Resume of a Writer: Where'd I Put That Notebook?

...and, indeed, what was I searching for? I've been up since 4:49 AM, just sat in silence for a while plotting my course for the day, on the couch, in the soft quiet darkness of morning, wife and kids asleep for hours to come...too tired from sitting all day yesterday on bleachers and the gym floor watching high school wrestling (even my kids could whoop my ass now; thus the desperate need to exert power on unsuspecting minds such as Yours, Dear Reader: the power to make someone stop and think, and actually hear me for a change...never be enough to satisfy the need for attention of my own narcissistic parents, but I'm giving it a try, anyway---thank you for bearing with me (bearing witness) and now my punctuation has finally tried your patience too far with those double parens) I repeat too tired and back too sore to get down on my knees and say the Rosary...Lent starts in three days, why not wait till then? Well then, what? Shall I watch some women's college gymnastics for a bit and then, feeling guilty, put on the Christian Rock music video station? What a wacky thing this free streaming TV+ on our Korean SmartTV...should I crack open an old, cracked and bent copy of one of my favorite fantasy novels from my childhood and read it again for the umpteenth time? Eventually I put a pot of coffee on, pack my pipe with some sativa and go outside for a quick smoke while she brews...when I get back inside and pour my cuppa, I start digging through some old notebooks beside the couch (with gymnastics on the TV, muted) ostensibly to find poems I've been jotting down at random over the past five or six years now, ever since I compiled a bunch of poems in 2019 representing the first two decades of my poetry and had them self-published at the Harvard Book Store, in what proved to be a limited edition, now out of print. 

Trying to find a needle in a haystack would be less distracting...because you constantly have to stop looking for the needle every time you find a used shoelace, and try to figure out where the other, matching lace has got to...what I mean is, looking for poetic gold, some fragment of free verse or cynical prose poem sketch that I forgot writing, trashed on absinthe and port during lockdown in 2020, or some perfect love poem I scribbled hastily on receipt paper while working behind a cash register and trying to fold tissue paper geometrically around odd-shaped and overpriced trinkets into the customer's formless, reusable shopping bag during the Christmas rush (and barely kept in my pocket when I went flying with Santa's reindeer through the Siberian sky on Amanita mushrooms I had shipped from California) that I will finally submit to Paris Review or The New Yorker and all of a sudden I'll be a great published poet and my face will be on the cover of Time magazine (and the top of your feed) and I will have forgotten that nobody has given a shit about poetry in a hundred years, if they ever did...isn't so easy after all and I keep getting redirected, towards writing up other things I find (blog ideas, short stories) and then deliberating over whether just to type up and put out my writing for free, as here on my blog, or try to submit, typed up stories, or just query the idea proposal, or front like it's already written and if anyone bites...so you see, I have not been idle these many years, just aimless...

Truth to tell, the Pandemic allowed me to finally sit down and get some writing done, as I had been meaning to for years. That should probably be a separate "chapter" of Resume of a Writer, 'The Corona -Pocalypse Diaries' [copywrong 2020 Dissociated Press] unfortunately was a series of writings during early pandemic days, the original notebook pages of which have long since been ripped up and destroyed (but maybe check with China if their recycling & espionage team was able to tape back together?) and the Word documents deleted, so I would have to make it all up from memory and imagination but it probably wouldn't be as far out and anyway, I can't get back into that mind frame any more and hate that much. I hope that none of us can. Personally, I was something along the lines of resenting every rich college girl that moved into the neighborhood to fill the air of approaching spring on soft evenings with their contented and well-fed insouciant laughter from porches, suggestive of polyamorous queer hook-ups with no strings attached except the puppet's dance to value signal with one hand while the other orders junk on Amazon, scrolling down endlessly recharging battery burns minerals of African nations, Indigenous, and the least of these my brethren and sistren: but to these empowered and unchaperoned young women, white and privileged, every middle aged man like me without a college education, Black or white, who been sweating in this Nation for hundreds of years, can basically be a troglodyte slave in their consumer economy, and since I don't drive for Uber or make lattes at their favorite cafe, my life or death wouldn't matter to them one bit, let alone these useless words I have to say, as I keep typing away...

[let's take a break for another pipe-full of Super Lemon Haze. Unfortunately all my old posts on Rolling Stoned, my cannabis blog, were taken down as well, during my religious repentance phase around the holidays, a particularly forceful one this year. Anyway, I am working to get some more strain reviews and other blogs up again shortly. Which brings me back to going through these old notebooks, because there are probably some still in there in the original handwritten version and I can just type them up again.] 

Getting distracted with your own creations that bring you delight, regardless of whether anyone else will ever even read them, is one thing...there are also grocery lists from years past (or just last week) with some items checked off, meaning we got those things; or orders for the Indian restaurant:

Chicken tikka x3

Lamb Bhuna (spicy)

Chick. Vindaloo (med.)

veg. pakora

chx pakora x2

tandoori roti x4

extra basmati rice

    actually make good poetry (OK I made that one up, but it's fairly representative---look for a real grocery or delivery list in my forthcoming poetry collection) but what to do with all the blank pages? It makes me want to forget all this getting-published or getting-read business, human vs. AI, the fate of the publishing industry, will people even be literate anymore or just wait for Mother Brain to "suggest" to them which emoji to use, forget it all and just WRITE NOW, right now, fill up the blank pages with poetry or perverted short stories or beer and cannabis reviews; anyway my wife just woke up I gotta make more coffee, possibly buy some 1/2 & 1/2 @ 7/11, and I'll get back to you later...

    

I saw my friend and fellow poet Peter Payack the other day. He asked me, Do I write every day?  

No. I mean, I write. Dreams (I write my dreams down in the morning, when I can remember them. Which I haven't been lately, because when I smoke weed I don't remember my dreams. But then when I stop smoking, I end up dreaming about weed. A lot. Anyway, a habit I developed in highschool---yeah, that too; but I was talking about the dream diary. Learned it from Kerouac. Also, a good method for lucid dreaming.) Maybe a little one-page short story or prose poem. A text or an email can be exercise for a writer, just as letter writing once was. If I ever get famous, you'll have to ask the NSA to release my txts, the way Great Writers once had their letters published after their death. Men like Goethe, Nietzsche, Kerouac... 

But I don't write a great poem every day. Nobody does that.

Even God doesn't do that.

 

But He makes the Sun rise.

Every day.

Give Thanks & Praises!

Resume of a Writer

 Care to learn a little about what makes me tick & scribble down songs & sentences, when everybody & your Mother can't be bothered even to "heart" your last txt? 

  Although I should be updating my work resume and looking for a better job, in the meantime I present to you a few fragments from the Resume of a Writer:

Resume of a Writer:

A Peaceful Interlude

Related Content by Author:

Definition of a Poet

First Draught

RIP Ozzy & Jim

John Harvard's Ghost

Resume of a Writer: "A Peaceful Interlude"

    In my previous blog post(s) [which may have been deleted -Ed.] I began outlining the "resume of a writer" and a few personal anecdotes about myself and my love of reading, which in high school led me to the path of poetry, inspired by Jim Morrison, William Blake, Arthur Rimbaud, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and Nietzsche.

    Or so I believed at the time. The time I wrote that, like a year ago or something. Who can keep track of time these days? To quote Blake:

The hours of folly are measured by the clock,

but the hours of wisdom, no clock can measure.

    (I think. I'm quoting from memory.)

    Recently, however, as I have been revisiting my favorite series of fantasy novels from middle school yet again (so many times I've re-read them, only The Birth of Tragedy and Genesis come close) I realized that not only did the DragonLance novels by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman make me want to be a writer, but the songs and poems contributed to the books by Michael Williams (along with the rap music I had just started listening to that same summer) turned me into a lover of poetry, which, aside from family and food, is still my primary interest.

    But before we get to the poetry, let's start with the stories as such. I was on vacation for a week with my family. My mother brought my sister and I to a children's bookstore to pick out some beach reading material. I really loved to play in the water much more than get burnt and people-watch, but you did need some time to dry off before getting back in the car and it was nice to have a book to read while you lay there. And so in that summer, ironically, I started Dragons of Autumn Twilight, the first book in the series.

    Actually I didn't start reading it at the beach, but in the livingroom of the place where we were staying, in the evening time, by the light of a green lamp, sitting in a green chair [this is how most of my autobiographical novellas a-la Kerouac usually begin, incidentally.] Everyone who has ever been to Solace remembers where they were when they first encountered an old dwarf sitting by the roadside, whittling. The rest of you have no idea what I'm talking about. And that's OK. DragonLance are the greatest books ever written, but I don't need to convince anyone of my truth. I'm living it.

    I fell in love instantly, especially once we start to learn about the morally dubious but wise-beyond-his-years frail young wizard Raistlin Majere, and his twin brother Caramon. (As a pre-teenage boy I also became slightly titillated by the vague rumours of their older half-sister---but you'll have to read the books, and not just the first one, to learn herstory.) Raistlin saw everything age and decay before his eyes, a curse as penalty for his power and ambition, which prevented him from appreciating human beauty: while I did not have this condition myself, I became almost oblivious to all the bikini'd bottoms at the beach that ordinarily would have been so distracting, as I found myself hooked on the novel and couldn't stop reading it, at the ocean, on the car ride back with Mariah Carey and Roger Troutman and Bone Thugs N' Harmony playing on the radio, and back at the place we stayed eating pizza, fried chicken and soft-serve ice cream in between games of Monopoly and Seinfeld reruns.

    After the vacation was over, when we got back home I had to go out and buy the complete trilogy, The DragonLance Chronicles: a big, phone-book sized paperback. Very recently they re-released the Chronicles in a beautiful hardcover edition (some say bound by Bertrem himself.) Go out and buy it today! (Or for you freeloading cheapskates, look for it at your local library.) You may even get to see a wild elf bathing in the silver moonlight...

    

    By wintertime I went out and bought the second trilogy, DragonLance Legends. Some fans end up liking these books even more. All I can say is: they take me back in time.

    Meanwhile I started trying to write my own fantasy novel; or short story, who's to know. I never got more than a couple of pages into one of these before some gully dwarf found herself in a sex scene and I became distracted from the writing process altogether...

    Some day I will finish my fantasy novel, or even a long work of fiction per-se. Until then I'll keep shopping around my short stories, writing these blogs, and work on getting a second collection of poetry into print. Speaking of, I heard it through the grapevine Michael Williams has a new book-length poem coming out soon, which I believe will be called Farewell Tour. Look for it wherever you buy poetry---does anybody buy poetry anymore? Even I don't, as often as I should. Probably the last time was as a gift for my wife. Of course, I've been writing them for her myself since at least the last time the three moons were in alignment: and for that I imagine she should be at least a little thankful to Michael Williams: Poet, friend, Bodhi.

poetry by Michael Williams, read by @dGabeEvau

    "A Peaceful Interlude" is a chapter title from Dragons of Autumn Twilight by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman (with poetry by Michael Williams & art by Larry Elmore.) DragonLance began as a game module/campaign setting designed by Hickman and his wife for the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons roleplaying game (RPG.) AD&D and DragonLance were originally published by TSR; I believe they are now owned by Wizards of the Coast (or is it just Wizards?) but, again, I read a lot of old editions and library books, so what do I know? I could never get anybody to play Dungeons and Dragons with me as a kid, but I loved letting the worlds take me very far in my own imagination. Go read a book right now. Get off your screen and device. Read. And then write. Genre doesn't matter. Then go for a walk. Cook some spiced potatoes or other easy comfort food, instead of tipping some delivery driver for dropping off cold food and the chef's cold to go with it. Have a mug of ale or a glass of red wine (just lay off the dwarf spirits) or just a cup of herbal tea, get cozy by the fireplace and let an old man tell you some forgotten children's stories. Or if you're feeling lonely, go to some tavern for the locals and listen to the enchanting song of an Indigenous tribeswoman.

    Anyway, that's my two steel pieces. I'm just paying it forward. These books changed my life, and are still doing so. Now, I've got to look for a better job and also have a book to finish writing. How does that spell go, again?

The above blog was composed with Bic pen on a few blank pages stolen from an old notebook I was searching through for poems to publish, and typed up on my wife's laptop while I waited for her to get out of bed, thinking: maybe today I will give up coffee, and just drink some crushed herbs in boiling water like our friend Raistlin.

Related articles by this author:

Weasel's Luck by Michael Williams (book review)

Dragons of Deceit by Margaret Weis & Track Hickman (book review)

copywrong 2026 Dissociated Press

Jimmy Kimmel's Return

Jimmy Kimel's return is a

    victory for Democracy

We've won back the hard-earned

freedoms to make fun of the President's

hand makeup, hair and tanning spray

Veinous envy...

Weasel's Luck by Michael Williams

   

  I promised a full book report (reviews are for the critics to pen; & I am just a lowly Aesthetic) to the author by Yule's end: and by Paladine, I mean to give it to him. 

    For, you see, while I flatter myself now to call him a friend, Michael Williams has had a profound impact on my spirit, since about the age of twelve when I first discovered Dragons of Autumn Twilight in a little children's bookstore on Cape Cod on a summer vacation with my family. The waves, the sand, the girls in bikinis I noticed scarcely more than Raistlin would have, enthralled by the tale of a ragtag bunch of friends who end up saving the world, just as Mr. Majere was wrapped up in a blue-bound spellbook. After reading the Chronicles at least ten times, including once to my own children during the pandemic (not nearly as daunting a task as reading the Lord of the Rings out loud!) over the course of three decades I finally realized the impact Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman's collaborative fiction writing had on my soul, on the course of my life, and in philosophy, theology and religion.

    

    However, while a mere grocery clerk by day trying to feed my family for the past twenty years, my unpaid vocation and inner calling has long been poetry. If anyone in so inclined, feel free to check out some of my poetry through the link at the bottom of this article. I always thought of my love of poetry as beginning in high school, when I discovered the Beat writers, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, and through Jim Morrison's influence discovered Arthur Rimbaud and William Blake, along with the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, who introduced me to more classical authors, poets and the pre-Platonic philosophers. 

    But not so long ago, as I read aloud the songs and poetry contained within the DragonLance novels, and in particular the Solamnic Death Chant commemorating the Hero of the Lance, Sturm Brightblade, while fighting back tears, it struck me: Michael Williams is the man who made me to fall in love with poetry; and after a long struggle with the craft, and no success at publication, ready to give up on it all, he rekindled my faith in the meaningfulness of the Word.  

    Fittingly, as it was written by one of the great American poets of the late 20th century, this is a book about the power of words: the way they're put together; the ways in which we interpret them, whether in wishful thinking and self-aggrandizement, in circular reasonings by which we repeat the same patterns (and mistakes) of the past, or in a spirit of openness whence we penetrate the obscure with childlike simplicity and break the spell of learned letters to speak the truth heart-to-heart; and the ways in which words themselves create the past, present and future, in every poem or prayer, book or song, every lively conservation and each silent meditation.

    This is a book about youth: the thrill of adventure longed for amidst the dull routine of neglected duty and resented lessons from quaint old fools who know not the first thing about what stirs our eager hearts to leave the sheep to stray and follow caprice with the goats. About generations entangled in sordid stories of love and woe, revenge and jealousy: yes, this is a book about jealousy and above all, a book about brothers, coming of age, hurting each other, coveting each other in envy that fails to see how we all possess a unique gift, something that makes us special and, indeed, worthy of the other's admiration and envy in turn, as the grass is always greener: from which may we arise and lay the curse aside.

    Leaving such high-minded assessments behind, this book was truly a pleasure to read: finding out that Michael Williams had contributed a full novel to the DragonLance literary universe, by happenstance during a busy December when I hadn't the time to come up with anything to ask my wife to get me for Christmas, unwrapping the modest little paperback under the tree while our three sons opened their gifts as well...if not the luck of the weasel, I call it the good fortune of the lion that this book came to me precisely when it did. No matter if Gileandos would dismiss this earlier work of the Bard; Father, ever the good host, may be found "listening even to the most ridiculous parts of the story" with rapt attention, betwixt the wine and the lager and the Scotch and the brandy, intent upon this story of three brothers and a brave knight of the legendary Brightblade family (oh, and I may have even come upon an old manuscript of Quivalen Sath's unpublished Dark of Solinari.)

    Indeed it was truly the gift of a wise man, to be able to connect to this time in the past when the book was written, when I was a young child myself, years before my parents divorced and longer still before I discovered DragonLance; when the heavy metal I would later listen to in high school was still fresh in the air, when my parents were still making merry with their own childless friends from this same generation that created DragonLance: Tracy Hickman and his wife Lauralanthalasa; Margaret Weis, keeper of the Great Library of Palanthas; Michael Williams aka Quivalen Sath; Larry Elmore who was commissioned by the Kingpriest to decorate the "Sistine Chapel" of the Temple of Paladine, which now lies buried beneath the Blood Sea of Istar, her treasures lost forever to the sea elves and the mages who love them; Roger E. Moore, Master of the Dungeon & Editor, with whom I enjoyed digitally sharing the Holy Ghost of Chanukkah Past several years ago, before the Cataclysm...and others of whom I may or may not have heard tale.

    This is a story of three brothers, Alfric, Brithelm, and Galen (or "The Weasel" as his name means and as he is unflatteringly called by his eldest brother, Alfric) who vaguely reflect the same division of human character as the Brothers Karamazov: Alfric represents physical strength (which he uses primarily to pound his youngest brother for real or perceived offenses) and, aspirationally at least, courage, or at least ambition, to someday become a Solamnic knight and a hero like his father, if only he can find another knight willing to take his sorry hide on as squire. Brithelm, the middle brother, reminds me of Alyosha Karamazov in his spiritual purity, although his red robes can't help but make us think of Raistlin Majere; and if you read this book you may even get to see him do a few magic tricks of his own. Of course, the Weasel is the unlikely hero of this tale, and he takes his time burrowing into our hearts, through twisting tunnels, offending decency with his cowardice, dishonesty and resentment, but at least making the reader laugh out loud (over the noise of the Yuletide merriment round about) as he cleverly uses his wits (and his words) to outsmart his older brothers, representing the 'mind' so to speak, as they represent the body and the spirit.

    The adventure, the plot, the drama all take their time to develop as the outset of the book establishes, not only the characters themselves (which also include a washed-up schoolmaster turned tutor to the spoiled children of the castle, as well as a knight from the Brightblade family---perhaps you've heard of them?) but also the environment, the landscape and geography (I found myself flipping back to the map at the beginning of the book more than I do with most tales of Krynn) and most of all the mood and feel. And this book feels, and it feels different.

    To readers familiar with the DragonLance novels, undead warriors whose spectral breath chills the soul, dragons spewing flame and acid that melts flesh and stone, and oaken groves capable of frightening the bravest Kender this side of the Abyss, beyond which lies a tower inhabited by oozing shapeless things of dubious life and the evil mage who is their Master, along with the dark elf that serves him, are nothing new. And yet there is something sinister and malevolent in reading this book that I have rarely come across in fantasy literature which, as a genre, is essentially Christian, whatever you might think. This book is darker in a way hard to define, but the darkness is not so much there on the page as crawling between the lines, flying ahead and behind to remind you of your own past, present, future...or maybe it's just me, maybe I've been dwelling too much on family history over the Holidays, maybe I should turn the heat up, yes I'm sure that's all it is, that's what caused the chill in my blood...but then I heard a murder of crows cawing outside the window and I had to put the book down.

    Michael Williams displays a broad and deep familiarity with bardic lore, with midieval history, and with trees: clearly he has done his homework and familiarized himself with the Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth set out by Robert Graves in The White Goddess (I would know, having read the book three times in the bathtub.) A recurring theme as the story progresses is the struggle between philosophy and morality---again we are reminded of Raistlin, and of William Blake's adage, "The weak in courage is strong in cunning." 

    DragonLance has always been about unlikely, even reluctant heroes: flawed, human, transgressing, doubting...characters straight out of the Bible, or the Welsh and Irish tales...

    The problem was that the world couldn't take a pure best.

    "Don't look at things directly, little brother, for insight dwells in the corner of the eye"

    There is a conflict between law and grace that is reflected in Sturm Brightblade's struggle between the Oath and the Measure in Dragons of Winter Night, the darkest, most sorrowful DragonLance novel I had read prior to Weasel's Luck. If you were only to read one DragonLance novel, this should be it---which is not to say that it's the best or even, by any means, my favorite: I would tell you to start with Dragons of Autumn Twilight---but how could you stop there? You would become an Aesthetic for life. I for one will never forget I was sitting in a green chair beside a green lampshade on a summer evening reading by the light when I first came upon a wizened old dwarf whittling a piece of wood as he leaned against a rock...the rest is Qualinesti lore. But if you were to dip your feet into the waters of the Blood Sea for just one week and only visit the land of Ansalon once, never to return, and go back to Dickens and Hesse and Stendhal, they would be in good company were you to choose this Estwilder jewel of a book by Michael Williams. 

Some things are stronger than death.

    Above all, this is a book about redemption. Redemption from the past that haunts us in endless remorse and resentment. Redemption from the loneliness and isolation that harden our hearts to callousness and, in preserving us from the biting cold of a winter with no fire, prevent us from feeling the warmth of the sunrise when the chirping of birds heralds spring's return, as it must. Redemption, for this reader at least, from a rigid Seeking after the ways of the Measure and readiness to sacrifice all for the Oath, redemption in laughter that dissolves all such notions in a most unSolamnic smile, saved by the luck of the weasel or, as it were, the rat.  

May Paladine guide our actions,

Mishakal heal all wounds,

and Gilean reveal to us the meaning of life: one page at a time.

Read some of my poetry on my blog:

Free Verses - Poetry for the People

& also check out my review of 

Dragons of Deceit by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

72 Seasons of Metallica

Metallica released their 11th studio album, 72 Seasons, earlier this year. The group has been teasing out singles since last November, beginning with Lux Aeterna, which this reviewer found underwhelming, and found company in this assessment...read my mock-review of Lux Aeterna here...

Then Spotify recently tipped me off to the most recent track from the album to be put out by the band, Too Far Gone? and I was far more impressed this time around. Yes, the riffs were somewhat derivative of old-school 'tallica, but isn't that what we wana hear, really? If I ever coughed up the green to go see these guys in concert, I would demand to hear my favorite sounds from Kill 'Em All through the Black album. Why should I ask anything else of the new record?

72 Seasons (the eponymous first track) opens with a deadly buzzsaw of palm-muted 6th-string galloping, slowing to a funky thrash groove a-la Megadeth or Flotsam and Jetsam. 

The title itself refers to the first eighteen years of life. In reflection, James sees this as a formative time, which he has been working through ever since, and is the foundation of his ouvre. In a wider sense, I think most fans of the band probably have had a similar experience, if more or less traumatic. I was a wee little white boy of fourteen trying to fit in by listening to commercial hip-hop and R&B in the late 90's when Hetfield first spoke to me, as much with his violent jabs of rhythm guitar as by the tortured but ironic poetry reflecting a world gone savagely amok. Now as my oldest son approaches eighteen himself, I am forced to confront this album as a desperate communication, to the new generation as well as us that are already living it, of the noble tragedy entailed in being a man in today's society.

The song gets under way with riffs that remind now of Battery; Blackened; Fight Fire With Fire...

Kirk plays a memorable solo and probably wrote the riff that builds into it.

Shadows Follow reminds of Justice...not just the muscular guitar, but the insistent snap of the snare drum. Lars continues to hold down the back-beat while James adds decisive accents...then it goes into a little part reminiscent of Mercyful Fate. The engineering is really good on this record, with a thick sound that isn't all compressed. Lars has been compared unfavorably to a number of metal drummers, but in most cases, they are just showing off...Lars is hitting the exact right notes at the perfect moment that every song requires, in order to complement Hetfield's unique rhythms, which are fresher than they have been in years. The solo is also good. 

Screaming Suicide confronts all the self-doubt that culminates for too many in the tragic and senseless taking of their own lives, depriving us all of what that person had to contribute. Working it out, we can give back through our children, our art, our service to our brothers and sisters...thanks for sticking around, Mr. Hetfield!

Sleepwalk My Life Away opens with an almost tribal drum ostinato, perhaps recalling Kreator's Terrible Certainty, overlaid with a fast-rolling bass lick suggesting Flotsam and Jetsam again...after they lost Jason Newsted, who Metallica later traded to Ozzy Osbourne for Trujillo, who, with all respects paid to the psychedelic baroque musical genius of Cliff Burton, may be the best bassist the boys ever hired. The song reminds also of Load or ReLoad and the mutual influence Metallica and alternative rock had upon each other. Musically I may find this a turn-off, but the group managed to stay relevent and gain new fans at a time when heavy metal had become quite decadent. Even Miles Davis sometimes had to follow the pack to remain the leader. 

You Must Burn! A great statement. We all now have to worry about an auto-da-fe in addition to the other concerns of modern life. If nothing else, heavy metal has continued to tell the truth, after reggae and punk long since sank into Epicurean complacence and the most popular rappers offer their services as court poets to the highest-bidding tyrant of some upstart liquor enterprise. Screaming aloud the pain accumulated over a lifetime has always been a greater catalyst of social change than a scramble by the biggest dupes the establishment has to offer to keep up with the latest trends in political correctness...those same people that would have gleefully lynched a Black man a century ago will now stop at nothing to ruin the lives of some hardworking, innocent Americans...in the name of 'anti-racism'!

Perhaps Kirk's best wah-wah solo of all time?

Lux Aeterna might not be as bad as I have elsewhere suggested...but it is still rather predictable. Understandable it was used as their first single. It is effective propaganda for a new market saturated with soundbites, pretense and Apollonian illusion. Fast and driving, a throwback to Kill 'Em All and Reload simultaneously. Kirk overuses the whammy bar in his guitar solo.

Crown of Barbed Wire actually sounds like 21st century metal. For all the commercialization the Black Album represented in the group's career arc, in many ways it gave new depth to the heaviness of metal. The sound is dark, words stumble and suggest states of feeling more than they narrate the details. I can't understand how someone could listen to Metallica and also feel unironic patriotism as an American. Still, to look something in the face this way is impressive.

Chasing Light Is that really just James singing in the chorus? 

"Without darkness, there's no light"---perfect distillation of James' counterintuitive folk-wisdom. Celebrate the disagreeable, the objectionable, limitations, failure. Becoming is the act of being forcibly rent from our tender cocoons anew each day. Kirk really lets shred with a solo reminiscent of the very competent job he did learning Mustaine's solos to record the band's first album.

If Darkness Had a Son Another more contemporary metal song, opening with Ulrich's infamous kick and thunderous guitar and tom-toms, going into a kind of Eye of the Beholder groove. As a thrash vocalist, James has made some questionable choices, but that fearless, iconoclastic feel for experimentation also yields these really unique moments when the music, the voice, the words and the reality disclosed by the words all find themselves working toward a new, organic creation. This is the essence of art. 

Too Far Gone? Real old-school thrash up-front, the verses chugging along to a powerful chorus that asks, "Am I too far gone?". A kick-ass solo and a beautiful harmony guitar breakdown lead to the final chorus and the answer,

"I can make it through the day.

Just for today."

Somebody really needed to hear that.

Room of Mirrors If we are just reflecting the worst we perceive in each other constantly, how are we to make any improvement? I'm sure he has other things in mind, but, for my part, sardonically mocking the latest endeavor by the most hard-working, successful rock band of the last thirty years does not really contribute anything substantial to the world of art and culture. 

More desperate harmony guitar towards the ending.

Inamorata Is heavy metal, music, art, life itself, nothing but an incessant craving for suffering to continue?

 

"Misery

She needs me

Oh, but I need her more"

Amen

Closes with more incredible harmony guitar, reminiscent of Justice... again, but also revealing its origin to be Black Sabbath's Sabbra Cadabra.

72 Seasons may perhaps be James Hetfield's final autobiographical testament of rage, as well as earning a place in the canon in its own right, alongside the more significant metal of the last twenty or thirty years.

Listen to 72 Seasons on Spotify

First Draught

     As he sat down to write, Joe felt sickness creeping up on him. Perhaps it was the gasoline fumes wafting in through the open window from the filling station across the street, stealing what sweetness the morning air would have offered. How many times had he done this now, sitting down to write the words that would barely trickle out of him, and expecting a sudden torrent of prose to drown out all that had come before, all the dry books he'd read in this seat, all the memories he struggled to suppress if he couldn't translate into great literature, and swell to a dazzling sea between two coasts, or covers?