Yes, that is a real band name. And yes, I’m excited for it. You should be, too — and not just so you can tout your ability to pronounce “Buioingola.” No, I can’t pronounce it, but I can spell it, something their label can’t even do:
All my shithead pedantics aside, what do we make of the music?
Cvlt Nation calls ’em “darkwave/doom-crust,” which is arguably a better band name than “Buioingola” (okay, I promise I’ll stop). But I’m not quite sure if the two songs I’ve heard fit into such a strict genre definition. And I’ll admit, I don’t hear a lot of the Amebix influence in the few tracks I’ve heard, but my familiarity with punk and its myriad rebellious offspring is still rudimentary at best, so that could end up being anything.
But what I do hear is this: throaty yells and mid-tempo blast beats sandwiching dissonant distorted guitars on “Latenza” that swirl together in a stormy whirlpool of pain or angst or conflict or… something. Fuzzy bass notes punch through on “Silenzio” like a right hook from Cookie Monster, while the band’s darker side enshrouds the air. I found it difficult to breathe by its end.
I’ll admit I’m not crazy about the vocals (the glottal cleans in “Latenza” had me furrowing my brow at first), and they deviate pretty far from the usual blackened-everything far I’ve been listening to these days. But the songwriting is there. Buioingola has an aura of weirdness that, for all the odd genre stir fry they’ve got going on, doesn’t quite explain why I find their music so alluring. I’m looking forward to finding out why in a couple days when it releases on the 31st.
Ronnie James Dio. Lemmy Kilmister. Tony Iommi. Rob Halford.
I could go on.
The Metalsphere has no shortage of iconic figures, both among the living and the dearly departed. But no matter their current mortal state, they all share one thing — the ability to inspire and motivate new blood to follow in their combat-booted footsteps toward new heights of metal greatness.
But idol worship isn’t limited to rock gods, y’know; Gorgonna and her kiddie cohorts have their own holy heroes. And I don’t mean the ones we’ve imposed on her — Gorgonna took to revering these ones all on her own. Maybe you’ve heard of them, maybe you haven’t — it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that some upstart fictional figures have usurped a large chunk of the hero-worship supply that Mama and Daddy used to receive.
I know — I had the same gut reaction you’re having now. (“How dare they!!”) But surely you can remember your own parents’ quizzical looks when they saw how into the kooky music video for “Holy Diver” you were, or their raised eyebrows as you stapled posters of some upstanding, pink-bearded gentleman named “Dimebag” to the plaster walls of your room.
As parents we have a right to be skeptic, but as mostly metal parents, who most certainly looked up to some freaky-deaky folk as youngins, we should know better. So I’d like to share with you my ongoing investigation into this whole… experience. Maybe you can see for yourself if I should be worried about Gorgonna’s latest obsessions, or if I just need to accept them as my new personal lords and saviors.
First up: Daniel Tiger.
Preaching the Good Word
“O, Daniel!” Any time, any place – that’s when you could hear this phrase in the MMD household. Gorgonna warbles it with the same frequency as an “amen!” or a “hallelujah!” not only when she sees his holy image at Target or in one of her books, but as a reaffirmation of her faith, AKA for no reason at all.
Locking the door and heading to the car: “O, Daniel!” Putting the laundry in the dryer: “O, Daniel!” Strapping her in her high chair for lunch: “O, Daniel!” Okay, we get it, you like Daniel Tiger. But by constantly invoking his name, she shows me just how much sway he holds over her. You can bet I’ll be keeping my ears and eyes open for any subliminal messages hidden away inside each episode’s upbeat songs and positive lessons about friendship and tolerance.
Houses of the Holy
For us metalheads, the concert venue is our temple. The stage is the altar, the mosh pit our pew. We bend the knee to riffs, and in return we are blessed with shredding solos and ripping rhythms. And yea, ’twas good.
There’s a key difference between the kind of worshipping we do and the kind Gorgonna does. Rather than seek out a place of worship, Gorgonna absorbed her knowledge directly from her everyday environment, by which I mean KPBS at Grandma’s house. God came in the form of a burning bush, and the burning bush is an LG flatscreen.
I’m a firm supporter of the Arts — always will be, I suspect. But I’m still battling with the idea of her being exposed to TV at all, even that transmitted by the liberal-as-fuck Public Broadcasting. Then again, maybe that’s just my own personal prejudice (paranoia?). After all, my wife and I haven’t had cable since we first started dating, and we don’t have any plans to change that anytime soon. Still, I’d rather Gorgonna not have Ye Olde Bewb Tube blaring at her for extended periods of time.
Eventually/inevitably, our own home became a satellite altar for her. We began bringing Daniel Tiger DVDs home from the library to pop on while she was sick (she sometimes got up to four or five a day). Then we started going on KPBS’s website and streaming them. Our internet isn’t the greatest, so the video stutters a bit, but Gorgonna doesn’t seem to mind. Now that she’s healthy (crossin’ my MFin’ fingers), we try to go a few days in between watching an episode here or there. Besides, the episodes don’t update very often, and if I have to hear about Daniel Tiger’s trip to the clock factory one more time, I’m gonna scream.
At the weekly mecca to Grandma’s house though — that’s when she starts pumpin’ out those prayers. I’m not saying she’s got the TV going all the time there, but it’s a lot less regulated. That’s what grandparents are for, no?
The Holy Relics
It’s time to confess — we supported her idol worship at first. Even facilitated it. Wife bought her a Daniel Tiger plushie; I bought her a six-pack of DT books from Costco. Both have instantly become some of her favorite things. She takes the plushie with her on every excursion, and while the books aren’t quite as highly regarded as, say, a pocket Bible filled with raving scribblings, they are effective at getting her to take her afternoon nap. Or maybe they’re just that boring. Lord knows how many times I’ve fallen asleep during Sunday Service as a lad.
I’ll always be wary of what my daughter chooses to focus on. I can’t help it. She brings us every piece of trash she finds at the park, including cigarette butts; I’m steeling myself for the day she hands me a hypodermic needle. Her recent reverence for Daniel Tiger is a slightly jarring change, but ultimately I think it’s pretty harmless. I mean, it won’t stop here, right? I’m already dreading taking her to her first boy band concert (do they still make those??).
I figure the more things she likes, the easier she is to distract. WITH MODERATION! And only when it counts, like when a pot’s boiling over and I absolutely don’t want her anywhere near that. We can’t control what Gorgonna sees or hears all the time, right? Besides, the Sleep Lady (whose work I’ll stand by) says “loveys” can help kids feels more at ease. And really, that’s the least I could ask for in this day and age.
Just remember — you may think a well-to-do anthropomorphic tiger-child carrying on the last will and testament of Fred Rogers is weird, but remember you first idolized a gay, motorcycle-riding poster child for BDSM with an glass-shattering falsetto. Just sayin’.
So, I gotta ask: what gods do your kids worship? Who else do I need to watch out for? Conversely, who should I support? I need to know who to cast my lot with in case there’s some kind of kids’ Ragnarok, and all the gods for both the young and the old clash to determine our eternal fate.
I feel like I’ll start slobbering at the mere mention of anything black metal these days. It’s only when I actually listen to what’s on offer that I find the blackened bits too charred — or worse, not blackened enough. For me, a lot of atmospheric black metal tends to underwhelm by falling into the former (although there are recent exceptions), where I feel like there’s simply too much ground being retread. It’s enough to make me dizzy from seeing all the same footsteps.
And that’s when I found myself up to the knees in Fen.
I’ll admit I felt apprehensive about the 17-minute duration of “I (Pathway),” the premiere song; if it were a mucky, grimy mire of a track, I knew I’d be stuck. But from its first opening notes, I felt heartened that this wasn’t going to be a weary, colossal blast-fest like I was expecting.
For one, Fen’s familiar territory seems to lie in other genres, with phlegmy, swamp witch vocals stewing together with bright prog-rock riffs. For a whopper of a song, there’s very little in it that’s traditionally black metal (which, if you’ll recall from my intro, is something I should be worried about), but the standout parts that are there work together and sound so fresh to me that I’m willing to allow myself to be entranced. Now I’m just following will-o-wisps deeper and deeper into the muck.
I’ll admit I’m still a little doubtful. I don’t know how long the other tracks are on Winter, but if “I (Pathway)” is any indication, I can expect to ensure my stay with Fen to be a lengthy one. Long songs are a hard sell for me, even for bands I know I can count on, so I’m taking a leap of faith here. But then again, I’ve been wrong there too. But believe me — I predict Winter will be a swamp I’m going to dip my toes into, get settled, and then become completely submerged.