th, 2007 04:25 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I can't believe I have never heard this song before.

Y'all know I'm not one for the Christian iconography, but oh my god, this is a beautiful song, and it totally works here. I suddenly want to go back to playing the guitar just to learn this song so I can give it to people.



I don't know if an mp3 of this even exists, but if anyone can provide me with this version of "Hallelujah" by K.D. Lang, I'd be much obliged. It's not just a beautiful song; that is an incredible performance; she knocks it right out of the park.

And if someone has the Jeff Buckley version, that'd be much appreciated, too.

(My email is my username at livejournal.com.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian No Pants)
In primary news, Roy freaking Khan, singer for Kamelot, called my house today and conducted a phone interview with Sargon, who then put him on the phone with me and I actually got to speak to the man with the sexiest voice ever who sings for maybe my favorite band ever and who are definitely the most competent metal act still writing music today, period.*

Are we on the same page, here?

I talked to one of my ultra-heroes!

He talked to me and expressed interest in what I was saying and said that he's always wanted to write books someday when he's "too old for all this."

I am afraid I came off as a total goober, though I did manage not to commit the faux pas of admitting that I write porn or that I was not, at that moment, wearing pants. It was a near thing, but I managed to leave all that out.

He's a very cool guy, and maybe he'd be okay with it, but you know, I just didn't feel like sharing would bring us closer.

I am still so fucking jazzed, and if I think about it too much, I start shaking.

I'll let you guys know when the interview is up. For now, I strongly urge you to check out their beautiful website for free downloads and videos, including this video for "The Haunting," off of Black Halo. It's one of their very best songs off of their very best album.

What other band has a three-release arc of concept albums reworking Faust as a rock opera?

I didn't think you could name one.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go squee all over myself.

* No, not interested in debating. This is one of those indisputable things: women have a right to choose, gay marriage should be legal, I'm childfree, and Kamelot fucking rule. Tarot rock harder and because of the whole songs-about-lycanthropy thing, I love them more on some days . . . but Kamelot, Jesus, Kamelot really know what they are doing.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian No Pants)
In primary news, Roy freaking Khan, singer for Kamelot, called my house today and conducted a phone interview with Sargon, who then put him on the phone with me and I actually got to speak to the man with the sexiest voice ever who sings for maybe my favorite band ever and who are definitely the most competent metal act still writing music today, period.*

Are we on the same page, here?

I talked to one of my ultra-heroes!

He talked to me and expressed interest in what I was saying and said that he's always wanted to write books someday when he's "too old for all this."

I am afraid I came off as a total goober, though I did manage not to commit the faux pas of admitting that I write porn or that I was not, at that moment, wearing pants. It was a near thing, but I managed to leave all that out.

He's a very cool guy, and maybe he'd be okay with it, but you know, I just didn't feel like sharing would bring us closer.

I am still so fucking jazzed, and if I think about it too much, I start shaking.

I'll let you guys know when the interview is up. For now, I strongly urge you to check out their beautiful website for free downloads and videos, including this video for "The Haunting," off of Black Halo. It's one of their very best songs off of their very best album.

What other band has a three-release arc of concept albums reworking Faust as a rock opera?

I didn't think you could name one.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go squee all over myself.

* No, not interested in debating. This is one of those indisputable things: women have a right to choose, gay marriage should be legal, I'm childfree, and Kamelot fucking rule. Tarot rock harder and because of the whole songs-about-lycanthropy thing, I love them more on some days . . . but Kamelot, Jesus, Kamelot really know what they are doing.

Pwned.

May. 2nd, 2007 04:19 pm
naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
I'm behind on absolutely everything courtesy of some sort of biochemical crash that caused me to have a horrible all-of-last-week, with the bottoming-out hitting sometime Monday night. Feelings of utter despair totally pwned me. However un-fun it sounds, it was not as much fun as that.

In addition to the scariest low I've had in quite some time, I've been sleeping about ten hours a night. While this is marginally better than sleeping for four hours a night, I will not delineate the other deeply unpleasant psychological effects that make me think this is not necessarily an improvement. Suffice it to say that this is abnormal enough that I am concerned, and unless it stops this week I am going to be seeing my doctor about it.* Yes, I'm moody, I'm prone to depression, so I expect a certain amount of swing in my temper, but this is unprecedented, and it's unacceptable. I haven't been able to work since last week, when I finished a big project, and given that I have about four things barking up my ass, this is a bad thing.

There are things I intend to post, and most of them are even written. I'm just holding off on some of them until I feel up to dealing with the backlash. I find I'm really irritable and very easy to tire out, and I don't want to play or flirt or crack jokes. At all. Like I said, it's not normal. Even when I'm brooding and insufferable, I'm not usually such a humorless fucking bitch. Holy crap.

A major thank-you goes out to [livejournal.com profile] kittykiya, who has provided me with a spanking new copy of The Mark of the Horse Lord, by Rosemary Sutcliff. I now have reading material, and it is more tempting to me at the moment than slogging through Obsidian Butterfly, my current project du jour. It's not bad** as such, it's just taken a really long time to get started.

As this has largely been a pointless update, serving only to let you all know that I'm still around, quiet as I may be, I will let you go, but not without first pointing you to a truly badass video. I present:

A capella metal, courtesy of Van Canto.

Strongly recommended for fans of Kamelot/Nightwish/Tarot/Lost Horizon/power metal. You know who you are.

Yeah . . . it could be that my next post will be all about how fucking awesome the new Kamelot album is, and how much Tarot still pwns my soul. Yeah.

Metal.

That'll cheer you up, you bet!

* I'll be seeing him anyway, so there's no need to nudge me to do it; I just mean making a new appointment, as opposed to waiting for the one I have scheduled next month.

** We're just judging "good" and "bad" on a scale of Laurell Hamilton to Laurell Hamilton, here. Not Laurell Hamilton to Robin Hobb, or even Nora Roberts.

Pwned.

May. 2nd, 2007 04:19 pm
naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
I'm behind on absolutely everything courtesy of some sort of biochemical crash that caused me to have a horrible all-of-last-week, with the bottoming-out hitting sometime Monday night. Feelings of utter despair totally pwned me. However un-fun it sounds, it was not as much fun as that.

In addition to the scariest low I've had in quite some time, I've been sleeping about ten hours a night. While this is marginally better than sleeping for four hours a night, I will not delineate the other deeply unpleasant psychological effects that make me think this is not necessarily an improvement. Suffice it to say that this is abnormal enough that I am concerned, and unless it stops this week I am going to be seeing my doctor about it.* Yes, I'm moody, I'm prone to depression, so I expect a certain amount of swing in my temper, but this is unprecedented, and it's unacceptable. I haven't been able to work since last week, when I finished a big project, and given that I have about four things barking up my ass, this is a bad thing.

There are things I intend to post, and most of them are even written. I'm just holding off on some of them until I feel up to dealing with the backlash. I find I'm really irritable and very easy to tire out, and I don't want to play or flirt or crack jokes. At all. Like I said, it's not normal. Even when I'm brooding and insufferable, I'm not usually such a humorless fucking bitch. Holy crap.

A major thank-you goes out to [livejournal.com profile] kittykiya, who has provided me with a spanking new copy of The Mark of the Horse Lord, by Rosemary Sutcliff. I now have reading material, and it is more tempting to me at the moment than slogging through Obsidian Butterfly, my current project du jour. It's not bad** as such, it's just taken a really long time to get started.

As this has largely been a pointless update, serving only to let you all know that I'm still around, quiet as I may be, I will let you go, but not without first pointing you to a truly badass video. I present:

A capella metal, courtesy of Van Canto.

Strongly recommended for fans of Kamelot/Nightwish/Tarot/Lost Horizon/power metal. You know who you are.

Yeah . . . it could be that my next post will be all about how fucking awesome the new Kamelot album is, and how much Tarot still pwns my soul. Yeah.

Metal.

That'll cheer you up, you bet!

* I'll be seeing him anyway, so there's no need to nudge me to do it; I just mean making a new appointment, as opposed to waiting for the one I have scheduled next month.

** We're just judging "good" and "bad" on a scale of Laurell Hamilton to Laurell Hamilton, here. Not Laurell Hamilton to Robin Hobb, or even Nora Roberts.
naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
Sometimes I think that if my life had a soundtrack, it would be Mannheim Steamroller's Fresh Aire I - IV.

Oh, I know that these albums are little more than Disneyfied classical with a godawful gloss of 70's pop synth, a beautiful and technically proficient version of the sort of thing you'd find on a generic "Romantic Interludes" album: the modern, the medieval, and the classical all thrown together in a softcore New Age orgy. I also know that, good as they are, they paved the way for the soul-neutered drivel that plagues metaphysical bookstores to this day.

But I grew up listening to these albums. They were my first introduction to music. Revisiting them brings back powerful memories.

I had scarlet fever in the middle of a sweltering summer. It must have been over a hundred degrees, and the inside of the cadmium-red Ford EXP was violently hot, but even smothered under my blanket and huggy pillow I was cold. The Dream was playing on the 8-track, and I focused on it while Mom drove me to my grandmother's house. I stared into the EXP's rearview mirror with growing fascination. Something huge was following us, scuttling just behind the receding treeline. We were being stalked by a giant crab. I had such a high fever I was hallucinating. I couldn't have been more than four.

A year or two later, I remember standing in front of the five-foot-high speakers the first time my parents played Fresh Aire IV. The G Major Toccata opened up like an assault. One hard slam and every hair on my body stood up. The massive push of the keyboards catapulted me into a storm of sound. It's still one of my favorite pieces, exultant and terrifying in its bigness.

The smaller, silly pieces were good, too. The Cricket, with its opening chorus of insects, its cheesy medley of synth chirps and sci-fi space noises, inspired me to draw pictures of an army of bugs doing battle with a battalion of toads riding on cats. Toads firing laser beams.

Midnight on a Full Moon was my favorite at the time, with its joyous notes chopped out on a toy piano to the accompaniment of exultant horns. At once powerful and absurd, it was my one-way ticket to a wild Russian sleigh ride complete with wolves, flying horses, and really neat clothes.

But most of all, I remember the buffalo.

We often took long car trips through the countryside when I was young. Our favorite destination was Woolaroc, the 3,500-acre ranch retreat of oil baron Frank Phillips. It's a wildlife preserve, museum, and gallery now, one of the absolute coolest things in Oklahoma. I spent hours of my childhood in a darkness full of guns, shrunken heads, and taxidermy, my parents lifting me up to look at paintings.

And after the mummy-haunted dark, the drive home through brilliant sun and song. The Osage Hills are beautiful in any season, but the mixture of woods and fields becomes magical in the height of summer; the heat raises gnats from the grass and the sunlight burns the green in every leaf to a shimmering gold. We would drive home with one of the Fresh Aire albums playing, and watch the wildlife.

A captive herd of buffalo roamed the grounds, and even half-tame they were terrifying beasts. They grazed near the roadside like the black-eyed prehistoric beasts they were, in their mats of unraveling hair. With their massive shoulders, sloping spine, and silly little tails, they seemed at once laughable and monstrous. They were always there; their breath and bodies steaming in the falling snow as they stood grouped for warmth, or rain streaming from their hides in April as they foraged for new grass. And in the summer, the thick smell of them would come through the air conditioning vents, mingling with the music.

Because of the drives, we came to call those four albums "buffalo music," and I still think of them that way; they are evocative of fearlessness and freedom and long summer rides in the car, of peaceable quiet as we rode wordless as the buffalo, the music the only speech we needed.

Later, I came to appreciate those albums for the imagery they suggested to an overflowing brain. Long after the toads and laser beams, Fresh Aire II became the soundtrack for the imaginary world I created with a dear friend. I still have a hand-drawn map of that land hanging in my living room. To this day, that album recalls what little joy I had in my teenage years, and all the love I had for a place that does not exist. I will write something set there someday, and I hope that wherever he is, Chris doesn't begrudge me that.

I've been listening to all four albums over the past couple of days. The music creates a perfect triad of nostalgia, sorrow, and pleasure. Nothing brings to mind my parents' presence more powerfully, most especially my mother; no music is more deeply connected to the good parts of my childhood; and yet even those good memories are now inverted.

It's not my favorite music but it's some of the most personal music I have. And even as it gives me pleasure, it causes pain. Pain to know that summer is gone, that those times of buffalo chewing in the yellow heat, of stories passed between friends, will not come again. I have become estranged from my companion and my inner homeland, my mother is gone. Death, time, life, have introduced a sharp note.

It's a dissonance, but it's a consonance, too, these differing notes of memory. It is beautiful to play the memories back all together, like a perfect fifth. But nostalgia can shift to sorrow, that one off note intrudes, and then I feel myself reduced by grief.

Here I am on the cusp of 30, between books, between projects, moving from one life to another. Transitioning. More adult than ever, still not quite there, I am caught between memory and my next movement, suspended in paradox. Restless. A diminished fifth; almost consonant, almost harmonious.

That's me, though, isn't it? Forever singing the devil's note, just a few steps shy of the divine interval.

That's all of us.
naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
Sometimes I think that if my life had a soundtrack, it would be Mannheim Steamroller's Fresh Aire I - IV.

Oh, I know that these albums are little more than Disneyfied classical with a godawful gloss of 70's pop synth, a beautiful and technically proficient version of the sort of thing you'd find on a generic "Romantic Interludes" album: the modern, the medieval, and the classical all thrown together in a softcore New Age orgy. I also know that, good as they are, they paved the way for the soul-neutered drivel that plagues metaphysical bookstores to this day.

But I grew up listening to these albums. They were my first introduction to music. Revisiting them brings back powerful memories.

I had scarlet fever in the middle of a sweltering summer. It must have been over a hundred degrees, and the inside of the cadmium-red Ford EXP was violently hot, but even smothered under my blanket and huggy pillow I was cold. The Dream was playing on the 8-track, and I focused on it while Mom drove me to my grandmother's house. I stared into the EXP's rearview mirror with growing fascination. Something huge was following us, scuttling just behind the receding treeline. We were being stalked by a giant crab. I had such a high fever I was hallucinating. I couldn't have been more than four.

A year or two later, I remember standing in front of the five-foot-high speakers the first time my parents played Fresh Aire IV. The G Major Toccata opened up like an assault. One hard slam and every hair on my body stood up. The massive push of the keyboards catapulted me into a storm of sound. It's still one of my favorite pieces, exultant and terrifying in its bigness.

The smaller, silly pieces were good, too. The Cricket, with its opening chorus of insects, its cheesy medley of synth chirps and sci-fi space noises, inspired me to draw pictures of an army of bugs doing battle with a battalion of toads riding on cats. Toads firing laser beams.

Midnight on a Full Moon was my favorite at the time, with its joyous notes chopped out on a toy piano to the accompaniment of exultant horns. At once powerful and absurd, it was my one-way ticket to a wild Russian sleigh ride complete with wolves, flying horses, and really neat clothes.

But most of all, I remember the buffalo.

We often took long car trips through the countryside when I was young. Our favorite destination was Woolaroc, the 3,500-acre ranch retreat of oil baron Frank Phillips. It's a wildlife preserve, museum, and gallery now, one of the absolute coolest things in Oklahoma. I spent hours of my childhood in a darkness full of guns, shrunken heads, and taxidermy, my parents lifting me up to look at paintings.

And after the mummy-haunted dark, the drive home through brilliant sun and song. The Osage Hills are beautiful in any season, but the mixture of woods and fields becomes magical in the height of summer; the heat raises gnats from the grass and the sunlight burns the green in every leaf to a shimmering gold. We would drive home with one of the Fresh Aire albums playing, and watch the wildlife.

A captive herd of buffalo roamed the grounds, and even half-tame they were terrifying beasts. They grazed near the roadside like the black-eyed prehistoric beasts they were, in their mats of unraveling hair. With their massive shoulders, sloping spine, and silly little tails, they seemed at once laughable and monstrous. They were always there; their breath and bodies steaming in the falling snow as they stood grouped for warmth, or rain streaming from their hides in April as they foraged for new grass. And in the summer, the thick smell of them would come through the air conditioning vents, mingling with the music.

Because of the drives, we came to call those four albums "buffalo music," and I still think of them that way; they are evocative of fearlessness and freedom and long summer rides in the car, of peaceable quiet as we rode wordless as the buffalo, the music the only speech we needed.

Later, I came to appreciate those albums for the imagery they suggested to an overflowing brain. Long after the toads and laser beams, Fresh Aire II became the soundtrack for the imaginary world I created with a dear friend. I still have a hand-drawn map of that land hanging in my living room. To this day, that album recalls what little joy I had in my teenage years, and all the love I had for a place that does not exist. I will write something set there someday, and I hope that wherever he is, Chris doesn't begrudge me that.

I've been listening to all four albums over the past couple of days. The music creates a perfect triad of nostalgia, sorrow, and pleasure. Nothing brings to mind my parents' presence more powerfully, most especially my mother; no music is more deeply connected to the good parts of my childhood; and yet even those good memories are now inverted.

It's not my favorite music but it's some of the most personal music I have. And even as it gives me pleasure, it causes pain. Pain to know that summer is gone, that those times of buffalo chewing in the yellow heat, of stories passed between friends, will not come again. I have become estranged from my companion and my inner homeland, my mother is gone. Death, time, life, have introduced a sharp note.

It's a dissonance, but it's a consonance, too, these differing notes of memory. It is beautiful to play the memories back all together, like a perfect fifth. But nostalgia can shift to sorrow, that one off note intrudes, and then I feel myself reduced by grief.

Here I am on the cusp of 30, between books, between projects, moving from one life to another. Transitioning. More adult than ever, still not quite there, I am caught between memory and my next movement, suspended in paradox. Restless. A diminished fifth; almost consonant, almost harmonious.

That's me, though, isn't it? Forever singing the devil's note, just a few steps shy of the divine interval.

That's all of us.

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