Scenes From My Memory v. Honor Thy Father

[Podaar]

I don't know about back, but he made a few posts last week in the "Scenes from a hat" and "Random Caption Game" threads.

[Indiscipline]

Fock-a-Spock, it's like bycicle. You never unlearn and your scrotum hurts. Anyway,

Scenes From My Memory©, the thread wherein we learn that drunkenly stumbling through the door mumbling "I lost the focking keys" and immediately tripping on the carpet and falling face first on the glass managerie table is considered a triumphant return, is proud to present:


08. Learning to Live

Like Whiterun by night, the living room – also known as the History of Human and Super-Human Music Awesometeque© – becomes once again my dark beautiful playground devoid of problematic forms of life. That's what the radar tells:

Drumming Dad, Material Mom: Bedroom, working on disappointment #4 apparently.

Banging Big Bro: Bedroom, increasing the potential population wasted on socks.

Boy Band Sister: On the phone. And I mean THE phone. No mobiles, dumb or smartphones then, which meant total monopoly of the house in-out communication by the skank. My grandparents could have died years ago in a fire as far as we telephonically knew.

Indiscipline: Alone in the dark waiting for the Grand Finale. (EDITOR NOTE: Look better, you focking moron.) Ok, Rikki is there too waiting for me to fall asleep, ready to feast on my flesh, but we're not counting demonic familiars here, only demonic family.

Dear reader (because I assume only the Mod is left tolerating this drivel due to message board work ethics), put your headphones on and follow me inside My Favourite Song of the 90's© (and hold that thought, because you should know I focking love lists and charts by now.)

0.00 – 0.12: It waited to sleep, and while asleep it dreamt of electric sheep on a martial pace. If it doesn't make sense to you, please sock a Phillip K Dick.

0.12 – 0.25: Let's play Pass The Downbeat Like It's Hot!

0.25 – 0.51: From the Book of Prog©, Emerson 2:15. Thou shall not only play intricate passages. Thou shall be effortlessly able to impress sudden torque, stall and stop on a dime at will. In doubt, think Metallica tempo management and act the diametrical opposite.

0.51 – 1.12: What a focking unpretentious keyboard treat. You don't need flash and speed to make a statement. It is said a simple viola II part in Mozart's orchestrations held the simple beauty of a symphony and obviously Kevin Moore was listening.

1.12 – 1.57: Mr Myung makes a mathematical bass line groovy and Charlie Mingus proud. He hides math inside groove the same way Material Mom hid peas inside meat in order to make me swallow greens. He gives peas a chance.

1.57 – 2.20: Marillion similitudes. Simil-Marillion. Silmarillion. I told you, no life.

2.20 – 2.41: I hear a voice, but I can't shake the feeling the drums are actually singing.

2.41 – 3.10: Classy, with utter respect for micro empty spaces which enable the details to shine. I strongly believe Toto could have evolved into something similar if they only happened to be collectively allergic to cocaine.

3.10 – 3.40: Lest we forget it's still supposed to be heavy metal. Yet James can deliver the message in counterpoint to the riff weight. You have a future in musical theatre, LaBrie.

3.40 – 4.12 And we respectfully and gratefully relegate rock rythm by power chords and straight backbeat into the room on the left, joining telegraphs, bloodlettings and gaslight.

4.12 – 4.45: Thou shall also be able to cram as many notes as you can inside a bar and still keep a sense of feathery blue-sky lightness. If you succeed, thou shall explain the proceedings to Peter Hammill before he loses his mind.

4.45 – 4.57: The Lamb May Lay Down on Broadway, But It Thrives on The Andes.

4.57 – 5.11: Ticking away the moments that make up a great song

5.11 – 5.30: If it wouldn't mean certain and instant death by Mom's slipper contusion I would run to call the Drumming Dad. I've just heard a PFM analog synth lick. Let's just say we're quite, ehm, familiar with PFM here at the Indiscipline Mansion.

5.30 – 6.00: No need to go all DiMeola on me, I'm already sold, John.

6.00 – 6.30: It escalates to Pat Metheny Caught Somewhere in Time. I'm officially on musical overloading and loving it.

6.30 – 6.57: We reached a point where we can't talk about arrangement anymore. This is musical coreography. Or Twister©. It would be nice to have some vocal contribution on top.

6.57 – 7.10: Focking careful what you wish for, it belts back. I Only Want to Say, we're in Ted Neely's Gethsemane range here. And the journey is even more impressive than the destination.

7.10 – 7.41: Perfect perfect focking brilliantly perfect. A super shreddy solo would have ruined everything, killing momentum with the backlash and betraying the whole premises of the structure. The right ingredient was a sorta Comfortably Numb bendy cry to heavens. And never forget, the more your technical means are unlimited, the more it is difficult to make the right choice. (EDITOR NOTE: Master Splinter is obviously possessing the author, nothing serious.)

7.41 – 8.10: And once again it's up to Mr Moore to bring the cows back to the farm.

8.10 – 8.40: I knew it, little Shirley. Track 07 IS the core of the machine, as eloquently showed in all its naked and skeletrical glory.

8.40 – 8.54: Scroll up two paragraphs, the same applies to this one. This song is amazing for a million reasons, one of them being it features the easiest individual performances of the record while being the most difficult track to pull off as a band. In other terms, what Honest Progressive Rock should be.

8.54 – 9.07: Someone must have really loved some Seventh Son here.

9.07 – 9.21: Scroll up four paragraphs, the same applies to this one. This song is amazing for a million reasons, one of them being it features the easiest individual performances of the record while being the most difficult track to pull off as a band. In other terms, what Honest Progressive Rock should be. And yes, I do repeat under stress.

9.21 – 9.35: I'm pretty confident Atreyu was listening to this while riding Falkor.

9.35 – 10.09: And James seals the deal. (EDITOR NOTE: I fear another Master Splinter moment coming) Never forget, he's got the toughest job of all. You can hide behind an instrument but you must bare your soul when singing. And I dare say it's quite the bitch to bare your soul negotiating 11/8.

10.09 – Olympus: If you know a more focking epic way to ride out of a dream, please tell me. Now, for narrative comfort, I'll skip the part where I spin this song 13 times before going to bed dodging Rikki's ritual ninja ambush on my way. Let's just say that I fell asleep KNOWING this tune belonged to The Sacred Eminently Mockable Very Subjective Pantheon of Long Songs Where Every Second, Pause and Note Is Irreplaceable in Making Magic© which, the morning after, looked like this:

Alphabetical order, because these songs have climbed Mount Everest, and you can't and shouldn't determine which one climbed it "more".

A Day in the Life – The Beatles
Behind Blue Eyes – The Who
Burn – Deep Purple
Goodnight Saigon – Billy Joel
Hocus Pocus – Focus
In the Court of the Crimson King – King Crimson
In the Light – Led Zeppelin
Learning to Live – Dream Theater
Maggot Brain – Funkadelic
Peaches en Regalia – The Mothers of Invention
Revelations – Iron Maiden
Wind Up – Jethro Tull

And just like that I knew (and so do you if you were here from Scene 01) I had only one step left to manhood. The gory details will be generously featured in:

Coming Next (by not so popular demand): Scene 03: Fetal Threnody Strange Rendez-vous – High Education and Basic Instincts (featuring Awake Running Diary).

[Podaar]

I'm giving you the because, dammit, you earned it. Nearly eight years is a long time to tell your story, but I think it was worth the wait.

BTW, I thought this was completely hilarious:

1.57 – 2.20: Marillion similitudes. Simil-Marillion. Silmarillion. I told you, no life.

Looking forward to Awake.

[TAC]

2.41 – 3.10: Classy, with utter respect for micro empty spaces which enable the details to shine. I strongly believe Toto could have evolved into something similar if they only happened to be collectively allergic to cocaine.

Not to mention the fact that Toto were pussies.

[Indiscipline]

I'm giving you the because, dammit, you earned it. Nearly eight years is a long time to tell your story, but I think it was worth the wait.

Thank you, man, it's my pleasure. About the eight years, I feel I owe a honest explanation to the wild bunch who invested precious time reading my ludicrous story years ago and might have felt let down or slightly fooled. I owe it to myself anyway. I waited for it because I wanted to come back pumping out content and not excuses.

We switch to serious (urgh) mode for the first - and hopefully last - time in here. No bullshite.

Eight years ago I started this thing between work flights, in order to kill time and to entertain (my raison d'etre). The particular nature of my job and its unpredictable schedules makes free time crunch and expand at will. A crunch came, and for a couple of months I couldn't relax before a laptop and I left this thread on the back of my mind until - never forget I'm a focking moron - I almost forgot it.

After a year - I guess - the spark came back as well as the will to revive the thing. But when I read the messages of disappointment left in my wake I asked myself wether it was fair to once again write a check my arse couldn't cash. My arse said no and after a while - remember, focking moron here - I forgot once again.

Another year passed and the urge came back. While I was waiting for a work break to put on the work, the man behind the stage persona you know as Drumming Dad left the planet. Not mentioning the bitch it was dealing with the mundane implications being my family scattered across four different countries at the time, I just couldn't fock around on the internet with the memory of the man who gave me the gifts of music and laughter, that is not only my life but also my livelihood in a nutshell.

The years after have been kinder and full of surprises and joy, the greatest being the opportunity to be a wonderful young lady's Music Dad, passing on those gifts. Since I'm redescovering Dream Theatre with my step-daughter it seems absolutely appropriate to come back here and finish the business with all the focks I can't use with her. I believe the Drumming Dad would approve, and it doesn't hurt to write about him anymore.


Thank God there is Sir TAC, the Dean Martin to my Jerry Lewis, lightening the mood:

Not to mention the fact that Toto were pussies.

It happens when you're not in Kansas anymore. Or into Kansas, just pick one.

[Podaar]

Sorry about your Dad. Amazing blokes, Fathers. I've been missing mine these 16 years.

As someone who's raised a few step-children, and even adopted a few, I feel your joy. Not long ago, I went to Mastodon with my youngest (who isn't really young anymore) and her husband. After the show, as we were walking nervously back to our car (it's a rough neighborhood) she blurted out, "Thanks, Daddy. Without you, I don't think I would have ever heard of Mastodon. That was the funnest concert ever!"

Enjoy!

[Xanthul]

I find it absolutely amazing that after eight years I had no trouble remembering all the characters here, from Shirley to Drumming Dad (may he rest -or drum- in peace) to your wonderful and caring Banging Bro. It's a testament to the lasting impression these posts make, so hats off for that.

[TAC]

I believe the Drumming Dad would approve, and it doesn't hurt to write about him anymore.

Well glad you're back and able to continue.

Thank God there is Sir TAC

I feel the same way!

It happens when you're not in Kansas anymore. Or into Kansas, just pick one.

I actually prefer Missouri. I'll take 4-5 Shooting Star songs over anything Kansas ever did.

[King Postwhore]

And that's why you fail my friend.

[TAC]

[Indiscipline]

Way too much love and compassion, fellas. I really liked it more when you thought I was a horrible person making you feel horribler for laughing at my horriblest jokes. (EDITOR NOTE: and deliberate grammar rape apparently.)

As always, Sir TAC gives me the perfect assist to right the ship as Ancient Mariners should.
Perfect Arnold picture, mate. That's exactly what hit the Drumming Dad, Bonzo bless his soul and kindly hit the drumroll for the punchline that will get me a cottage in hell:

(EDITOR NOTE:Don't you dare, you sick focker ...)

Different strokes.

(EDITOR NOTE: .................... I focking quit ............................................................)


Now that I have the contempt of the class once again, can't focking find a reasonable reason not to jump two years forward into days of future past and unleash:


Scene 03: Strange Rendez-vous – High Education and Basic Instincts.

First things first, let's recap two seasons of Being Teenager Indiscipline© between Scenes:

Highs:

1. The lumbering villain we all love to hate and future GTA character Big Banging Bro fumbled his way into a glorious shotgun wedding, said shotgun happily held by my parents naturally. My focking luck kept on giving when the insufferable vapid banshee we have agreed to call Boy Band Sister went to college, persuing her personal quest for manmeat. Bottom line, the Mansion was mine. Tyrion Lannister finally got the focking throne.

2. Got permission to enroll in conservatory while in high school, part of my diabolic scheme to totally eschew regular education focusing on the only language and math I've always innately understood. It helped that – due to nazi forced studies since infancy and continous ambiental ear solicitation - I could sing anything I read on sheet and trascribe any interval I heard by the age of 12. (EDITOR NOTE: Since the author is focking bragging about what is essentially genetic luck, it's my duty to balance the scales making known he's still incapable of operating a washing machine at 40, so there.) (WIFE#2 NOTE: True focking story.)

Lows:

1. Solitary Shell status in high school. Despite a charmingly morbid sense of humor I couldn't exactly relate with my peers. Strangely enough, conversation starters as A) Isn't it funny how Steve Vai goes Lydian whenever he plays romantic licks? B) Why the wheelchair guy must cut the line entering class? He's already sitting. C) This basketball thing you rave about, is it some kind of rare manufact? didn't seem to work. Thank God, I found myself at least one lifelong friend: enter Techno Buddy. Completely open to every musical stimulation and conversation because instinctively curious and constantly stoned out of his focking mind.

2. Despite mildly good looks (EDITOR NOTE: Bah. Look on the left, the author is the one without boobs.) I still hadn't found a viable device to successfully give purpose to my dick. Or girlfriend, as you may like to call it. (EDITOR NOTE: I give up.) (WIFE#2 NOTE: Me too.) In my defense I could mention the family advice on the matter consisted of:

Big Banging Bro - Club. Drag. Den.

Material Mom – Mention the possibility of another woman in your life and I'm gonna stab you in the eye with a dull spoon. How was school by the way, dear?

Boy Band Sister – HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! No, you mean, really?

Drumming Dad – Listen to the old man. The first chance you've got, look her straight in the eye and produce the loudest and most vicious fart you can muster. If she doesn't kick you in the balls or call the police, she has accepted your real nature. She's the right one.

Rikki – Stay the fock away from me, you maniac. I'm castrated.


You may not believe it, but eventually I found a poor feminine soul who happened to like me. I managed to keep her around, mainly thanks to Techno Buddy's wise counseling: Buddy, I know you as the pipe of my bong, don't fock this up. No matter what, never EVER talk about music with the poor girl. Following such gems of wisdom, in a bunch of months we completed the various stages of sex without actually focking, also known as Trial of Tears.

Then the perfect storm came. Saturday afternoon, parents out of town, Indiscipline breaking every olympic record in tedious begging. It was set for the evening, after the hateful mandatory stroll downtown (I was raised in a mall-free environment). We were walking, Girlfriend#1 watching shop windows, me pushing space-time forward with the sheer power of mind and hormones. We were having the following conversation when the tragically inevitable disaster struck:

Girlfriend#1 – ... Anyway, I don't understand this fixation with oral sex.

Me – For starters, it's fifteen minutes of you being silent.

Girlfriend#1 – You focking pig, I'm gonna ...

Me – Stop. Wait.

On the left, the record store. In the window, a strange dark squared object never seen before sporting a well too familiar logo. It was the focking newborn album, looking for its daddy.

Girlfriend#1 – Darling, are you pissing in your shoes?

Me – Follow me. Trust me. It won't be long.

I grabbed the girl supposed to make a man out of me and dragged her inside.

Record Store Heroin Junkie Clerk – Hello, sweety. Looking great.

Me – I am so glad to see you, I couldn't wait for you to finally come here and do your job.

Record Store Heroin Junkie Clerk – I was talking to her.

Me – And I was talking to the elegant black-caped eternal entity who's standing behind you with a scythe in her hands. Now focking give me the new Dream Theater cd.

Record Store Heroin Junkie Clerk – Awake?

Me – No, sleepwalking, you focking pincushion.


Eventually we made it to my house, and it was sweet and beautiful.



(EDITOR NOTE: Oooooooh, you so cute.)




Obviously, I'm talking about listening to Awake after sex.
Sex was like playing Parkinson Jenga on a plane driven by Stevie Wonder.

Coming Next (if not permabanned): 6:00.

[TAC]

Drumming Dad – Listen to the old man. The first chance you've got, look her straight in the eye and produce the loudest and most vicious fart you can muster. If she doesn't kick you in the balls or call the police, she has accepted your real nature. She's the right one.


Girlfriend#1 – … Anyway, I don't understand this fixation with oral sex.

I see you skipped right over farting and went straight for the blowjob. Good man.

Eventually we made it to my house, and it was sweet and beautiful.

Your house was sweet and beautiful??

Sex was like playing Parkinson Jenga on a plane driven by Stevie Wonder.

Well I heard that kind of thing can make you blind...

[lucasembarbosa]

Amazing. This is worse than eating Tide Pods. Keep on going, please!

[Podaar]

Ok, that installment was less like peeling a scab off the inside of your eye-lid, and much more like pinching an ingrown hair on the inside of your thigh (just below the taint).

No. Praise.

Happy now?

[TAC]

Yeah, that's the best Podaar. I swear I once popped a sunflower seed out of one of those.

[Podaar]

 

Nice visual, Tim.

[Indiscipline]

Q&A! Because my readers are the best, they really focking are.

Double TAC, because we obviously have a Frankie Blue Eyes and Sammy Davis Jr thing going:

Your house was sweet and beautiful??

Safe house. 22 Acacia Avenue.

Well I heard that kind of thing can make you blind...

Ora che ho perso la vista, ci vedo di più.


Then the newcomer to this corner of insanity. Welcome, dark pilgrim.

Amazing. This is worse than eating Tide Pods. Keep on going, please!

Close. We are in range. Let's try with my pal Podaar:

Ok, that installment was less like peeling a scab off the inside of your eye-lid, and much more like pinching an ingrown hair on the inside of your thigh (just below the taint).

There. Now I'm wet.


I love you guys, I really focking do.

[TAC]

[The Walrus]

I still have no fucking clue what the fuck is happening here.

[Podaar]

I still have no fucking clue what the fuck is happening here.

Epicness, of an alcohol fueled nature. You may need to be tipsy to appreciate it (or loathe it in equal measure). Old Indiscipline is recounting his Oxy washed days of music discovery with Dream Theater and a cast of characters that... well just read it from the beginning.

[King Postwhore]

It weird that I understood all of this?

[Indiscipline]

This thread is a focking dream come true.

I still have no fucking clue what the fuck is happening here.

No worries, it means you're pretty sane. We're using this little campy Lagavulin-soaked retrospective as cover-up for our real project, that is our imminent debut in Vegas as the New Rat Pack. I am obviously Frankie since I'm blue-eyed, basically italian and this is my focking thread. Podaar glides in with panache and classy barbs as only Dean could and TAC is the only one capable of pulling off a Sammy, given his legal ownership of SIT Cyborg Eddie's bionic eye. Bosk1 is our benevolent JFK, tolerating our inanities in this den of prog debauchery as long as we provide broads and booze. He's going to pull the plug the moment he bothers to actually read the focking bollocks we're soiling his message board with.

It weird that I understood all of this?

No sir, it's splendid news, welcome aboard.

Guys, we've got Peter Lawford.


Now, still smelling of first time sex and panic, let's half-nakedly face the sequel to a focking hard to follow masterpiece:


6:00

0:00 – 0:11: John opened the previous album, now it Mike's turn, in flying focking colours I might add. And if you suspect such a wonderful drum intro is gonna make me open the Drum Intros Pantheon to visitors, you know me too focking well. Which one (no particular order) is gonna lose its place to this beauty?

Fireball – Ian Paice
The Rover – John Bonham
Rosanna – Jeff Porcaro
Stargazer – Cozy Powell
Hor for Teacher – Alex Van Halen
Run to the Hills – Clive Burr
50 Ways to Leave your Lover – Steve Gadd
Where Eagles Dare – Nicko McBrain
We're Not Gonna Take It – AJ Pero
Blood Sugar Sex Magic – Chad Smith
Walk This Way – Joey Kramer
Superstition – Carmine Appice

0:11 – 0:20: Atonal, frantic and gritty. What a difference two years make.

0:20 – 0:30: A dirty heavy elaborate Vanilla Fudge Metal, but it may be just me.

0:30 – 0:44: Wait a minute. Did they focking hire a second guitarist? If so, is he Scott focking Ian?

0:44 – 0:54: Ok, ok. I think I get it. It's 6 o'clock on a Christmas morning. Jeez.

0:54 – 1:04: Great grimy bass riff. Propably impossible without the emergence of Rage Against the Machine.

1:04 – 2:11: Thank you, James. I thought I had bought another band's release until I heard your (worringly growly) voice. Anyway, stunning rocker. It's like Space Truckin' raped Take the Time's verse and kept the resulting offspring on a proteins only diet.

2:11 – 2:25: James, you dare to push-belt out live that way and that growl is going to bite you in the winter rose before you hit 40.

2:25 – 3:14: What a powerful mess. I'm officially afraid some cupcake at the record label told the guys I&W had a pussy sound and they reacted wearing the Symbionte Costume.

3:14 – 3:52: Ok, maybe not. The Space Soda triumphantly returns, but way darker. I don't know, is losing verginity making me perceive every tone in a grimmer way?

3:52 – 4:12: It wasn't Scott Ian. It was Tom Morello.

4:12 – 5:10: What the fock happened in two years? Comparing openers, we went from Hamlet lost in the sky to a dude smoking marlboros inside a truck, from not being afraid despite worlds crumbling and sparrows falling to Yuletide midlife crisis because my weekend warrior Journey cover band sucks and my wife is fat. I focking blame grunge.

5:10 – 5:30: And here we go again with Santa's alarm clock and the contractual obligation to leave every album opener's finale on the editing room's floor.  I focked a human being for the first time in my life fifteen minutes ago and I'm pissed. By the way, let me check on the undeserved beautiful poor girl sleeping in Material Mom's bedroom before Rikki slashes her open in order to sacrifice her life essence to some Egyptian Feline Deity.


Nonetheless, we have a Joey Bishop vacant spot still available.

Coming Next (with a premature shitstorm from Awake lovers): Caught in a Web.

[Dream Team]

Agreed! Awake was a huge letdown for me.

[TAC]

Now, still smelling of first time sex and panic, let's half-nakedly face the sequel to a focking hard to follow masterpiece:

First off, I'm going to keep my clothes on.

Second, please tell me this wasn't you:

and TAC is the only one capable of pulling off a Sammy, given his legal ownership of SIT Cyborg Eddie's bionic eye.

Well, I did have this when I was a kid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxuzRxqW7mM

[TAC]

0:00 – 0:11: John opened the previous album, now it Mike's turn, in flying focking colours I might add. And if you suspect such a wonderful drum intro is gonna make me open the Drum Intros Pantheon to visitors, you know me too focking well. Which one (no particular order) is gonna lose its place to this beauty?

Fireball – Ian Paice
The Rover – John Bonham
Rosanna – Jeff Porcaro
Stargazer – Cozy Powell
Hor for Teacher – Alex Van Halen
Run to the Hills – Clive Burr
50 Ways to Leave your Lover – Steve Gadd
Where Eagles Dare – Nicko McBrain
We're Not Gonna Take It – AJ Pero
Blood Sugar Sex Magic – Chad Smith
Walk This Way – Joey Kramer
Superstition – Carmine Appice

#DaveHollandmetoo

#PhilRuddlaughsatDaveHolland

0:30 – 0:44: Wait a minute. Did they focking hire a second guitarist? If so, is he Scott focking Ian?

3:52 – 4:12: It wasn't Scott Ian. It was Tom Morello.

Great focking calls on both.

BTW, is it me or am I the only one that enjoys Tom Morello talking about Metal more than actually playing it.

undeserved beautiful poor girl sleeping in Material Mom's bedroom

Um..OK..

[Podaar]

No worries, it means you're pretty sane. We're using this little campy Lagavulin-soaked retrospective as cover-up for our real project, that is our imminent debut in Vegas as the New Rat Pack.

Switching from cheap vodka to classy and delicious single malt scotch is clearly a cheap, sad, and cynical attempt to ingratiate yourself to your audience.

Good work. Keep it up.

It weird that I understood all of this?

No sir, it's splendid news, welcome aboard.

Guys, we've got Peter Lawford.

King's more like Gleason, really.

@ King: What's weird is that you nearly spelled that sentence correctly.

--------------------------------

As for your first impressions/running commentary: I can already tell we're going to get a heavy dose of, <whinging voice> It's too heavy. It's too dark. It too different from I&W. I wish I had bigger balls and better taste so I could enjoy this.</whinging voice>

If you think I'm going to sit here and read along for ten more songs while you cringe, whimper and tear down one of the greatest rock achievements of the band who this entire forum is dedicated to, mister, well... you're right.

Carry on.

[TAC]

 

King is definitely Gleason!


To me, Awake never really started until Erotomania.

[King Postwhore]

 

To the moon with you two!

[Podaar]

undeserved beautiful poor girl sleeping in Material Mom's bedroom

Um..OK..

I agree, Tim. Having Girlfriend#1 sleep off her disappointment in his Mom's bed strains his credibility too much.

[King Postwhore]

undeserved beautiful poor girl sleeping in Material Mom's bedroom

Um..OK..

I agree, Tim. Having Girlfriend#1 sleep off her disappointment in his Mom's bed strains his credibility too much.

And here I thought Tim was the momma's boy.......

[TAC]

undeserved beautiful poor girl sleeping in Material Mom's bedroom

Um..OK..

I agree, Tim. Having Girlfriend#1 sleep off her disappointment in his Mom's bed strains his credibility too much.

But it does enhance his creepibility!

And here I thought Tim was the momma's boy.......

Nope, but I am a bosom buddy.

[Indiscipline]

Hey, gang.

It was the only bed in the house you could luminol without discovering vast crispy lost civilizations.

[Podaar]

[Indiscipline]

I know, I'm focking disgusting. And probably getting worse.

Nonetheless, Q&A! Because you're a funny bunch and I don't do recaps until midnight, like a reverse Gremlin.

To the moon with you two!

Fly me to the moon, King.

To me, Awake never really started until Erotomania.

Thank you TACleaks for almost spoiling next episodes.

For my home-minted money, from track 3 to 11 it's on par with I&W.

BTW, is it me or am I the only one that enjoys Tom Morello talking about Metal more than actually playing it

Yep, he's got a funny enthusiastic nerdy fan side about his views. He can get a tad annoying when pontificating about heavy riffage like he's Iommi's heir or something.

Spoken by the flailng spastic nobody who makes pantheons and charts in a surreal thread, naturally.

Switching from cheap vodka to classy and delicious single malt scotch is clearly a cheap, sad, and cynical attempt to ingratiate yourself to your audience.

I live to serve, I really focking do. Oban 14?

As for your first impressions/running commentary: I can already tell we're going to get a heavy dose of, <whinging voice> It's too heavy. It's too dark. It too different from I&W. I wish I had bigger balls and better taste so I could enjoy this.</whinging voice>

Controversy! And you've seen nothing yet. Stick with me until The Astonishing, in approximatively 67 years.

I loved Awake's hairy and angsty balls but - like King Lear's Fool - I have the privilege to say what sane or socially conscious fans aren't allowed to confess: 6:00 made you go whattafock in 1994, assuming your ears were still ringing with Learning to Outro.

Agreed!

Greetings! Would you like to be our Joey Bishop? 

[Podaar]

I loved Awake's hairy and angsty balls but - like King Lear's Fool - I have the privilege to say what sane or socially conscious fans aren't allowed to confess: 6:00 made you go whattafock in 1994, assuming your ears were still ringing with Learning to Outro.

You know, it's kinda funny, and I chalk it up to me being a dense "metal-head", but at the time I didn't find Awake to be a huge departure from I&W. Over the years I've heard folks say that they were sure DT had a new singer, that the album was depressing, that they blamed Grunge (ahem), but I liked it from the start. 6:00 didn't make me go whattafock in 1994. I was 33 and blissfully married to my second mistake and was pretty much happy that I had another DT record.

Listening to the song, while reading along with your running commentary does give me a different perspective, though. I see the concern better in retrospect than I ever would have, at the time, on my own.