end of the world
(part eleven)
((the end of "the end of the world"))
(((the banger's embrace)))





"they say you can't relive the past, but as the lights went down it all came rushing back."

back in march of 2009, i picked up propagandhi's supporting caste with the expectation that it would be every bit as valuable to my music collection as their previous effort, potemkin city limits. after the first listen, i knew i was not going to be disappointed. after the second, third, fourth and fifth spins, i was certain that, based only on my own opinions and taste, caste had leaped into my own personal pantheon. the place where good albums go after they are determined (by me) to be great. in the last 12-14 months, this album, above every album in my vast and varied broken plastic case that sits on the floor of my closet, has taken its rightful place. it sits on the throne. it looks down at every other album purchased by me or for me. it sees potemkin at it's right hand. burn, piano island, burn to the left. it glances across the room and sees nevermind and dookie and one chord to another, pinkerton and chumps on parade and hello rockview and dog problems and tell all your friends and out come the wolves and dude ranch, electric boogaloo and 59 sound and when the pawn... and tens on top of tens of other albums that, over the course of the formative realization and continuing creation of one kevin michael o'kelley, have served as my personal soundtracks. caste looks over his subjects that, at some point in time, i personally allowed to define and motivate me, and caste sees that it is good.

i "luff, two f's" this album. i completely consumed it in a way that would have never happened before my blog became a four letter word. before the blog, i loved music. played it badly. appreciated and respected those much more talented than me. appreciated and respected those that ever crafted a tune that i couldn't get out of my head and made my life a better place. since the blog's inception, though, i have written about my music and the way it has moved me. for a couple years, i wrote out "best of..." columns in which not only could i identify which of my purchases provided the most healthy return on my investment, but i could process why. i am no music critic. i don't know the difference between a "good" album and a "bad" one. but i can tell you if an album is "AWESOME"  and i can tell you if "it sucks". taste is relative. "your favorite band sucks", right?

as an extension of those "best of..." posts, at some point early last year i decided i would deconstruct caste in a way i had never thought of before. i would take each song, play it on a loop and see where my my mind and my fingers would take me for a little while. fucking cancer interrupted that flow last summer, but i was happy to pick it back up several months ago and today brings us to the conclusion of the "end of the world" series.

"bangers" is a song written by a fan for a fan. it details any and every long strange trip any person has ever made to pay good money to watch their favorite band play a show. we all have "that story" to tell, right? we've all packed too many people in a protege and headed east to atlanta since, with very few exceptions, only shitty bands come or ever came to birmingham in their prime. we've all packed way too many people in a protege and headed east to atlanta ready for a moment captured in two or three hours that could possibly "change our life, man". the sound hall would be small, smoky and stink like hell. the proprietors would keep letting people in the door even though you knew they reached capacity, like, 100 people ago. you stood shoulder to shoulder with bastards you've never met, but, for the next three hours, you would be their best friend and they yours. if their ass got knocked to the ground, you would pick them up and they you. you would stand, jaw agape, at being 25 feet away from this band that had wrecked your crappy-ass stereo and car speakers for months. they looked just like you. same age. same size. same shitty goatee. but there was one difference. they played your favorite songs.

you would bounce and bellow, scream and wail at the top of your lungs. force yourself a foot closer...and then a foot closer to the stage. scream in agony if you took an elbow to the face. stick your chest out and glare like a bad-ass as you delivered elbows of your own. this wasn't just a show, man. this was fucking war, albeit amidst the friendliest of fire. the opening band that you never heard of with the killer-ass name rocked you more than you anticipated. you went and bought their shirt. the headliner did what headliners do. they tore the roof off of that dilapidated auditorium, temporarily paralyzed your eardrums and sent you home completely cool that some dude behind you sprayed vomit on your back an hour ago.

the last song in this series is what music and a show is about and can be about. communal, live together or die alone experiences that you share with yourself as much as you do your buddies. it's not an original thought that there is something shreddingly primal and intensely personal about the music we love.

chances are, you probably don't worship the ground proagandhi sweat on. it's okay. it only makes you a moron. and all of my best friends are morons.

chances are, i don't like your favorite band either. it's okay. it only makes me a moron. and i've been a moron for a lot longer than you've been a moron.

sarah, let it be known that i would like "night letters" to be played at my funeral. turn it up to eleven, please. the congregation will whisper to each other that it makes perfect sense. "he's always been such a fuck-up". and i will move forward with a smile on my face to...

"...the place where all the best bands go."