I don’t have much use for God these days.

With that in mind, when December 25th, 2011 rolled around I decided that I wouldn’t be celebrating the birth of some overblown, fictitious, omnipotent phantom as I gave gifts to my loved ones, turned the music up louder than usual, and drank more than I should have. Hell no. I chose instead to celebrate the life of my friend, David Gold.

David was taken from us on December 21st, 2011. He was 31 years old.

He was the voice and mind behind the band Woods Of Ypres. Not to discount or dumb down the invaluable contributions of the band members that worked with him over the years, but thanks to David’s efforts – seemingly superhuman and borderline insane at times – his music touched people around the world. He put Canada on the map amongst doom metal fans, and for anyone fortunate enough to lock into Woods Of Ypres, the name joined the likes of Rush, Annihilator, Voivod and Strapping Young Lad as a band to be revered when discussing metal spawned on Canuck soil.

I was introduced to David via a suspicious package that arrived on my doorstep in 2002. Living in Germany as BW&BK’s European correspondent, packages in the mail are nothing new, but a parcel sent from Toronto that I didn’t request or wasn’t warned about beforehand was odd. The name on the return address rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. Inside was the first Woods Of Ypres CD with a hand-written note from David, introducing himself and the band, asking me to take a listen and offer my thoughts.

To this day I have no idea how he got my address, but I’m grateful to whoever gave it to him.

We stayed in touch from that point on, and I did my best to push the band on people whom I figured would enjoy the music. I admired David’s drive and his belief in what he was doing, and I was convinced he deserved a record deal. I was happy to pass his albums to my label contacts in Europe, and I was always surprised when they turned down the opportunity to add Woods Of Ypres to their respective rosters. There must have been moments in David’s career when he felt like packing it in thanks to music executives turning him a blind eye, but music was his life whether they liked it or not. He forged on and the metal world was better for it.

In 2007 I learned just how deeply serious David was about Woods Of Ypres. He sent the promo CD of Woods III: Deepest Roots And Darkest Blues, asking me if he could send “a few” copies of the album my way when it was finished to pass around to the labels. The album blew me away, so of course I agreed to it (although I would have done so even if it had sucked). A few weeks later 10 copies arrived at the German Customs office; it was an out-of-pocket expense for him, and it wasn’t cheap. I received a terse letter in the mail telling me to pick up my package, and don’t forget my receipt for the purchase or I’d be paying through the nose to get it. In the end I sweet-talked the Customs official into giving me the box of goodies tax free, and when I offered him a copy of the albums as a thank you, I could tell he was tempted to say yes. Alas, accepting a Canadian post-transaction “bribe” wasn’t permitted. David got a good laugh out of that.

Woods III also figures prominently in my life for having brought me together with former Woods Of Ypres keyboardist Jessica Rose and her husband, Kyle. Based on David being a mutual friend, I invited them to stay with me while on a trip through Europe without having met them before, and I’m happy to say they still figure prominently in my life. They’re great people, which doesn’t surprise me given the company David kept. In fact, it was Jessica that informed me during that first encounter – and David later confirmed it – that the original artwork for Woods III looked too penis-like to be taken seriously and had to be renovated accordingly.

David and I spoke a couple times in the time between Woods III and Woods IV: The Green Album, emailed back and forth quite a bit while he was in Korea. We discussed his work with the band Necramyth and his plans for The Green Album. A package with big bag of Korean green tea showed up unexpectedly one day, simply because I’d mentioned I drank the stuff like it was going out of style, and he was living in a region where they harvested it. It was a gesture of friendship, no expectation behind it.

He often joked that Canada Post hated him because he would show up with dozens of packages at one time to be sent out, whether it was merchandise going out to the fans or material being sent to the press. Often, it was both. When I received what David mailed out as a “standard” promo package for The Green Album, I had a better understanding of Canada Post’s desire to ban him from all of their locations. It was a monster, and when I was finally able to extricate its insides after battling the miles of industrial strength tape sealing it shut, it was a Woods Of Ypres Christmas: copies of the new album (complete with the Necramyth album), Korean beer and ramen noodles, patches, buttons, stickers, a metal Woods thermos (green, naturally), and a bottle of Korean soju (that remains unopened on my bar). All of it sent to the press on his own dime, bagged and tagged on his own time (and, I imagine, the help of friends and family) as a “thank you” for efforts on Woods Of Ypres’ behalf past, present and future.

The last time I saw David was August 2010 in Toronto. We took in a sushi lunch on the Danforth and talked about all things Woods, everything metal, musician-sized Sapporo beer (the mega-king cans), Sault Ste Marie, and because we were both shameless fanboys of the band, the unique origin of his Headstones ring.

And the beard. I’ve been losing my hair for 20 years, and he was able to shave and grow a beard to ZZ Top proportions in 10 days. I had to respect that, too.

I look around my apartment and David is all around me. It’s not just swag on the shelves, it’s not just a logo slapped onto the drink fridge and my guitar amp, it’s not just another metal shirt or yet another Woods Of Ypres CD to add to the collection. These seemingly insignificant things are reminders of someone who was passionate about his music and worked his proverbial fingers to the bone to bring it to the people that gave a damn, constantly earning more fans along the way. Writing and recording albums with no guarantee of outside help, selling merchandise and organizing tours through Canada and the US, putting his trust in the fans, the kindness of strangers and fast food joints while doing those tours, working on outside projects like Necramyth, L’Anguisette, Thrawsunblat or The Northern Ontario Black Metal Preservation Society, and David did it all for the love of music.

And regardless of how dark the music was, no matter how bleak of a picture he may have painted with his lyrics, David met the challenges of the life he chose head on and pushed back twice as hard. He has a loving family, a host of real world friends, and a worldwide fanbase to prove it.

Sitting down to write this, I was shocked to realize just how long David and I had been in contact. Almost 10 years. Only days before he was taken from us, we had been working out days and times to discuss the new Woods Of Ypres album, Woods V: Grey Skies And Electric Light. I still can’t believe he’s gone.

I was listening to the new album constantly weeks before David passed away, and I suppose there’s some small comfort in hearing him in the office every day.

On the new song ‘Adora Vivos’, David sings “We shouldn’t worship the dead.” Perhaps not, but I will always hold him in higher regard than any religious figure, suit-and-tie executive, or gazillion-selling musician.

You were one of a kind.

You were an inspiration.

I am proud to call you my friend.

- The Lost CBC TV Report (2003)
- ‘A Meeting Place And Time’
- ‘Your Ontario Town (Is A Burial Ground)’
- 2010 Tour Vlog #1
- ‘Wet Leather’
- ‘You Were The Light’
- 2010 Tour Vlog #2
- ‘Adora Vivos’
- ‘Finality’

In Memoriam photo © 2012 by Carl Begai

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Some names have been changed to protect the presumed innocent…

A few years back, my best bud Paco decided he was going to visit me in Germany. He was overdue for a vacation and worked out a trip where he’d spend time in Holland with friends, then come visit me in Nuremberg, and cap things off with a jaunt through the pubs of Ireland (I’m happy to report he survived the last bit). I was all for it and was looking forward to four days of playing tour guide, talking metal, drinking copious amounts of beer, and (as it turned out) adopting the word “SMORE!” to express our appreciation of the opposite sex. We used it a lot.

Things began in Munich where, following the 45 minute subway trip from the airport into the city, I dragged Paco to the infamous Hofbräuhaus, a tourist trap armed to the rafters with beer. In other words, our version of Disneyland. We stashed his bags in a locker at the train beforehand and took our time doing The Walk downtown. We had a good two and a half hours to kill before our train to Nuremberg was due to leave, so no rush, everything was cool. Good weather, awesome scenery of the female variety – there’s something to be said for German engineering after all – and when we finally got to the ‘Haus, great malt beverages. We killed a liter each, shot the shit, I think I may have ordered a second beer (dumb idea). We took our time leaving, even getting one of the girls working there to show us her rather large pretzels (no, really) figuring 20 minutes was plenty of time to get back to the station.

My dear friend Audrey will tell you this is one of the dumbest assumptions person can make when travelling around Munich…

Paco and I quickly realized I’d made a “slight” error in judgment with regards to time versus distance, a fact we were reminded of by the clocks that were seemingly hanging on every street corner and on the side of every building. We were forced to run for our train; not a fun exercise when you’ve really gotta pee and you’re buzzing.

We reached the station with only two minutes to spare. Without exchanging more than two words – mainly because neither one of us could catch our breath – we executed a divide-and-conquer maneuver that gave military precision a new meaning. While I sprinted/stumbled for our gate to make sure the train didn’t leave without us – no idea how I would have stopped ‘em, then or now – Paco banked left, grabbed his bags out of the locker and brought up the rear. We quite literally jumped aboard with the door slamming shut behind us.

You’ve never seen two more pitiful souls. We collapsed into our seats (which just happened to be in the same car we leaped onto), sweated through and on the verge of passing out from exertion. It was agreed, however, that beer would cure our ills and give us the much needed strength for the 90 minute train ride. Thus, once I was able to stand upright and not fall over I elected to get the first round from the on-board restaurant. I wasn’t a stranger to the German bullet trains (called the Inter City Express, or ICE for short), but the walk to the bar went on forever. Sure, they’re long trains, but not that long. What made the trek even weirder was the fact that most of the cars were almost empty, making it feel like I was in one of those weird ass movies where some poor sap is caught in an endless loop as he tries to get from one room to the next. It was a good five minutes there, five minutes back… and genius that I am, I didn’t think to buy two or three beers each in order to save the trip back for a second round.

And yes, we did go back for more. Sadly, we weren’t being paid by the kilometer.

At some point during the trip to Nuremberg, I informed The Girlfriend that we’d be hitting the Brown Sugar before heading home. She didn’t give me any grief, understanding that after having not seen each other in a year, Paco and I needed to do the chest-thumping-male-bonding-titties-and-beer-and-noise thing.

The Sugar is a shit-hole little rock bar, but I told Paco it was worth checking out because they play the stuff we simply don’t get in the clubs or on the radio at home (unless Shannon is at the Bovine): Saxon, Destruction, classic Helloween, Blind Guardian, Fight, Death Angel, Testament… basically, everything an old school metalhead could want. Best of all, it was a two minute walk from the Nuremberg train station. And they served beer.

So there I am with Bro Paco, hanging in the city I’ve condemned myself to live, figuring it’ll be a treat for him to hear some real metal at a healthy volume in a dirtbag rock bar, just the way we like it. We make the two minute jog to the Sugar, enter stage right…

… and are welcomed by the strains of home town-via-Niagara Falls ‘80s rockers Honeymoon Suite’s ‘New Girl Now’.

For the record, I have nothing against Honeymoon Suite. In fact, they played a large part on the soundtrack of my teen years, and to this day they still hold the record in my books as one of the loudest shows I’ve ever attended (Ontario Place Forum, August 1984…my ears were ringing for four days afterwards). But, COME ON! Paco travels 6,000 kilometers to see me (his fault), almost keels over from exhaustion (my fault), then nearly dies of thirst on the train (my fault), and he gets a rock tune from Niagara Falls, Ontario (Q 107’s fault). What’s the one about God having a sick sense of humour?

Even better, I think the DJ played ‘Subdivisions’ by Rush immediately afterwards.

Only in Canada, eh? Not bloody likely…

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He explained that as much as he appreciated the exposure, the amount of trash-talking that has come his way over the last year or two as a result of these extra credit news bits had gotten to him, making the music world an increasingly lousy place to be. Basically, online talk and reports of new song ideas, experiences or projects has earned him the disdain of a small group of people that are quite happy to slag him in online forums for no good reason. I was appalled to hear this, and deleted the post without a second thought.

It sickens me to think that efforts meant as a helping hand did more harm than good in the end. Symptomatic of the psychotic digital information age we live in, I suppose, where every computer comes with a built in God complex for the user with no concept of respect.

Granted, there’s no screaming allowed when you decide to put yourself out there as an artist. Musician, actor, writer, photographer, painter, it doesn’t matter; if you willingly present your art to other people there has to be the understanding that not everyone is going to like it. More to the point, there has to be the understanding that somebody somewhere will dislike it and may be rather vocal about that fact. So long as that criticism is constructive, the artist doesn’t have the right to bitch. He or she might not agree with the viewpoint presented, but there’s no choice but to grin and bear it. Over and out.

Character assassination is another story entirely.

I started this journalist schtick 18 years ago, and during those first couple years I wrote some negative-bent album reviews that, in retrospect, were deplorable. Some were mean-spirited, others were entertaining – carving Peter Criss’ 1994 solo album, Cat #1, with two verses written to the tune of ‘Beth’ covered both – and they served nobody but me and my inflated ego. I regret writing them, and hopefully I’ve improved in my writing and judgement over time. I was reminded of those childish attempts at I’m-so-cool today and shudder to think that, thanks to the internet, similar talent-free feedback is no longer restricted to store bought magazines.

The rise of the internet has created a generation of keyboard warriors juiced up on a sense of judge-jury-executioner superiority. And when I say “generation” I’m not talking about one confined to the idiotic Warcraft-fed kiddies that still need mommy and daddy to wipe their asses. Nope; I’m talking about people from all walks of life that have a hate-on for anyone that seems to have it better than they do because they think the world owes them something. They unload insults like spitballs, trashing a person’s artistic abilities, taking aim at parentage or sexual persuasion or looks, or just being all-out “fuck-you-you-fucking-fuck” profane. These are the same people that would implode with stark naked shit-their-pants fear if they were faced with the opportunity to tell the artists what they think face-to-face.

I guarantee you that not one would have the balls.

Artists are easy targets, of course, thanks to their public personas. People have a tendency to forget that behind the so-called celebrity is a human being. Every so often, like today, I’m reminded of that fact.

Over the last year or so I’ve been posting updates on an L.A.-based band, all taken from their assorted Facebook pages. The band in question is the brainchild of a lovely lady I’ve known for years. When we first crossed paths in the late ’90s I was nervous – hell, I was scared – because she had a reputation for being outspoken and and in-your-face attitudinal if she didn’t like you. I should have followed the rule of believing half of what you see and none of what you hear, because she was a sweetheart. Our contact was sporadic in the years that followed – all business – but communication was opened up thanks to the rise of social media. So it went that I’d push her band when I found something newsworthy on their sites. Given that they’re a small yet professional do-it-themselves act I thought I was doing them a favour. But, she asked me quite nicely if I’d only post information she consented to, in the interest of “keeping things in the family.” She felt the posts written to the friends and fans of her band were sacred and heartfelt, a way to connect on a personal level to those who willingly invested time, interest and energy in following their activities. I complied, of course, because none of what I was doing was about me.

We’re still in touch and nothing has been said about the matter since, but the message was clear. Simply put, here’s a band that wants to provide the people that give a damn with information rather than opening themselves up to unnecessary abuse from jerk-offs that have nothing better to do than pass judgement on something they don’t really care about.

I respect her point of view. It’s a pity there are so many small-minded folks out there that need to be told they’re out of line.

If you happen to be someone that fits the keyboard warrior description, and you’ve come this far only because you wanted to see where the old bastard was going with this rant, I offer you the following two step checklist as a means of addressing the error of your ways:

1) Prior to unleashing your righteous “I think I’m tough” ire* upon your intended victim, highlight all points below that pertain to the artist(s) in question:

– plays real instruments / can sing without the assistance of the Ke$ha Auto Tune 2011 Special.
– has recorded albums that are actually purchased by adoring fans.
– has played live in front of people that didn’t give a damn when the show started, but lived to the tell the tale.
– got called back to play the same venue, with twice as many people showing up. And free beer in the backstage fridge.
– are recognized by people outside his / her / their family and circle of friends.
– has been offered / had sex in unexpected situations / places with hot people, without having to settle on a price first.
– has done charity work that actually resulted in a profit for the organization and not the stacked tart behind the bar.
– has been featured in respected magazines, on noteworthy websites and newscasts.
– can tell you that tour bus law negates all laws of the universe.
– can prove that being backstage is not as exciting as everyone thinks.
– has fallen off stage or taken a guitar / bass / mic stand / drumstick to the head.

2) Then ask yourself: What have you done with your spineless, pathetic little life?

I thought so.

The silence is deafening.

* Ire (definition for the clueless): intense and usually openly displayed anger… like on YouTube, where we know you watch Katy Perry and Rebecca Black videos even though you claim to be 110% proof metal-or-die all the time.

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I recently did an “interview” with a guy I’ve known for a long time. His band is gearing up to release a new album, and because I’m a fan and a friend I elected to do a story for BW&BK. As much as I was looking forward to speaking to him again, however, I was also dreading it because during the last three of four interviews we’d done he started ranting about how the music industry has gone to hell, how the artists are getting fucked, how no one is buying music anymore, and on and on. I still have all these interviews on tape and they’re completely interchangeable because of this incessant bitching.

Sure enough, five minutes into our latest chat he started in on the industry. I tried to steer the conversation back to the new album three or four times, but he managed to turn things around so we were back discussing how the music industry is fucked. I probably should have said something, but out of respect for the man and his music I kept my mouth shut, gritted my teeth and dealt with it. It was an excruciatingly painful 35 minutes.

As we were wrapping up, however, he had the audacity to tell me he was going to email me the concept for the new album “so I could send him more questions for a better interview” because I didn’t ask him about the album concept. I said “fine, cool, no problem,” but I was stunned, insulted, and over the last week have become increasingly pissed off.

I have no problem with people criticizing me, but it seems to me that if someone would stop whining and moaning so much about his chosen profession and how the world is so goddamn unfair there might be room to ask pertinent questions.

There’s no argument that the music industry is in trouble. Doesn’t matter if it’s metal or not, thanks to illegal downloading the artists and labels are losing money, everyone in a position to sign or sell bands is scrambling and cutting corners, anything to slow or hopefully stop a domino effect that is doing major damage to everyone involved. I’m not on the receiving end of a lot of that, so I don’t know the extent of just how deep the damage goes (my best bud Paco could probably right a book on it…), but I can see how a musician who has been in the biz for over 20 years would become embittered and disillusioned. Especially when he’s seen bands that used to be on the same level as himself enjoying some ridiculously amazing success in recent years.

That said, the way I see it, the present industry situation is like a bad relationship: if you’re unhappy and it’s killing you, hopefully you’ll have the sense to get out and find something better. If you choose to stay because of the kids, money or those weekly Hi-Def no-teeth blowjobs before Sunday brunch, shut the fuck up, grin and bear it. That was your choice and nobody needs to hear about how unhappy you are.

There are plenty of bands and artists that can’t hack the present day state of the music industry, and with good reason. I’ve seen several bow out publicly and admit they couldn’t deal with the new grind, or make a quiet exit and go on with their lives, never to be heard from on a musical level ever again.

On the other side, there are plenty of metal and rock bands that are putting skull to grindstone and suffering for their art. I’ve spoken to more of these acts than I can count, and I’m always amazed and in awe of the fact that they are not only willing but actually able to carve a life out of their art when the industry is in a state of decline. They love what they do and it shows not only in their music but in the way they present themselves. Are they getting screwed? A lot of ‘em are. So what’s the payoff? I have no idea, but they have my respect.

These bands / artists are also the reason I love my job.

Bottom line: as a professional musician, to do nothing but whine every time you release an album…in this case five or six years running…maybe it’s time to move on. Scratch that. It is DEFINITELY time to move on. Make music because you love it, not because feeling sorry for yourself is second nature, or because you think the industry owes you one.

Sadly, I’m not professional enough to separate my personal feelings from business. There will not be a story in BW&BK with the subject of this blog because the “interview” is a sad and bitter rant that no one needs. There won’t be an album review because the record is mediocre at best and I’m no longer able to focus on the positive aspects of the music.

And there won’t be another interview done by me with the individual in question until he pulls his head out of his ass and gets his shit together.

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On June 2nd the lamest of lame-ass festival line-ups descended upon Nuremberg, Germany for the annual Rock im Park, guaranteed to impress only those tweens and under-35s that consider MTV and Glee quality programming. Several kilometers away in the city’s old town, veteran German rockers Sinner were down to the far more satisfying business of filming a video for the song ‘Back On Trail’, the first single from their forthcoming album One Bullet Left.

Following is a photo-documentary of the shoot, which took place at the – for lack of a better word – abandoned Volksbad (which must have been bloody impressive when it was fully operational). And if some of the mugs in the shots below look familiar, they should, as Sinner’s present line-up consists of guitarists Christof Leim (The New Black), Alex Scholpp (Tarja) and Alex Beyrodt (Primal Fear) – yep, three of ‘em – drummer André Hilgers (Rage), and last but never least, bassist and namesake Mat Sinner….

These photos cannot be republished, reproduced, reprinted or recycled at any time, anywhere or anyhow without express permission from Carl Begai. If you want to use ‘em, ask first; I’m quite easy to get along with.

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Talking to musicians / artists about the creative process is what this journalist tour-of-duty is all about. Actually being part of the creative process offers a new and valuable perspective of the time and energy spent on bringing the music from vision to the studio. Since 2004 I’ve played a small role in helping to shape the lyrics for the German / Norwegian folk metal band, Midnattsol, an ongoing collaboration that forces me to dig deeper each time vocalist Carmen Elise Espenæs asks for my feedback.

For the record, I couldn’t write a song to save my or anybody else’s life. When I was first approached by ex-Midnattsol guitarist / co-founder Christian Hector about proof-reading lyrics for their debut, Where Twilight Dwells, I took on the task not really expecting to do anything more than offer suggestions on using correct tenses and how to improve grammatical structure. In actual fact it became an interesting exchange of ideas with Carmen who, at that point, was very much in a learning-by-doing phase as a singer / songwriter.

Three albums in and Carmen has found her stride. In truth she doesn’t need my help anymore, but I was happy to offer it when she was finalizing the lyrics for the new album, The Metamorphosis Melody. I was pleasantly surprised – and more than a bit impressed – to find myself challenged by Carmen’s ideas rather than being met with grammatical errors, resulting in a full week of chaos and comedy as we bashed her lyrics into shape.

Following is our behind-the-scenes look at Carmen’s work on The Metamorphosis Melody, with me playing her soundboard and the voice of sporadic reason.

(And if any of this seems self-serving or narcissistic, it is. If you can’t be proud of your own accomplishments there’s no reason why anyone else should treat them seriously …)

CB: When you were writing lyrics and melodies for The Metamorphosis Melody, did you find it easier to compose compared to the previous albums now that you have more experience working in music and speaking English?

Carmen: “I don’t have any problems coming up with ideas for songs. I have lots of them, and there are always parts of lyrics lying around because I’ll be doing something and an idea will often just come to me, so I have to write it down. This time I had new requirements for myself as a songwriter, and I had the eagerness to improve. I thought the music was great, so the lyrics had to be the best Midnattsol has ever had. The ideas were there, but I think it was such a great learning process having you to help me and inspire me to bring the language to a higher level. You contributed to that in a big way.”

CB: The thing about your lyrics this time was that you didn’t really need me anymore. I found that kind of funny, and I remember saying that a few times. They were almost perfect in most cases.

Carmen: “Thanks, but it was a motivational thing to hear what you thought about them. I know that you’ll tell me honestly what you think, so I didn’t have to wonder if something was okay or not, or maybe too cliché. I’m very scared of clichés, I hate them, and I know a lot of metal fans do, too (laughs).”

CB: I remember having a few conversations where you suggested saying certain lines or verses a number of different ways, ‘…but I need a word for this…,’ and I’d be sitting there thinking ‘Jesus Christ, this Norwegian chick is challenging me in my own language (laughs).’ We’d talk at night, you’d give me the idea or theme and I had to come up with a word or phrase, so it was ‘Call me in the morning, I’ll have something for you. I hope.’”

Carmen: “(Laughs) I think one of the coolest ideas was ‘A Poet’s Prayer’ (inspired by Christina Rossetti’s poem ‘Hurt No Living Thing’) as the song title. Trying to find the right title for the song was so difficult, and that just fit the moment you said it.”

CB: It’s kind of weird listening to the album and hearing some of the things we worked on. It’s strange to be associated with the songs on that level, but very cool as well.

Carmen: “I was looking forward to hearing what you thought of the album, because I think everyone has a certain impression – maybe like a film in your head – when you hear song lyrics or read a poem. I’m wondering if some of the songs came out the way you expected them to, or what your expectations were. ”

CB: The vocal melodies on the album – on ‘A Poet’s Prayer’ and ‘The Tide’, for example – were a surprise since I didn’t have them when we were working on the lyrics. There are several time where I’m thinking ‘Holy shit, that’s awesome!’ because I didn’t expect the end result. And ‘Kong Valemons Kamp’, the melodies in that song are amazing. The whole song is outstanding. I think it’s my favourite track on the album.

Carmen: “And we had to struggle a bit with the lyrics for that one. I knew what I wanted to write about, I had the basic idea and the direction, but the problem was how to bring it up to a very high level. The music limited us a bit because we had to put the whole fairytale into these short lines. That was a great collaboration. Every time I hear the line ‘golden wreath’ I think of that because I originally had it written ‘golden reth’ and was singing it that way (laughs).”

CB: There’s also the line ‘A sense of you on the bed’ in the same song, and you originally had ‘A scent of you…’ which brought up a whole different mental image.”

Carmen: “(Laughs) I remember coming up with the lines ‘When I wake up…’ because I’d been at the gym for two hours, and I had been listening to the music for the song the entire time. When I got home I still had enough energy to go for a jog in the forest near my place, and by the time I got back I had the melodies and lyrics in my head. That’s when I reached for the phone and called to ask ‘What do you think of this?’ (laughs).”

CB: The one thing that stands out is when you called one morning telling me you were going in to record the vocals for a song – I can’t remember which one – and you wanted to make sure a certain line worked. Then you called back at noon saying ‘It worked out great! Now, I’ve got this new idea for the other song we talked about earlier…’”

Carmen: “Yeah… you have six minutes before I go in to record! (laughs).”

CB: Do you think that pressure to get things done within a limited time affected your performance? From where I was sitting it was a pretty intense exercise for you, and that’s the sort of thing that makes or breaks a singer when you put him or her in the booth to record.

Carmen: “That’s a good question. I don’t really know. I was having a really bad time before I came down to record, so there was some pressure there. One of my family members was ill and we thought she was going to die, so I didn’t have the full concentration I needed to finish the writing. All of us in the band were under pressure to get finished in time, and then this happened. I didn’t know how I was going to get through it, but there was nothing else I could do. I decided I had to think positive and do the best that I could, that maybe it would help rather than just sitting around waiting and wondering what would happen.”

“I tried to keep thinking positive, and between that and the pressure it did help. On the song ‘Forvandlingen’, for example, I wasn’t quite sure how I should sing it. I didn’t know if I should sing it with a powerful voice or pull back because I didn’t have a clear idea; I hadn’t rehearsed it very much. When I was in the studio with Markus (Stock / producer) I just sang what came to mind and he thought it was beautiful. I was very surprised. It was like, ‘Where did that come from?’ because there wasn’t months of rehearsing behind it. It was either going to go to hell or be fantastic (laughs). I think maybe it was that eagerness to make things the best I could plus that pressure that brought it out.”

“Even if the pressure did have an influence on my performance – and I remember saying this to my friends shortly before I left Norway to record – something has happened to my voice. There’s a development there that I can’t explain.”

CB: Your voice on Nordlys was very operatic. It sounds much more natural now, like it did on the first album, only much stronger.

Carmen: “I think my voice sounds different now compared to the previous albums, but there are some of the basic qualities that still exist. So, I think there’s a red line connecting all three even though my voice is different.”

CB: And I have to ask, has your sister (Leaves’ Eyes vocalist Liv Kristine) told you what she thinks of the album yet, and do you believe her?

Carmen: “(Laughs) She thinks it’s great, but we don’t talk that much about music. It’s not out #1 topic of conversation because I don’t see her that much, so when we do get together we talk about Norway and our family more than anything else.”

- all photos of Carmen by Rune Stensøy
- Midnat-Troll self-portrait by Carl Begai

For information on Midnattsol and The Metamorphosis Melody go to their official website here.

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I’ve done a fair bit of reading in my 42 years, to the point that I’ve found myself buried in a book written by one of literature’s finest (as not defined by some damn Wuthering Heights-bent school curriculum) and thinking “I could write better than this. Hell, I have written better than this.” The arrogance of delusion, I suppose. There are a couple works of “art” sitting here waiting to be published, in fact, so maybe one day I can put my money where my mouth is.

With that in mind, I was recently reminded of something Stephen King once said. I’m not his biggest fan but I’ve enjoyed several of his books over the years. One of them, entitled On Writing, is basically his take on what makes a good writer versus a bad one. He offers anecdotes, advice and a number of stories related to his craft. The one slice of wisdom that has always stuck with me is “Write what you know..,” and while I have no idea if King has ever gone face-to-muzzle against a rabid dog or had dreams about being chased down by a psychotic clown, the message was and is clear. Basically, if you’ve been weaned on estrogen-charged I-Can’d-Beleev-Iss-Not-Budder cover model romance novels, you probably shouldn’t try to one-up Tom Clancy on the political thriller front.

After a recent bordering-on-frantic search for something good to read I’m thinking King’s rule should be updated as follows:

Write What You Know, But Step The Fuck Out Of Your Show-Me-The-Money Comfort Zone, Dammit.

My cage was rattled recently (as my buddy Fin says about me… often) while searching for something new to read. After several months of re-reading novels in my ever-growing collection, I decided it was time to seek out a brand spankin’ new tale at the bookstore. While I did eventually find a couple things to keep myself amused for the next couple months (in between work, domestic bliss, weekend debauchery and work), I was disappointed to see that a couple writers I used to enjoy a great deal are still flogging what is an unquestionably dead body at this point in their very successful careers.

I’ve written about this before, but fantasy author Terry Goodkind pisses me off to no end for taking what was a brilliant idea and turning it into a never ending soap opera of mistaken-identity-this and don’t-you-love-me-no-more?-that.

In all honesty, Goodkind was single-handedly responsible for rekindling my otherwise rotted interest in fantasy in the space of one book, Wizard’s First Rule, back in 1994. It had all the fantasy formula earmarks (hero dood, magic, a journey, hot chick smarter than hero dood, Mr. Evil out to murder death kill everyone) but the way Goodkind told the story was instantly captivating. Excellent style. Plus, he had some interesting twists on said formula, and he also managed to create one of the best secondary characters in a series of books. Ever.

Sadly, the Sword Of Truth saga (as I said, cliché out the ass in a lot of ways) should have stopped at four books but, at the time of this writing, had been extended to twelve. Seriously. Twelve books about the same people told in what has become a predictable narrative style. How bloody boring. Granted, Goodkind has made no secret about using his series to breathe life into his philisophical beliefs, but why not create an entirely new realm to do that rather than slaughtering his fanbase with “creativity” as dry as a fart in the desert?

I refuse to believe that a publishing house boasting a writer that has sold upwards of 25 million copies of his work internationally has Goodkind by the short and curlies. Certainly not to the point that he has no creative freedom whatsoever. They need him more than he needs them. Period.

There was a ray of hope, however, when it was announced in 2009 that Goodkind would (final-fucking-ly) publish a book that wasn’t part of The Sword Of Truth. Awesome… right up to the point where said book, The Law Of Nines, turned out to be a parallel reality story related to The Sword Of Truth.

GAAAAHHH!!

I give up. Until he writes a story that doesn’t involve a damn sword with “truth” inscribed on the hilt, a lovesick(ening) couple, and hero dood’s “raptor gaze” (easily the most fucking annoying phrase in Goodkind’s library of Lame Descriptive Shit I Rely On To Fill Page Space) I won’t be wasting my time supporting him.

Another author with a career spanning close to 20 years, Diana Gabaldon made her name and (I’m assuming) fortune via her Outlander series. The Fisher Price Digest summary reads as follows:

Unhappy woman. Time travel. How the hell did I end up in 18th century Scotland? My, doesn’t he look dreamy. Mayhem, violence, blood, guts. I’m a doctor. Sarcastic wit. Oh, nipples! Wandering hither and yon. And onward we go. Seven books and counting.

These books have grown into biblical epic-and-the-kitchen-sink volumes over the years, to the point that I’m thinking Gabaldon would be doing the world a favour by easing up on the amount of historical fact she staples to the plotlines. God bless her for being so passionate about her art, but trying to get through her latest book, An Echo In The Bone, I felt like I was plodding through a history textbook that wanted to be a soft porn Braveheart-meets-Harlequin adventure. Same old lame old routine… to the point that I put the book away unfinished by about 500 pages. A pity, because she’s got a fantastic narrative voice.

To her credit, Gabaldon has stepped outside the box for seven or eight books focusing on a secondary character from the Outlander series. Somewhat less of a chore to read and voiced with her familiar smart-ass sense of amusement, the Lord John books have been entertaining, but again I’m thinking it would do Gabaldon well if she got the hell out of highlander hottie potential chick flick heaven entirely. At least for a while. I mean, you can only do things missionary and doggy for so long until lighting one’s genitals on fire starts looking far more exciting in spite of the potential pain.

The Girlfriend piped up when I mentioned this seemingly blanket lack of inspiration, citing the reader reviews of Dan Brown’s latest book The Lost Symbol, which has been lambasted via reader reviews for serving up his trademark Spooky Symbol Stuff (wooga wooga). She doesn’t agree with complaints that its paint-by-numbers drivel, saying that folks who buy into Dan Brown are doing so because they’re expecting a Robert Langdon mystery romp (to be followed by a crap-ass movie adaptation). Fair enough, Brown is a fledgling writer in comparison to the likes of Goodkind and Gabaldon, but if it was me I’d be listening closely to my readership and considering the validity of their bitching.

I could beat the snot out of this theme because, in my “humble” opinion, numerous well-to-do authors are guilty of taking the easy way to the bank. In all fairness, there’s no doubt in my mind that some of these writers have to contend with publishers looking over their shoulders, reminding them of how their continued careers depends on home base getting its 95%-off-the-top-or-else, but the veterans that have more clout than a steroid-charged Fight Club? That select group can take a long walk off a short pier, preferably with lead weights in their pockets.

So it goes that, after the premature shelving of An Echo In The Bone, I picked up Stephen King’s new one, Under The Dome. An act of desperation on some level (no pun intended), but two pages in I was hooked. The voice was instantly familiar, as was the penchant for unexplained madness, evil and occasional murder, but it felt brand new. I’m half way through the book, and if online reviews are to be believed I’ll be disappointed by the ending, but I’m willing forgive King this supposed lapse (which is all a matter of taste anyway). Getting to the end is most of the fun, and I appreciate a writer that is able to serve up a rollercoaster ride without concern for the sections of track he mangled or forgot to include along the way, or the residual cheques that may or may not show up in the aftermath. Granted, King doesn’t need to worry about money at this stage of the game, but he could have phoned it in claiming immunity as a literary icon.

Instead, he gave his peers something to aspire to.

A trek it was, and while I enjoyed the show and hanging with the folks that matter after the show, I was reminded early on of the old Styx song ‘Nothing Ever Goes As Planned’…

— train delays because it snowed three days earlier.

— being unable to get away from the idiot and straight up inconsiderate mobile phone yappers on the train. An hour is a very long time to endure that particular insanity. Especially the asshole with the speaker phone…

— zero public transit once in town because, jeez, it snowed THREE DAYS earlier.

— standing in line for 20 minutes in -10 because the venue decided to use ONE DOOR to get 1,000+ people inside. I don’t mind the cold, but understaffed stupidity pisses me off.

— sidestepping stumbling drunk morons every 2 minutes. When you’re in your teens and 20s that kind of inebriated behaviour is expected regardless of how much you paid to get in. When you’re in your 30s and 40s and require the wall or five of the closest strangers to remain upright is classless, even for a metal show. You can’t sing either, so just stop it.

— Lichtenfels’ taxi central switchboard taking the phones off the hook, making it impossible to get a cab back to the hotel… in -10 at 1:00am. How much do you like walking…?

All that said, there were high points to the evening that balanced things out to a level where I didn’t want to kill myself or anyone else… except maybe those cellphone gab fuckers…

— the once again awesome Hotel Krone. Would have cost an arm and a leg in a bigger town or city. Great staff, excellent breakfast (and I can’t stress this enough), and I had a frickin’ mini-chocolate on my pillow. Very metal indeed. Sue me

— the fastest I-don’t-know-anyone-at-this-venue guest list in history. Friendly and hassle free. Where the hell were you people when I was on the frickin’ train?

— huge photo pit.

— Amanda Somerville (Sue me again…)

— Tobias Sammet calling out the crowd for being typically German and therefore unable to clap along to a set rhythm or tempo. He’s German, he allowed…

— Kai Hansen performing Alice Cooper’s role for ‘The Toy Master’ and Jon Oliva’s part for ‘Death Is Just a Feeling’. Awesome.

— Sammet: “No, this isn’t Slash, it’s Sascha Paeth.”

— Michael Kiske and Kai Hansen on stage together, tearing it up. Awesome again. It’s a bummer that the three-song-rule for photo pit access made it impossible get any good pics of the dynamic duo. I need to get me a Access All Necessary Areas Whenever I Bloody Well Choose pass..

— realizing that Avantasia is really Helloween gone Bat Out Of Hell on stage.

— drummer Felix Bohnke. The guy plays a kit the size of a Fisher Price practice set for toddlers, but he’s a monster. I don’t care what kind of microphones or triggers he might use, he put in a high energy 3 hour full-on metal performance and played his ass off. Dream Theater should give him a call.

— a show where the diehard fans that paid to get in actually got their money’s worth.

— aftershow chat with Amanda, Miro and Oliver Hartmann, and being blown away by photographer Hans-Martin Issler’s insanely cool pictures of Rush, Toronto and Quebec City.

— the drunk farmer that invited us to share his cab so we could get back to the hotel. Completely iced up from the inside on all sides, psycho woman driving at 50km with a 10cm x 10cm section of window cleared from the front windshield so she could “see.”

— the train back to N-town not being delayed, in spite of every indication that we were about to be screwed with a smile.

— killer photos, at least as far as I’m concerned

All photos by Carl Begai. All rights reserved.

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Ray Wallace, affectionately known as “Black Metal” by those of us that he called friend, was taken from us unexpectedly, the hand of fate having decided at random he was needed elsewhere. He was laid to rest on December 1st, but getting home to pay my respects proved to be impossible; something I still regret to this day.

It was my birthday. There was nothing to celebrate.

Instead, I started a tradition. Every year I go out on December 1st and buy an album I know Ray would approve of. Something loud and proud, neighbour-unfriendly and blatantly on-10-obnoxious. A present to myself and a tribute to Ray’s memory. If it has to be this way, I’m glad I’ll be sharing that day with him for the rest of my life.

I don’t believe that time heals all wounds, but the tears sting less.

More importantly, I’m able to look back at the good times and smile.

Loud and proud, Ray. We miss you.

\m/ – _ – \m/

Ray “Black Metal” Wallace: The Richest Man In The World… And Then Some
November 27th, 2007

I hated elementary school. To this day I look back on it with a sense of loathing. The only useful thing I took from it was something the vice principal said while teaching a religion class: “If you have just one person in your life that you can call a good friend you’re the richest man in the world.” I don’t know why that stuck with me but I’ve never forgotten it, and as a result I cherish the people I’m blessed to have as my friends. When all is said and done they, like family, take precedence over everything else in my life.

I recently lost one of them. He made the richest man in the world look like a pauper, which speaks volumes about his character. Ray Wallace was loved by so many people. The reason why was obvious.

I met Ray in 1993 at the HMV in the Scarborough Town Center shopping mall. I was killing time in the store shortly before closing one weekday evening, browsing the shelves and courting boredom. The store was empty and the guy behind the cash switched whatever pop-flavoured tripe that had been playing over the in-store sound system for something considerably heavier. And it was LOUD. Much louder than what suburban mall record store policy allowed, I’m sure. The album was Sven Gali’s debut, Under The Influence. We got to talking about the band; the fact Ray was black and not very metal-looking at the time made no difference to me. If he put my kind of music on, and at THAT volume, he was a kindred spirit and that’s all that mattered. He would have put on something much heavier, of course, but there were the neighbours to consider…

I’m listening to Under The Influence as I write this. It’s a bittersweet experience, but I laugh remembering the last few customers from that night fleeing the store in terror.

I can say that from that day Ray and I were friends. We didn’t hang out regularly, but there was a mutual respect that allowed us to fall into easy conversation whenever we crossed paths. Whether I would swing by HMV in those early days or see him at a show in the years that followed we’d inevitably end up discussing metal and music in general. The fact we were able to pick up where we left off, a month or even after a year or more of not hanging out was something I always appreciated. I look back on that now and consider it a gift and a privilege to have known him.

In 2005 I hooked up with Ray for the first time in ages at a Bobnoxious show at the Bovine. It was like no time had passed at all. Okay, he had more hair and I had less, but the vibe was the same as it always had been. From that point on, however, we were in touch regularly. I was surprised when he started asking me for my thoughts and opinions regarding various projects he was working on, and flattered when he took my suggestions to heart. Here was a guy who had been involved in the metal scene much longer than I had, and who’s knowledge of the music industry outstripped mine by half, yet he treated me as an equal. That was something I never took lightly.

This past summer, my first return home to Toronto in two years, was one of the best times of my life and Ray was a big part of that. Thanks to him my sacred circle of friends grew with the addition of Cris, Tanya, Sylvya and Elie from Scarlet Sins, whom he’d introduced to me a year earlier via the internet. He invited me several times to come out to shows and events when my schedule allowed, and I was flattered because it wasn’t like he was starved for company. Far from it.

The last time I saw Ray it amounted to a 24 hour party, starting at the Scarlet Sins rehearsal room and continuing the next night with my best friend Trevor and my girlfriend Alex at the Kamelot/Leaves’ Eyes show at the Opera House. Both nights were fantastic and I remember every detail (amazingly enough ), but I’m grateful for the pictures that were taken, and the Scarlet Sins interview recording that includes Ray’s voice. It’s comforting to know he lives on.

News of Ray’s condition came as a shock to everyone. The outpouring of love and support he received from his friends and colleagues did not. Ray commanded respect because he genuinely appreciated and respected the people he interacted with, regardless of whether he’d known them for 15 years or 15 minutes, regardless of whether it was a band member or a person behind the bar. He didn’t have to try, he was quite simply a great, big-hearted guy. There was no showboating, no “Wallace Knows Best” attitude, just a genuine lust and love for life that he shared with anyone willing to step inside.

They say real men don’t cry. Whoever “they” are, I’d love to argue the point with them because I have no problem shedding a tear for the loss of my friend. None of us do. But, as cliché as it sounds, next time you plug in and play – whether it’s with the band, the stereo or the mp3 player – crank it up so Ray can hear you. Not because he’s gone, but because it’s how he lived his life: on 10.

Cheers, Ray. Thanks for everything.

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It’s funny. When I was a teenager and Married With Children was at its peak, some critics trashed the show, saying it contributed to the erosion of the moral fibre of society. Uh-huh. Sure. Take a look around you now. I’d much rather have my moral fiber eroded by Christina Applegate’s boobs bouncing across the screen or through hearing Al Bundy tearing the sacred institution of marriage a new one every five seconds than waste an evening watching reality TV.

One evening a couple weeks ago I was watching TV and a commercial came on announcing a new show called Top Dogs. Done in the spirit of talent shows like Popstars / American Idol / Star Search, the program showcased dogs vying to be the new stars of the canine world, quite naturally shoved into doing stupid tricks by their owners. You know, Shit on command, move to the next round, that’s a good boy. It’s a good thing I was sitting down at the time ‘cuz if I’d been standing I probably would have bashed my jaw on the coffee table as it fell open.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, was my first thought, immediately followed by People actually buy into this crap?

People who know me are aware that I think the whole talent search “phenomenon” is like a nail driven through the top of the skull. Slowly. Sure, it’s amusing to see no-talent teenie-boppers who thinks melody is a brand of perfume try to sing their way through Christina Aguilera’s ‘Beautiful’, and there’s a morbid fascination that comes from watching that whacko Simon from American Idol insult 10 generations of someone’s family because said victim sounds like a cat being plucked of its fur. But, week after week of the same frickin’ thing on a half dozen networks in almost every civilized country on the planet? Come on, get a fucking life.

Anyway, back to the dogs…

I don’t know if my friends at home in Canada and the U.S. have to deal with a talent show for dogs on TV, but seeing as how Germany hasn’t had any original TV programming since the Nuremberg Trials (probably the world’s first reality show, oddly enough…) my guess is that this Top Dogs cack originated in the States. If it did originate in Germany, someone PLEASE help me pay for a one way ticket home. And of course, although I dubbed it bullshit and swore up and down I wouldn’t watch the thing, last Tuesday me and The Girlfriend broke open the champagne, turned the TV’s sound off, turned on my compilation CD of Finnish metal and watched the whole sorry mess unfold.

I have to wonder, what the FUCK is wrong with people? How is it possible that people get sucked into watching this crap on a weekly, even daily, basis? Never mind that; what kind of idiot actually takes part in a talent show for his or her DOG? What’s the incentive? Free Kibbles & Bits for life? A world tour as the opening act for Siegfried And Roy? Or are the owners living vicariously through their hounds?

I always wanted lick my own balls in the comfort of your living room…

Hey, your ass smells like chili…

Ha! I can piss on a fire hydrant downtown in broad daylight in front of a police station and no one thinks twice about it!

You could, of course, criticize the TV networks for airing this tripe, but it’s their job to make money. They’ve locked into the fact that people are beyond stupid, and they’re on it like an alcoholic on holiday from rehab. I can only imagine what’s coming down the pipe in the years to come: Cooking With Napalm, or maybe Dancing With Lepers, or how about Your Ass Or Mine? (Oh, wait, I think that one is already here…)

I know, I know; “If you don’t like it don’t watch it.” No worries, unless it turns on The Girlfriend to the point of wanting drunken monkey sex !NOW! in the stairwell it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever watch this Top Dogs garbage again. Admnittedly, it might be the top choice over a Steven Seagal movie, but that’s still cutting it close. As for the other talent search programs, you can’t sell me on them either. You wanna be a star? Do it the hard way, your shelf life is guaranteed to be longer than the open carton of cottage cheese sitting forgotten at the back of the refrigerator

And if you have a dog, take him for a walk around the block or go play fetch in the park. Just stay the hell away from the television studio. Please. It’ll save you a shitload of embarrassment and spare me having to waste any more wordage on the subject of human stupidity.