Long-time NCS readers know that we have a weakness (in a totally non-pedophile way) for BABYMETAL, the three-member female group who made a name for themselves by fusing Japanese idol music and metal. This obsession began with former frequent visitor and occasional contributor Phro (who is based in the Tokyo area). Even though Phro is occupied with other pursuits and doesn’t show up around here very often, he still stays in touch, and this morning he fired off an e-mail alerting me to the premiere of a new BABYMETAL song and video: “Megitsune”
In fact, we have Phro’s own introduction to the video (which will be followed by some more Phro words and some of my own):
“Alright you sad sacks, sit down, shut the fuck up, and press play, because Baby Metal have a new song and video. It’s bombastic in all the right ways, slightly cheesy in all the best ways, and just barely cute enough to still be recognizable as Japan’s finest pop metal band.
“I won’t bother explaining it to you, because, seriously, there’s a fucking YouTube video right here. If you can’t press play because you’re at work, I forgive you, but otherwise this should be fucking your eardrums like a giant, zombie tyrannosaurus rex cock hungry for your ear cherry.”
Phro has reviewed the music of UK-based Chemical Tomb for us before. Amazingly, they sent him their new 7″ split with Corrupt Humanity, which was released January 15. Allegedly, you can pick it up from GRINDFATHER PRODUCTIONS, Black Lake Records, and Aural Onslaught Records & Distro. You can also stream it on Bandcamp. The cover art is by Skillmatik.
Phro delivered unto me another of his now-legendary video reviews. Go ahead. Watch it:
(Yesterday, TheMadIsraeli began what turned out to be a glowing review of a new album by a Japanese metal band named Shatter Silence with his opinion that, generally, “Japan’s metal scene sucks”. Here follows a response by our Japan-based contributor Phro, whose own blog is here.)
So, apparently if TheMadIsraeli doesn’t know anything about your scene, it sucks. While we probably shouldn’t spend too much time kowtowing to the whims of Internet badasses, here’s a list of some Japanese metal bands I found after 15 minutes on Google. Gee, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
(Obviously, this is hardly a complete list, nor is it in any way representative of the entirety of the Japanese metal scene. And it largely reflects my personal taste, though I’ve included some bands that I know are popular, even if I’m not necessarily a fan.)
(In what has become a holiday tradition at NCS, Phro brings us another fucking Christmas story from his residence in Japan. In what has become a holiday tradition at NCS, you may want to have a reliable anti-emetic on hand before you begin reading. I picked the images accompanying this story. I hope Phro likes them.)
“Jingle bells, jingle bells…”
The small mall where I awoke in a puddle of my own green and red vomit was playing the most dreadful MIDI Christmas music, which is a little redundant but whatever. Half of my face was covered in what I assumed had once been the contents of my stomach. I wondered briefly what I had eaten to produce such ghastly vomit, but the appearance of mall security distracted me.
The security guards were both older men…probably in their sixties, I would have said. They smelled like cheap Asian cigarettes, black coffee, and unwashed armpits. I gurgled pathetically in answer to the rapid-fire questions of the first one to reach my side. He gave his partner a look of annoyance and made sharp, shrill clucking noise like a semi-brain-dead chicken attempting to sing a power metal song.
As they conversed in a regional dialect that sounded like a combination of Chinese, Japanese, and angry German Christmas carols, I let my head take a rest from trying to deal with reality and enjoyed the simple warmth of the vomit. After a few moments, though, I noticed a sharp, jabbing pain in one of my butt cheeks as if miniature miners were trying to dig straight through my ass to my colon in search of shit ore.
(The title of Phro’s year-end list was “A Bunch of Shit Phro Liked from
2010 2012″, but your humble editor couldn’t figure out how to make a strike-through work in the WordPress post title box. So just imagine that it’s there.)
Oh, man, I can’t believe how quickly the first decade of the 21st millennium has gone! And just think, the world will only exist for another two years and then BLAMO! Mayan zombie pandas with laser claws and giant fire-ball shooting testicles will take over the world and sell us all to bug-eyed aliens for a few pounds of bamboo and a rocket ship. So, I guess what I’m saying is, make the next two years cou–
Wait, what? It’s 2012? Did…did I just miss the last two years? Oh, fuck, hold on, lemme do some quick research and get back to you with all the awesome stuff that happened this year. Ummm…here, watch this cow and I’ll be right back.
(Yes, Japan’s Baby Metal are back with something new, and as the sun follows the night that means our Japan-based correspondent Phro is back, too.)
So, Islander said he’d take away my food supply if I didn’t get this written up and sent to him before nightfall. As such, you have only him to blame if you find the writing subpar. Well, okay, more subpar than usual. Whatever. I need my horsey cock.
Baby Metal, the semi-official house band of No! Clean Singing!, has released a new song, titled “Ijime, Dame, Zettai.” (Roughly translated by a group of feces-tossing, anus-slurping, toe-jam-eating howler monkeys as: “Bullying, Don’t, Definitely.” We slapped them around a little bit, and they came up with this slightly less steamy pile of rancid eggplant puree: “Just Say No to Bullying!” The howler monkeys have been fired.)
Now, if you think that’s a strange change of focus for a band that thus far has mostly sung about…something, well, you’re not entirely wrong. However, there is a method to this madness. (Ummm…a dim glimmer of a reflection of a method.)
Written by: Phro
It’s a dark and rainy night. The kind of dark and rainy night where you stay home and jerk off your cat with one hand while counting the number of people who love you with the other. (It’s zero people. No one loves you.) Then, when your cat won’t cum and you’re at the darkest depths of despair, you hear a knock at the door. It’s demure, yet violent; lusty, yet apprehensive. You pretend to sigh as if annoyed at the interruption, but in the shallow, tepid depths of your heart, you know you’re happy.
Removing your sweaty hand from your pet’s raw genitals, you stand and go to open the door and struggle to control your shock and turgid pleasure at seeing this lovely face:
With the heavy breathing of a pedophile learning he’s gotten a job as Naked Bathtime Mickey Mouse at Tokyo Disneyland, you stammer stupidly.
She giggles, takes you by the hand and leads you to your bedroom, where she tells you to strip and remove your clothes. Without pausing, you comply, as eager as a teacher’s pet diving head first and mouth agape into the naked lap of your obese, hairy, sweaty junior high math teacher.
(In this post, Phro provides an introduction to the music of Japan-based Darkcorpse. It has something to do with a wolverine’s urethra.)
Hey. I’m Phro. It’s been a while, but your asses are still surely elastic. So stretch ‘em out and get ready for some really gritty black metal.
Darkcorpse is a band. They make music that sounds like someone injecting gravel into a wolverine’s urethra via a sandblaster. They have two demos, and you will love them (demo 2, in particular). That’s not a prophesy or a request or even a demand. It is a fact of life in the same way it is a fact that life isn’t worth living if you can’t go out to clubs, meet nice strangers, bring them home, cut large holes in their stomachs, shove in some rabid rodents, and then sew them up and watch the fun on an ultrasound.
Their Bandcamp page informs me “Darkcorpse play a no-frills crust inflected brand of Black Thrash with a touch of doom.” I, literally, have no fucking clue what that means. I mean, I recognize the words, but when it’s all together in sentence form, it kind of makes my brain feel like a cum-sandwich smoothy bubbling up from beneath my eyeballs and rolling down my cheeks. (“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”)
However, if we look at the individual pieces of the sentence, it all makes sense. The vocals, in their crusty/black/trashiness, sound more than anything like the aforementioned wolverine howling in furious anger (not in pain though, that little fuck is more annoyed than anything) just before it rips free from it’s steel bindings and bites clean through your genitals.
(A message from Phro . . .)
This band needs neither introduction nor apologies.
Eat it, Korn.
HUGS, KISSES AND SQUIDS!
(P.S. from Your Editor: After the jump, pro video of Baby Metal playing “Doki Doki Morning” and something else live. Yeah, motherfuckers, we goin’ all in.)
(Our Blog Break is now over, and what better way to get things back to (ab)normal here at NCS than with a review by Phro of the debut EP by a Finnish “duckgrind” band — Artists Are Idiots. The album is entitled The Subduck Scum Shall Fall.)
Islander sent me this band to check out. I pretty much blew every load I had just based on the name and then dry-came until my balls were bloody. I can’t guarantee you’ll like their music, but only because I can’t guarantee that you’re not a brain-dead jackal.
The cell is dark. It smells of feathers and feces. Naziduck shit has a particularly revolting aroma to it, and they know it. Which is why they always, inevitably, shit on their prisoners during interrogation. They want you to stink of their shit to remind you exactly who you belong to.
But I’m still shit free. I wonder for how long.
In the background, I hear the oddly jovial sound of a brass band taking up their instruments. It’s confusingly cheerful. But who knows if Naziducks can smile? They don’t even have fucking lips. That thought reminds me of the Anti-Naziduck commercials they show before each film at the old dime cinema. It’s always the same. An image of regular ducks flapping about a farm yard at first dashing between cow hooves and mindless chickens. Then, without warning, the next morning the farmer awakes to find the chickens have all be killed in the night, along with the cow, and the ducks are digging mass graves. The farmer turns to run to get his shotgun, but it’s too late. The drakes set upon him, tearing his clothes off, taking turns shoving their long, twirling, rapid-fire erections into his brain via his nasal cavity. “Naziducks: Are They In YOUR Barnyard?” the commercial demands before the movie starts.