You know you live in an era of shitheads when people start conversations by saying “To be honest,” implying they are normally not honest.
Contrary to rumor, I am not autistic, but simply a flaming realist. I like to see things as accurately as possible, given the massive limitations of being human and being small in a large world. Realism means we tell the brutal truth even if it hurts feelings and upsets others.
If we are being honest, we can admit that most people are idiots and this idiocy leads them to be dishonest because they think they can somehow hoodwink time and logic just because they have personal drama which they (being idiots) think will improve their lives if they act it out.
Coincidentally, we reach a new realization: almost everything that is popular is utter garbage. Budweiser, Marlboro, megachurches, Leftism, SUVs, democracy, soda pop, aromatic tobaccos, Applebee’s, grocery store “bread,” pro-life protests, jobs, indie rock, and humanism… all refuse for tools.
Some things are popular but also good, like select parts of the Taco Bell menu or stray bullets in the favela, but those are rare on the large scale of things.
Since we are being honest, we can admit that black metal was basically variations of the same proto-underground stuff that Celtic Frost, Bathory, Sodom, and Slayer were making, just with more minor key and slight melody, until the Nords came along.
The Nords — who took a break from participation trophies and consumerist welfare states to invent some great music — stretched out riffs, added more melody, and made drumming ambient. This created a framework in which they composed some excellent music and then burned out and faded away.
This created a problem, because the herd which lumbers along like a Downie ten years behind everyone else had just discovered black metal, so record labels were clamoring for new black metal. Record labels love stuff that is easy to produce because it is repetitive.
They wanted black metal to either be rock or punk music because those templates are so well-known that a given record label exec can wipe the cocaine off his nose, close the furry anal porn (F.A.P.) links on Chrome, and call up a dozen stooges and scabs and have them do a rip-off band.
How do you do a ripoff band? First, you master basic punk or rock; next, you come up with a quirky format like using a piccolo or having a “new” type of vocals; finally, you go through your record collection and rip off obscure bands for riffs, melodies, ideas, and rhythms.
A good collection of low-IQ musicians bumming around L.A. after their day jobs at target can excrete a passable punk and/or rock album in ten days. Add another four days to fake black metal technique and texture, and the label can puke out a cheap release that tons of idiots will buy.
Really, the record industry is no different than the fast food industry. Buy low, sell high. That means “adding value” which in the record industry consists entirely of novelty. “This album has a woman on vocals, so it’s unique and you should buy it!” is a typical pattern.
The first burst of morally cowardly mental retardation in black metal came in the form of “Depressive Suicidal Black Metal,” or music that ripped off the Burzum slow sweeping strum and used it to make boring, droning, and tuneless minor key music for self-pitying fat tards from the burbs.
People loved it because they love a chance to feel sorry for themselves. If you are a victim, you are ¡FUCKING ENTITLED! to eat another pint of ice cream, watch more power bottom swap porn on PornHub, drink more watery beer, or whatever else your sin of the week is, because you’re sad.
It’s like a blank check to do whatever you wanted to in the first place but knew was selfish, except that now you feel owed it because hey, you’re a victim. How do we know this? We know this because you pity yourself. How is this self-pity justified? Well, the world is bad… and stuff.
DSBM produced nothing but a non-stop torrent of drool that never came close to the quality of the original Nordic black metal wave. When it died out, the music industry did what it always does and went for punk with three-chord toneless grinding war metal.
After that, they just went straight to indie-rock, and called it “post-metal” in order to confuse everyone just long enough to bring in a new audience of Hot Topic rejects to spend Mummy’s tendie money on boring, droning sonic landscapes patterned after a Wal-mart parking lot: flat and full of losers and refuse.
But DSBM kicked in the door. Just like doom metal, which is usually — except for like four bands — just warmed over 70s rock played slowly for people too stoned to remember what is going on, it was popular with the dumbshits who make up most of our species.
As those who have inherited metal from a fractured past, since metal has been fake since the mid-90s, we owe it to ourselves to encourage DSBM to throw a row over a nearby branch and hang itself in a spasm of self-pity and urination. Let it go to a gagging death.
It’s either that or we as humanity finally mature and exterminate the lowest 90% of humans by quality, ushering in a new golden age where we get our act together, explore the stars, consolidate a philosophy, and evolve to be the supermen we secretly desire to be when not glutted with self-pity.
KILL THE WEAK!