It moves like a glacier yet you people are still here. What's wrong with you? No, wait, I mean … Thank you guys. My eyes are misty while typing this, and it's not because of my uncontrollable flatulence. At least I think. Anyways, let me show some gratitude with a little Q&A, because I live to serve. I really focking do.
johnny108 writes:
Dear Indiscipline,
I think I have found my new hero.
Crack is not good. Crack is bad.
Samsära writes:
Dear Indiscipline,
We gave you a chance, look what happened.
Wait a minute man. I promised you a vast adventure. Next thing that you know ...
TAC writes:
Dear Indiscipline,
Very true. It seems as if DT came out of nowhere. The music scene looked very bleak. Even my favorite bands from the 80's released albums that seemed like huge steps back..Metallica's The Black Album, Helloween's Pink Bubbles, Megadeth's CtE, and Dio's Wolves. It's funny how great these albums have aged though, considering how I felt about them originally..but I digress..
You are a prince, but be a man about it and include No Prayer For The Dying. Do it.
Double TAC, because I focking like him:
Dear Indiscipline,
Two words.."I Ran"..C'mon, I focking gave you that one.....
Sir TAC, I am not stealing someone else's brilliant intuition. Secondly, never, ever forget I am an unmitigated cretin. Not even for a second.
ThroughHerEyesDude6 writes:
Still not sure if great success, but you do make me laugh. Any chance you will continue with another album after this one?
Rest assured, it's gonna be a jolly good failure. The plan is covering the whole discography until the next album hits the shelves. World peace and a cure for cancer being the following goals, of course.
05. Metropolis Part 1: The Miracle and The Sleeper.Eventually I came back from the bathroom, feeling more peaceful and refreshed. I warmly suggest you, my treasured audience essentially consisting of three musical perverts still following this thread, to take a piss break as well. This is going to be insanely long, even by my focked up standards. Blame it on fate, Tuesdays, and Ryanair Airlines' sadistic delays. As always, people who are sober, have a strong appreciation of life, or belong to Generation Whatever need not apply.
0:00 – 0:39: Let's play How To Build Landscapes With Music. Pick a drummer with a noble grasp of percussions' cinematic potential (and, God Almighty, the Epic Bongo. You know, the one that sucker punches you at the 0:25 mark), a Zen keyboardist, and two axemen who know when you need to play and when you don't. There, you instantly find yourself into The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I actually feel like shooting the Banging Big Bro in the arse and retrieve the bounty. I am not kidding.
0:39 – 1:21: And I was here slightly fearing a side B stuffed with weak filler. Let's see. There are Kick-Ass Introductions (Locomotive Breath), there are Great Majestic Openings (Baba O'Riley), and there are Really Kick-Ass Great Majestic Opening Introductions (Epitaph), and yet I can't classify this. I think Conan-The-Barbarian-Riding-The-Millennium-Falcon-Into-Skeletor's-Castle-Focking-Princess-Buttercup might temporarily do it justice.
1:21 – 1:40: This is the riff I want to lose virginity to, I will not argue this. And before you can realise you are currently reading the work of a sick sick focker, I would like to point out how clever that keys counterpoint rings. If the other guys mainly strike me as virtuosos, Kevin Moore sounds the smartest. Of course, do what you want with this information.
1:40 – 2:36: This is the absolute pinnacle of what we have agreed to call The Hardcastle&McCormick (Remember?). I mean if Heaven and Hell's intro and verse are epic, what the fock is this? Mithologic? And while my inner loser is losing itself into such urgent matters, the Banging Big Bro steps inside the room. Now, dear readers, don't So-Focking-What me. This is a very important moment and deserves its own DOPE, that is Digression Over Personal Experience.
[DOPE]Do you know all those wonderful and sexy heavy rock records gracing humanity during the eighties? Just ask Sir TAC, he knows. Well, some lucky people listened to them on release, others enlightened enough bought 'em after years in order to study or enjoy the past. Me? I watched them getting in the house under the ape's armpit and that's it. The dimwit my parents insinuate is sharing my blood has never, ever allowed me to listen to the goods. Only exceptions: when he publicly offered them to the Drumming Dad's Judgement, or when I could muster the balls to penetrate his room, even knowing he usually pisses on the floor to mark territory and can smell other forms of life. [/DOPE]
And now the pathetic monkey, drawn by the awesomeness pouring from the stereo, is implicitly asking ME to share MY music. You know, from MY band. Sure, I could go the Mwahahahaha Way and unleash the Middle Finger of Spite, but what do I gain? I mean, besides several broken ribs? No, I am playing the magnanimous gentleman here and let him bask in my discovery's glory, hoping that mockery of a shrunken brain will eventually acknowledge Dream Theater's superiority over his idols. This, and I'm focking crapping myself.
2:36 – 3:07: The Return of The Space Soda! (Again, remember?) This time with olives and an ounce of Holdsworth.
3:07 – 3:34: Six degrees of Banging Big Bro's Faces:
1.The Beef Tannen Let's See Your Balls Face
2.The Judge Smails Kid You Could Be Actually Good But Still Beneath Me Face
3.The Apollo Creed You Are Actually a Little Too Good For My Good Face
4.The Vizzini You Are Definitely Too Good For Me Face
5.The Cobra Kai You Can't Be That Good Face
6.The Kid In Ranch Neverland Now I'm Seriously Frightened Face
3:34 – 4:16: Two Morons Still and Speechless into a Living Room. Sounds like a pop art painting's title, but it's actually a pretty accurate description of yours truly and his alleged sibling. And, prodigiously right on cue, the Third Arrives. The Drumming Dad is in the house. Noise of keys dropped on the shelf? Check. Tired footsteps through the hall? Double Check. Stench of tobacco. Whoo-pe-dy Check. Indiscipline on the verge of the Freudian slugfest? Focking Check, mate.
4:16 – 4:29: The Drumming Dad stops by. It must have been the crazy 13/8 thing. Air instantaneously sucked off the room.
Indiscipline: clutching at straws, still drowning.
Big Banging Bro: nose bleeding (can't count past 8).
4:29 – 4:42: Mike Oldfield on magic mushrooms writing Tetris music.
Drumming Dad: Clears throat, lights cigar. He's interested. Last recorded occurrence: Innuendo.
4:42 – 4:54: For the first time in my life, I need slow motion to understand what the fock I've just heard.
Drumming Dad: Sits on the couch. We must be at the end of days. It never happens unless:
A) There's soccer on TV
B) He's listening to his stuff.
C) He's having a heart attack.
4:54 – 5:24: Mike Portnoy, wherever you are, you have single-handedly raised The Drumming Dad's left eyebrow. You might like to know that only the following freaks have successfully performed such a feat on my watch: Peart Neal, Porcaro Jeff, Van Halen Alex.
5:24 – 5:49: Fock me in the Stanley and call me Clarke. Now I'm finally starting to get this. Every band member is allowed 30 seconds to show off and obliterate the competition. This is not a song, it's a Blitzkrieg.
5:49 – 6:19: Super Nintendo Galore, now available with a Steve Morse memory card!
Drumming Dad: Intensely staring at me.
Translation:
There's a remote possibility I haven't wasted my swimmers and I could actually have a son.6:19 – 7:08: Eh. It beggars the question: Will they ever be able to do THAT live? Or better: Dear God, can I be there when they do THAT live?
Drumming Dad: Intensely staring at his first mistake (Banging Big Bro).
Translation:
I warmly suggest you come to me with something better than Slayer next time if you care to keep my surname.7:08 – 7:22: Fripp? Zappa? Zipp? Frippa?
Drumming Dad: “You got yourself your own Yes, boy.”
Indiscipline: Openly pissing in shoes.
Banging Big Bro: Technical Knock-out.
7:22 – 8:02: Hanon for whole Rock Band. Seriously, this record should be sold at musical instruments stores.
Drumming Dad: Puffing on cigar, in his best impression of Don Vito Corleone figuring out the proper heir to the Family.
8:02 – 8:28: What a progression. I am officially feeling like Han Solo, Clint Eastwood, and Kaiser Soze all wrapped in one.
8:28 – 9:12: Priceless moment: The Material Mom steps in to announce dinner, gets frozen on her tracks at the sight of her family collectively drooling before the stereo in zombie-like stupor.
Actual comment: Hmmmmmrpffffff.
Translation:
Somewhere there must be a jury willing to justify me pouring anti-freeze into the three Stooges' dinner. Fock it, a life sentence is still worth it. 9:12 – 9:32: The Drumming Dad asks for the cover. It's the last judgement.
Listen, you CAN judge a record by its cover. With the notable exceptions of Queen (abysmal, but kitsch was their aesthetic raison d'etre) and Iron Maiden (you really have to play along the Eddie joke), great covers=great albums. Case in point? Floyds, Yes, King Crimson, Steely Dan, Jethro Tull, Supertramp. I could go on forever.
Now, I am feeling pretty confident about little Shirley Temple. It's pretentious and baroque enough to give the right intellectual what the fock does this picture mean vibe. In a word, or two, pretty solid.
The Drumming Dad smiles, nods. I may have won.
The Drumming Dad flips the cover, broad smile.
“They look quite the gay undertakers, though.”
Classic Drumming Dad backhanded put-down. I won
Coming Next: Under A Glass Moon