Malevolent Creation Guitarist Liar, Possible Crackhead

Earlier this week, a story started making the rounds on the Internet about how Malevolent Creation guitarist Phil Fasciana supposedly intervened during a convenient store robbery and saved the day by shooting the would-be assailant in the face with his own gun. All of this information, plus way more details, was sent via email to Blabbermouth.net, which chose to run the story.

Here's the first problem: none of it ever happened. The second? No one at Blabbermouth bothered verifying the events.

Even if the folks at Blabbermouth were tight enough with this Malevolent dude (btw: I've never listened to the band, but can tell they're death metal awfulness) to take the story at face value, there are definitely enough red flags in it to realize something was amiss. My biggest clue: that the "80-lb. crackhead" actually had two weapons. If you were a crackhead, which would you prefer: two guns or more crack? I know I'd go for the latter.

A British outlet called Rock Radio finally called Ft. Lauderdale police (of course it happened in Florida, where else?) who confirmed that none of this ever took place. They also stated that the last time local police encountered Fasciana, it was over a domestic dispute at his home in April.

Why did he lie? Was he trying to garner attention for MC's forthcoming tour? Was Fasciana trying to impose a new uber-brutal image straight out of the gangsta rappers' manifesto? Who know? And ultimately, who the fuck cares? He's in Malevolent Creation.

The bottom line is, this entire situation illustrates the difference between "blogging" and "journalism." Amen.

We Lost The King of Pop...

... but we still have the Prince of the Rodeo.

Happy hump day, y'all!

Blackened Is The End

I'm not going to front and pretend that I've ever listened to Repulsion (unless you count that odd little moment in time when it was Type O Negative's original moniker), but I definitely came of age during the Brutal Truth era.

Still, when I got a press release about the Blackened Music Series performance at Brooklyn's Masonic Temple at the end of July, I got pretty excited. In addition to seeing BT headline a big venue, openers Pig Destroyer will be making a triumphant return to NYC. And Repulsion fans have even more reason to rejoice: apparently, not only is this their first NYC show EVER, but they're also playing their seminal album, Horrified, in its entirety (actually, their only album).

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Was That A Bad Date?

Seriously, someone help me figure this out. Since I tend to have an aversion to dating, sometimes I can't even tell anymore. Here are the facts: dude and I met online and spent roughly two-three weeks playing email and phone tag until we finally settled on a date.

We met at a bar in the East Village. Since I got there a little late, he was already on his first drink, but soon enough I got my whiskey consumption started. We talked, we chatted, we compared notes about our unique childhoods. He confessed that he wasn't all that tech savvy (which is why I'm almost positive he isn't reading this right now). And we drank. A bunch. But while I stuck to my "healthy" drink of double shots of Jack Daniels with a club soda chaser, dude mixed vodka, bourbon and lord knows what else. Advantage: me.

After about four rounds of liquor, we decided to change locations to another bar—one that I am convinced must be a drug front because it was well situated, but hella empty for a Friday night. This time, instead of sitting on stools, we sat at a booth across from one another. More small talk ensued, and soon enough, he held both my hands while reaching in for the first kiss. Fuck it, I went for it and we made out. He wasn't a bad kisser, but he was definitely an OVER-kisser. What is over-kissing? Let's just say it's comparable to the kind of junior high basement party makeout session that left you with lockjaw.

How much of an over-kisser was this guy? After a while, he wasn't even sitting on his side of the booth. He was bold enough to squeeze in next to me at the table to continue the kiss fest. Now I'm all for a good makeout session, why else would I keep indulging him? But the bar was nearly empty, with only one other group sitting around. I was seriously ready for them to shout, "Get a Room!" at any moment and it made me a little self conscious.

After an hour or so (time, like our conversations that evening, remain a little blurry), he walked me towards home along First Avenue, but insisted on pushing me up against several buildings so we could kiss some more. Jeez, yo. I know I'm cute, but let a girl up for some air. At 14th Street, we parted. I can't remember the small talk we had, or if we agreed to see each other again. But I'm not exactly sitting by my phone waiting for a text message.

Still, one of the thoughts that haunted me all weekend: Was that a bad date? Was all that booze a Dating Don't? Since I can't tell, I want opinions. Just remember to keep it classy.

Hank III - Live in Brooklyn

There are many artists clamoring for the now-vacant title of Hardest Working Man in Show Business, but my vote goes unquestionably to Hank Williams III. The reason is simple: I've never seen another performer play three completely different (yet equally raucous) sets without taking a break in between. So when his tour pulled in to Brooklyn's Music Hall of Williamsburg on the eve of my birthday, I knew I had to be there.

Williams has always been a creative soul with an identity crisis, balancing his love of heavy metal and punk rock with his country pedigree. His approach to expressing these genres is a methodic one: tackle each style, one at a time. Starting off with a tradition country set and a band that included fiddle, banjo, stand-up bass and steel guitar players, Williams took the audience on a musical tour of the American South, churning out both original and classic yarns based on tales from West Virginia, Georgia, Texas, and Tennessee. The most rancor was reserved for the latter, particularly Nashville's Grand Ol' Opry for refusing to grant his grandfather, the country legend Hank Williams, a posthumous reinstatement. [For more info or to sign the online petition, click here.]



From there, he ramped things up by changing hats (literally) and going into the Hellbilly part of the night with Assjack, bringing out singer Gary Lindsay to help belt out rockers like "Six-Pack of Beer," "Country Heroes" and "Life of Sin." Of note: after many years of circulating official bootlegs, Assjack will finally be releasing their official debut on Curb Records, due out on August 4.



It really wouldn't be a Hank III show without a final punk rock set, though at this point most of the crowd had cleared out. Paying particular homage to GG Allin and the Murder Junkies (GG's brother Merle and drummer Dino took the stage for a song), the band went through several hellacious, industrial-strength tracks and teased the audience with riffs on Slayer's "Reigning Blood" and Ministry's "Stigmata." After much sound and fury—not to mention equal parts spilled beer and blood—the show came to a frenzied, sweaty end.



For more photos, check out the gallery here.

Let's Deport Speidi

As much as I loathe to devote any of my time, bandwidth or breathe on the gruesome twosome known as "Speidi," I found this post on E! Online interesting. Apparently, they've launched a poll to see if their viewers are indeed sick of these two walking organ donors.

Seriously, why do you need a poll? There's this thing I learned about in journalism school called "news value" and that the established media are "gatekeepers." So really? Do you have to ask? Just stop reporting on them.

The debate I'm really interested in is to see if maybe President Obama can write a bill to have them deported. I think they'd do really well in Germany.

Shut Up And Listen To... Monster Magnet

During my college days, I spent many hours listening to New Jersey's Monster Magnet in altered states. There was just something about all their psychedelic influences, the power rock chords and singer Dave Wyndorf's constant references to Marvel Comics characters (in fact, he once told me during an interview that he strived to write lyrics the way Jack Kirby drew comics—all angular and greater than life) that ingratiated Monster Magnet to me, particularly their watershed 1995 album, Dopes To Infinity. To this day, it still feels like home.

Yet like so many other bands, Monster Magnet subsequently ran out of steam and released a series of sub-par records that sullied their otherwise stellar catalog.

Last month, I went to see Monster Magnet—now reunited with guitarist/Atomic Bitchwax founder Ed Mundell—on a whim, hoping they'd ignore their last few albums. Not only did they exceed my expectations, but they also played all their standards, starting with the opening track from Dopes, plus underground classics like "Zodiac Lung," "Tractor," "Spine of God," "Melt," and my favorite song by them, "Blow 'Em Off." The result? I fell into their vortex all over again and listened to them for the next three days.

So today, in concord with Music Monday on Twitter, I'm telling all you suckers, LISTEN TO MONSTER MAGNET.