Words by Andrew Lampela
Andrew Lampela was an employee and eventual co-owner of the 40-year old institution, Haffa’s Records in Athens, Ohio, just outside of the dark woods from which Skeletonwitch emerged. Over his years there he has played in a number of bands ranging from rock to noise to metal and has taken his lifelong knowledge of music into contributing to a number of publications.
The duration of individual pieces tended to vary, but the crux of it was this.
I always faced East, looking across the blacktop from the corner exit by the Bartlett’s house, my eyes following the tendrils of gravel that had washed across the parking lot from the edge of the playground. The late summer sun hung over the Elementary building just past the one o’clock position in a sky heat-baked a pale blue, devoid of clouds. I would then look down to see a weathered push broom in my left hand and a rusted metal dustpan in my right. As I raised my eyes forward, I noticed a complete absence of sound, no birds, no insects, no breeze through the trees. At the very moment I began to step towards my task, everything in this scene begins to grow, slowly at first, but quickly doubling each increment while simultaneously losing all texture and definition. Pebbles the size of vans, car tires the size of houses, the red brick facade of the school looming like a stadium-sized behemoth blotting out the sun, all becoming as smooth and featureless as glass as the silence screamed through the air.
This is, unfailingly, where I would wake up, hyperventilating and unnerved. This is the only recurring nightmare I can remember having, starting in my early teens and following me to college, fucking me up for days after. I never could pin down why the indifferent smoothness of that world filled me with such paralyzing dread, and by the time higher education and drugs gave me some tools to dive in, this dream that had randomly terrorized me for a decade took a back seat to the reoccurring nightmare of having no game with ladies, flailing rudimentarily in the bass slot, and whole-heartedly derailing my potential down some dubious paths. For a time, however it ranked supreme amongst the night frights.
It likely stemmed from a punishment handed down by the principle of said Elementary, dealt my way for not intervening while some younger kids threw rocks through the windows of the shuttered school building behind my childhood home. Those kids were assholes that wouldn’t have listened to anybody and would have directed those rocks my way until some adolescent territoriality went down. Why was this paralyzing scene tied to such a mundane punishment? Brains are fickle, my friends, so we’ll never know.
I hadn’t thought about this in decades, this stillness engulfing me as the world I thought I understood inexplicably lost definition and meaning, engulfing me in loss and grief my young mind couldn’t comprehend. This long lost synapse found a kindred spirit over the last year, however, as I tried to imbue this simple little metal column with a feeling of purpose. Nothing lofty or earth shattering, but even as small a platform as this shouldn’t waste a chance at saying something of merit.
But what the fuck do we do with all of this? It’s near impossible to separate the individual dreads into topics when the atrocities of the world take a back seat to goddamn Greenland. When things are so soul-crushingly bleak that writing about some goofy metal albums seems like the utmost frivolous privilege in the face of watching helplessly as the same people crushing our rights with laws have undoubtedly broken every single law known to man multiple times just today?
Words feel shamefully inadequate in the face of what is currently happening. Not that any of the sycophantic people tripping over themselves to defend a mind-numbingly stupid ruling class would read them. How many unprecedented events can we all go through before morality itself begins to gloss over into a malignant ball of undefinable rage and sadness that just… is?
There is a palpable sense of fatigue in the eyes of everyone I know. Waking up and going to work while we argue with internet bots if pedophilia and fascism are really that bad? Is that what the new normal is? Hoping those barbaric pencil-dick chickenshits that executed Renee Good and Alex Pretti and Keith Porter and who knows how many we haven’t seen get brought to justice some day while I sit down to to check out some tenth-wave party Thrash record? What even is justice anymore?
There is a particular vastness to the hopelessness of considering your place in this world. A gut punch that separates itself from the daily variety depression that has permeated our lives. Doing my laundry isn’t hopeless, it just sucks. Going to the DMV isn’t hopeless, it just nukes your afternoon. Remembering how to play my own songs so I don’t Dunbar another show and bum my bandmates out? An albatross I wear every time I sit down behind the kit, but not hopeless. I am so so sorry, Dunbar.
Stopping a two party system from constantly fucking me into poverty and obedience while protecting the wealth class from any and all consequences? That’s feeling pretty fucking hopeless these days, on a cosmic scope. The lies, the blatant grift, the audacious gaslighting, the violent colonialism, it’s all right there in glaring daylight. We as a species are toast, frothing over whether Kid Rock or Bad Bunny won an imaginary culture war. Instead of funding social systems like universal health, public transportation, and education, we’re paying the people implicated in a world wide human trafficking ring to redact the names of human traffickers from files that prove they human trafficked. Evil by degrees is still evil, and party lines are a mirage when all we get in the face of the American Empire collapsing is a sternly worded letter that isn’t even endorsed by all the Democrats. We’re living a garbage-binned Vonnegut draft even he would think is too absurdly stupid to finish.
Nobody needs to hear this, we are all painfully aware as tariffs ravage a farming industry that largely voted for exactly what they got and a bill designed to strip women of their votes, amongst many other inherently evil things, is not only being considered, but close to passing. What the fuck are we doing here, man?
So yeah, I just gave up. There’s clarity in solitude, a chance to chisel some lines in the glassy smooth surface of life’s chaos, a chance to work on my shortcomings through a lens of sobriety for the first time since the early ‘90s (four years and counting). I drove around a lot, reconnecting to The Roots and Hawkwind, Fairport Convention and Outkast, and Black Crowes, and as much Studio One Ska as I could get my hands on, and a beat-up Cobra Records comp that lived in my car and marinated in the global morass of inertia and rage. As good as it felt to lose myself in Illadelph Half-life over and over, I couldn’t shake the survivor guilt of the simple act of being able to do that.
Even the silver linings came with their own bummers. People sure are frothing to let you know just where they stand these days, and it’s pretty freeing excising the dumbshits from my life. It really sucks that it is an impossible task eradicating this widespread xenophobia and homophobia and racism and genocide that has raged to the surface from public acceptance. America has been busy chiseling its own definition into the smooth facade of peace and prosperity, ugly pieces of America’s history that were far too easily stoked to flames, and yet as inevitable as taxes and death. We are a savage species prone to violent tribalism, and if any of these soulless turds had bothered to read the history books they love to ban, they’d know this won’t end well.
And that sucks. I do my best to stay busy and avoid the siren’s wail of the nine hour meme scroll. Alas, I am but a mortal man and often catch myself slipping into the vegetative glow of fixing infected hooves and people eating to people reacting to people doing dumb shit to monetize not getting a real job and raw footage of war crimes committed by a Government my taxes pays for. We have perfected intelligence to such a degree that it has made us stupid beyond belief. Every time I’ve sat down to write this column since June I’ve felt like a broken record. Complicit in the barrage of information, millions of talking heads saying nothing at all with the confidence of a thousand suns. The internet sucks, says old man shaking fist. It’s a wash of ever-growing paranoia that has lost all definition of truth and nuance, a featureless horizon of endlessly repeating histories our species refuse to acknowledge. Every time I think my words deserve to exist, the dream begins to grow, the pool of knowledge unimpeded by facts and truth. Smooth as glass, featureless and terrifying.
As much as I love droning guitar loops on the floor in the dark, it isn’t anonymous silence that is going to get us out of this. I would love to dissociate in an undisclosed cabin filled with guitar pedals and donuts, but it’s almost a moral obligation to talk shit about these boners. I have been lucky enough to play shows around the area and see the power of community, to feel firsthand the loathing for these fucking idiots. As democracy unravels, all we have is each other, and the basement Hardcore shows and art gallery drone sets have given me faith that the moral majority, at its core, still exists.
So here we are, more words on the internet. As hopeless as it seems, silence only abets these motherfuckers. Read books, make art, support your friends, build your community, protect your communities. We are an incredibly lucky species to have evolved on a planet that supplies resources that allow us to chase our passions. We can hopefully remember our humanity enough to figure out a way other than mining it for toxic precious metals so we can piss our lives away watching reels of world collapse in real time on our poisonous pocket TV. It’s not too late.
It feels stupid to even review a Converge record. You’re either on board at this point or you’re not, and that’s fine, they seem cool with where they’re at. You Fail Me hit at a time when I desperately needed it. Not quite saving my life but not not saving my life, so I’m on board. They are undeniably their own thing now, a band that transcends labels like Hardcore and Metal. They’re just, like Converge. I love Jane Doe as much as the next person, but it doesn’t even crack the top three for me, that’s how devastatingly effective Converge has been growth over their discography. Love Is Not Enough (Deathwish Inc) continues that streak. It rips, it dirges, it Mercyful Fates (tell me those aren’t Denner/Sherman riffs all over that song). It is a sleek, almost accessible version of Converge without losing an ounce of ferocious energy. Another stunner.
It has been forever since I wrote a column, so it would be a slight not to mention a few records that helped me stay afloat since. Blood Monolith has been a constant since The Calling Of Fire (Profound Lore) was released. This is primal Death Metal done to perfection. Guttural production but never muddy, propulsive technicality without over-shredding, unrelentingly crushing. It really is all you could ask for – a modern take on a classic sound. It’s way too easy for Death Metal drums to rely on speed over everything, so special shout out to Nadia Tydings-Lynch for infusing a crusty swing to one of my favorite bash-the-steering-wheel drum performances of the last year. Phenomenal record.
Look, Gruesome know they sound like Death. We all know, Mr. Internet Smartypants. Anyway, they’ve hit their Human-era Death phase with Silent Echoes (Relapse) and whoo boy, it fuckin’ smokes from first note to last. I have no other notes. If you like Death and aren’t a fart-sniffing purist who can’t get past their own opinion, this is a must and another one that has been a constant in the rotation since its release. I cannot wait for them to get a boat propeller for the drums and get into some Individual Thought Patterns business next.
Speaking of bassist Robin Mazen, she gets a two-fer this month, as Castrator also dropped a gem in Coronation Of The Grotesque (Dark Descent). I’ll be honest, my interest in this was piqued by Clarissa Badini’s involvement. What can I say? That Vicious Blade is one of my absolute faves in recent memory. Anyways, Castrator are a different strain of Death Metal. A little more modern? A little more technical? At times, it appeals to the Grind part of my brain while still firmly rooted in Death. Wasn’t an immediate fit, but it has grown to be a recent go to and a perfect soundtrack to the crumbling world.
I haven’t been on much of a Black Metal kick lately, but the cover of Sepulchre‘s Psalms Unto Caesar (Last Rites) popped into my feed at the beginning of the year and it’s pretty perfect. Nothing revolutionary, nothing mind-bending, just classic Black Metal that matches exactly what you want out of that cover. Well worth the time. One the other end of it all, Sunken play a rich, atmospheric style of Black Metal on Lykke (Eisenwald) and it fit the Winter mood. Expansive and moody with some esoteric vocals that I swear settle in after a listen or two.
I feel particularly bad about ditching writing when I did because my dude Sean at Wise Blood had a monster back half of the year. The Graveripper record alone seals it for me, but c’mon, Sacred Leather? Bloodletter? Turian? Kiritsis? An absolutely scorching third entry in the Faster Than The Devil split series? All bangers, all worth checking out. It probably seems like I’m always pushing Wise Blood releases and really, if we can’t help our friends out, what are we doing? This stretch of releases, however, would’ve hit my radar regardless due to the array of styles and quality of jams. It’s merely a bonus to spread the word for a label that so obviously does it for the love.
Denial of Life‘s Witness The Power (Creator Destructor) is a brisk twenty-two minutes of high quality Crossover Thrash, very into it. I gave up on Witchcraft a long time ago, but damned if Idag (Heavy Psych Sounds) didn’t worm its way into rotation and bloom into a total keeper. Very into Faetooth‘s style of earthy Doom on Labyrinthine (Flenser). What year is this? A new Deadguy record thirty years after their last one and holy shit they didn’t miss a beat. This is fuckin’ great. It’s been even longer since Coroner, a band that got me through high school some thirty five years ago, has put out an album, and Dissonance Theory (Century Media) exceeds expectations tenfold, standing shoulder to shoulder with their classics.