Author Topic: Scenes From My Memory v. Scene 06: Beyond This Town (SFAM)  (Read 60239 times)

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Offline Gadough

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #35 on: October 24, 2010, 02:14:26 PM »
Finally, something that warrants a first post here:

what the fuck are you talking about, guy?

Best first post ever. Welcome to DTF. :lol
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Offline ThroughHerEyesDude6

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #36 on: October 24, 2010, 03:25:48 PM »

Online Indiscipline

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #37 on: October 25, 2010, 05:16:17 AM »
No lockage? No spam dumping? No Laughing Wuting Pear of Doom?

Thank you, people. Really, I'm moved. Plus, nothing says "receptive audience" as:

what the fuck are you talking about, guy?

So, without further ado, because I focking hate ado:

Scene 01: Regression - The Wembley Tribute and The Oedipus Complex

Let's Delorian© back to 1992. If you weren't born yet, feel free to mock me to Kingdom Come and back, and thank your gods you weren't given to live through those malevolent times.
All you have to know is I was fourteen. Now, if ancient Greek myths and modern science – because we're having a focking cultural discussion here -  have taught us anything is that your average fourteen years old kid with all the hormones in the right places basically needs to reach three goals in order to successfully evolve into manhood:

1.Getting one-upmanship on father
2.Finding worthy musical heroes
3.Getting laid

Summing up Aristoteles' thought: you complete the trifecta, you are entitled to spend the rest of your youth as a happy insufferable dick like nature has always meant you to. You don't, you better start auditioning for a guest spot at Jerry Springer's.

Starting from the bottom, let's see what transpired in my sorry case:

Getting laid?

None of your focking business, thank you, but it eventually and legally happened.

Finding worthy musical heroes?

It sounds easier than you think, dear reader. Being born in a 24/7 hard progressive rock sounding house, I had the undeniable privilege to be exposed to a plethora of magnificent sounds, bands, albums, and songs. Magnificent, but not Mine. Like in Bought-First-Album-Followed-Whole-Career-Watched-Live-Everytime-They-Came-Around kind of Mine.
If it doesn't lose its virginity with you, it ain't Your Band.

On the other hand, The Drumming Dad had the Unreachable Pantheon© (Led Zep, Deep Purple, King Crimson, Pink Floyd): he basically witnessed the Big Bang. Even The Banging Big Bro, although severely retarded, was graced with the Second Hand Tier© (Maidens, Motorhead, Van Halen, Helloween). Of course, I could (and did) join them in the general perusal hero-worship, but it felt cheap. Metaphorically speaking, I wasn't going to prom night with Strawberry Bubble-Gum Jenny©, I was dating a tobacco chewing exhausted whore.

Honestly, who did I have? Focus on 1992, count back from ten to one, and try to come up with a great band, or a good one in its prime.  Now, before the cream of the smart-ass crop starts producing data,  I beg you to simmer down already. You're undeniably well-equipped with amazing internet powers and a 20/20 Hindsight©. But hold your pants, gentlemen: there was no such thing as the world wide web at that time. Al Gore hadn't invented it yet. Furthermore, records distribution and music press in the corner of the world I was living in were as efficient as Iraqi Democracy©. You could just buy what you knew, and know what the Record Shop Heroin Junkie Clerk felt to smuggle. The rest was silence.

Metallica? Sorry, just neutered on the altar of Bob Rock. Extreme/Mr.Big? Great guitarists, not much substance under the glitter. Guns 'n' Roses? Like the Lost Finale, they never happened. The Weeping Willows from Seattle? Please. And since we've gone there, I'm still feeling the whole Grunge fad was a terrible generational slight. The ultimate divine slap on the face, as if God told me: “Hey son, do you remember your mental impaired brother partying and copulating like there wasn't tomorrow in the middle 80's, basking in the glory of the Sunset Strip aphrodisiac sound? Well, now it's your turn. Here's some depressing music, emotional mascara girls submerged inside deformed cardigans and HIV paranoia. Have fun. By the way, there is no Santa”. Thank you very much, I'm not having my Bar Mitzvah.

Getting one-upmanship on father?

Ouch. Like the poet said, Tough Titties©. That fickle bitch of destiny wanted me to struggle for supremacy with The Drumming Dad. Not only he was my natural hero – In my heart he's Voltron mixed with Inigo Montoya mixed with Sgt. Slaughter – but my whole focking town's as well. Great drummer, relevant in my country, owner of thousands of records, certified waterwalker. Ok, I just made up the last one, but you got the idea. Beat that. Beat that at fourteen with only your pimples and morning erections to brag about.
                                                                                                                             
Music was to be the battlefield, “My generation's bands are better than yours” the playground. 
In fact, we eventually found an appropriate stage for the Freudian showdown, gracefully provided by a Fatal Tragedy©. The greatest vocalist and front-man in the history of rock music had passed away the year before. If I have to tell you whom I'm talking about, I don't want to know you. The important thing being, the international gotha of hard and not so hard music decided to pay due tribute at Wembley Stadium, London, UK, on April the 20th 1992. That lovely spring evening caught me, The Banging Big Bro, and The Drumming Dad literally glued to the TV for the live broadcast, while The Material Mom was probably asking herself what ferocious pagan divinity she had offended in a past life to deserve such a fate.

For the first time in history three generations of rockers were fencing for joyful supremacy, secretly celebrating the fact the grim reaper had already chosen its legit superstar for the decade, and I was tragically embarrassed. I mean, Under-The-Shower-With-The-Harlem-Globetrotters kind of embarrassed. My dad, the man who introduced me to Gentle Giant and to the gentle arts of tying my shoes and wiping my ass, could boast Daltrey, Iommi, Plant, Bowie, May, and several other living posters. The first failed experiment, also known as my brother, tried to defended himself with Metallica and Def Leppard. In my corner: Axl Focking Rose. Seriously, I think the following exchange of words actually occurred:


Drumming Dad: “Who's that monkey butchering Bohemian Rhapsody?”

SoilingInShame Me: “A guy chicks are digging a lot these days  ...”

Banging Big Bro: “Is he wearing a skirt?”

WantingToDie Me: “Shush you. At least his drummer doesn't lack an arm.”


Game over. I wasn't meant to become a proper man. There was no kick-butt band to take me to adulthood's promised land. Or so I thought until I met destiny on a sunny July day ...


Coming Soon: Scene 02: Overture 1992 - Shirley Temple and Vindication.

Stay classy.


Offline Perpetual Change

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #38 on: October 25, 2010, 05:50:28 AM »
Fantastic. I am no longer a skeptic. Looking forward to more. Also, I'm glad I figured out who you were talking about before you mentioned Bohemian Rhapsody.

Offline SixDegrees

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #39 on: October 25, 2010, 07:18:33 AM »
.
« Last Edit: May 04, 2011, 04:11:06 AM by SixDegrees »

Offline LieLowTheWantedMan

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #40 on: October 25, 2010, 07:56:41 AM »
I like your writing style. I'll follow this.   :smiley:

Offline hefdaddy42

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #41 on: October 25, 2010, 09:43:03 AM »
I'm glad to see that this won't be the usual bullshit.
Hef is right on all things. Except for when I disagree with him. In which case he's probably still right.

Offline Phantasmatron

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #42 on: October 25, 2010, 11:13:18 AM »
Bizarre.  Irreverent.  Beautifully chaotic.  Superb.

Two thumbs up.

Offline robwebster

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #43 on: October 25, 2010, 01:27:58 PM »
Yeah, funny! I like it. Good work that man.

Also pleasantly surprised by the positive reception. Still not 100% sure what to make of it, but I like it.

Offline Algo Fonix

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #44 on: October 25, 2010, 01:53:43 PM »
I really do look forward to reading more of your posts.  This is ridiculously entertaining.  Good on you, sir.

Offline robwebster

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #45 on: October 25, 2010, 01:55:47 PM »
Also, this might be the highest concentration of good first post-crash posts per thread.

Offline Ħ

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #46 on: October 25, 2010, 01:58:03 PM »
That was surprisingly awesome.
"All great works are prepared in the desert, including the redemption of the world. The precursors, the followers, the Master Himself, all obeyed or have to obey one and the same law. Prophets, apostles, preachers, martyrs, pioneers of knowledge, inspired artists in every art, ordinary men and the Man-God, all pay tribute to loneliness, to the life of silence, to the night." - A. G. Sertillanges

Offline j

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #47 on: October 25, 2010, 02:11:08 PM »
Yeah, funny! I like it. Good work that man.

Also pleasantly surprised by the positive reception. Still not 100% sure what to make of it, but I like it.

Me too.  It's a little self-indulgent, but that's part of what makes it fun to read. :lol

-J

Offline pmahoney1337

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #48 on: October 25, 2010, 02:33:32 PM »
I'm feeling a little better about this whole thread now that I read your most recent post. At first I was very confused but now I'm looking forward to more :corn
« Last Edit: November 02, 2010, 01:25:25 PM by pmahoney1337 »

Online Indiscipline

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #49 on: October 29, 2010, 08:00:43 AM »


Fock me, good reviews. Now I can only disappoint, and if it's in my power, I will.
But fear not, comrades, your kind praises haven't got to my head. I'm still the humble guy from Bethlehem you all love. So:


Scene Two: Overture 1992 - Shirley Temple And The 12 Steps.


… and destiny I met, boy.

See what I've done here? Good, if I were sober I would too.

Now, in order to go on, I need you to forsake Euclidean physical reality and bravely follow me into the realm of Science Focking Fiction©: let's pretend we're all honest citizens and we don't download music. As long as the collective disbelief stays suspended, I am asking you, dear reader, what do you, the dear reader, do when you need to buy a new album?

I will do answering, because:

1.You're still rolling on the floor at the notion of actually buying music
2.It's my thread and I can cry if I want to.
3.It was a rhetorical question, for fock's sake.

You Google it. In fractions of seconds you get videos, samples, reviews, comments, online stores and horse porn. Forget about the last one, you still get the idea. You do your homework, you know what you're buying. End of story. Why am I telling you this? For I'm a vodka soaked windbag of course, and because it's vital that those among you not old enough to drink know that it didn't work that way between Gulf War One and The Clinton Blowjob© - also known in political history textbooks as the We-Don't-Know-What-The-Fock-We-Are-Doing-But-We-Smile-And-Learn-To-Pretend Era.

In 1992, successfully buying a new album was essentially an Amazing Journey made of 12 epic quests. I did it and, like Rocky Balboa in front of a rabid USSR audience on Christmas Night, I'm here to testimony it can be done. The 12 Steps:

1. Getting Outta House.
I shit you not, it's possible. Sunlight will not hurt your skin; your arse will not complain, even if you're moving it for the first time in months without the courtesy of a warning. You are not focking vampires. It could be cool in the 70's when they were sexy, nowadays they're basically Dawson Creek without tans.
 
2. Walking Among People.
I mean, real people. There was a time when it was fun to guess a tit's shape under a sweater, because Jenna Jameson wasn't a click away. There was a time a smug comment got you a broken nose, not an ignore button. And the gods be praised, there were no emoticons. I focking hate emoticons. I'm sounding like a pompous self-righteous fart, please kill me. Kill me with death.
 
3. Reaching Record Store.
An actual room with actual customers inside, where you had to bring actual hard-stolen money. It smelled like diapers and gasoline, everybody used to smoke inside, and the average customer looked like the Count of Tuscany's brother. It was home. That, of course, when PayPal was only a moniker for the guy who got beaten for lunch money at school.

4. Browsing Through Shite.
Here's where it could get hairy. At this stage you're basically judging by covers and prices and, believe me, everything can go horribly wrong. God and I both know that, mesmerised by a glorious cleavage, I brought a Warrant album at home once. What began as laughter so soon would turn to pain.
 
5. Picking Up A Heavy Album.
It took guts. Back then and there, if you walked down the street with long hair and a leather jacket, Mr. and Mrs. Smith felt perfectly right to stare as if you were carrying a Mustard Gas Bomb© strapped to your chest. Asking “How much is Symphony of Destruction by Megadeth?” in the middle of a crowded store could get you tied to four horsed and medievally quartered.
 
6. Asking Record Store Heroin Junkie Clerk For Advice.
My favourite. Absolutely arbitrary, unpredictable, yet beautiful. You secretly despised the man because he could barely stand, but you couldn't fock with him, because he was the same guy who sold you concert tickets. You had to trust him as catholics trust their priests, only you could sometimes question his reasoning and he didn't abuse children. From the Indiscipline Vault©, here's the discussion occurred before I bought The Album:

Indiscipline: This Dream Theater one. Are they any good?

RSHJClerk: They are, man. They just changed singer and they really rock.

Indiscipline: I don't know. The cover looks so gay. Is that Shirley Focking Temple or what?

RSHJClerk: Trust me, kid. Have I ever failed you?

Indiscipline: I wouldn't know, Lester Focking Bangs. Last time you made me buy an album with a baby on the front cover, it turned out pretty shitty.

RSHJClerk: Nevermind?

Indiscipline: No, it focking minds. It was my money.

RSHJClerk: You are gonna like this, young Skywalker. I promise.

7. Getting Past Buddies.
The fact you left the store with a shopper and a regularly paid record meant Sweet Fock All©. You still had to pass your peers' judgement. Now, I don't know how to break this to you but, well, cell phones didn't exist yet but we still managed to have some kind of social life.

*Waiting for audience to have various stiff drinks to metabolise the hard notion*

It wasn't as difficult as you think. We had a gathering place – Think Kubrick's 2001's Black Monolith Glade -  where sooner or later all the monkeys were showing up. You got there, waited, and once the whole court was present, you raised your baby to the air, Simba Style©. They liked it, you just had to physically defend yourself from the occasional robbery. They didn't, you were the dumb fock who bought a piss-poor record. Primitive, but not so different from the way message boards work.

8. Getting Past Material Mom.
Scary. And I mean Indiana-Jones-Rolling-Under-Amazonian-Temple's-Closing-Stone-Wall-Trap kind of scary. She had the right to question the way you spent the money you stole from her purse, and she used it. The following exchange is a pretty faithful template for hundreds of dialogues occurred between me and the crazy witch at the Drumming Dad's mansion's threshold:

Material Mom: What have you got there?

GreyMe: Nothing, mom. I gotta run. Homework.

Material Mom:Another record, innit?

YellowMe: Yeah.

Material Mom: Don't you have anything better to think about than rock music? Like, I don't know, what am I doing in life even though I basically am a waste of proteins?

OrangeMe: But, mom, I'm better than big bro at school …

Material Mom: The fact you actually go to school already makes you better than him. Anyway, listening to that racket all day won't do you any good, honey.

ScarletMe: Mom, I don't understand. You met dad while he was touring Scotland. You realise he played rock music, don't you?

Material Mom: Yessir, and the whole deal got me a house in a barbarian country and three subhuman kids. You realise I have the right to hate rock music, don't you?

PurpleMe:Love you, mom.
 
9. Getting Past Drumming Dad.
No need to explain this after Scene One. But that particular time he wasn't at home to humiliate my choice. Maybe destiny was at work?

10. Getting Past Banging Big Bro.
He definitely was this whole 12 steps thing Final Boss, without a reset button. Although born lobotomised, the ape was still 8 years my major, and still able to overpower me in any way, shape, or form. Let's just say that I rarely could make it to the record player unscathed. That magical time, the lumbering idiot was too busy air-guitaring to Anthrax, and he never heard me strolling through the hall. Now I knew. Destiny was really at work.

11. Getting Past Record Collection.
If you got to this point, dear reader, I suspect you already steadily believe I'm a focking delusional moron, I strongly do. Therefore this paragraph shouldn't surprise you. Much. Wanna try? Fine, I've always believed that albums – and specifically album covers – had their own independent lives. I'm not focking animist, I swear on a tree's soul, but I grew up spending so many hours watching, touching, losing myself into, and talking to record covers while listening to my dad's music that I felt like they were friends of sort.

I know, it's pretty bizarre and pathetic - considering I didn't drink or use drugs yet – but I felt that those historical covers were alive, and they were judging every newcomer in its rite of passage from the door to the plate. Well, dear reader, now that I drink and use drugs, I like to think that, on that fateful day, The Crimson King winked and The Four Guys Crossing Abbey Road gave four thumbs up to little Shirley Temple.
   
12. Getting Past First Listen.
If you are still with me and promise to never ever forget I'm a rambling idiot, we'll find out together, later …


Coming Next: Images And Words: The Running Diary.

Stay classy.
 

Offline SixDegrees

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #50 on: October 29, 2010, 08:06:54 AM »
.
« Last Edit: May 04, 2011, 04:09:32 AM by SixDegrees »

Offline Perpetual Change

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #51 on: October 29, 2010, 09:56:36 AM »
MOAR

I'm watching score alone in hong kong, getting drunk of cheap chinese rice wine right now, and am sorely disappointed there's no more to be had.

Offline hefdaddy42

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #52 on: October 29, 2010, 09:58:25 AM »
Sir, you are a god.
Hef is right on all things. Except for when I disagree with him. In which case he's probably still right.

Offline RoeDent

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #53 on: October 29, 2010, 10:38:04 AM »
This is really captivating. Eagerly looking forward to the remaining scenes.
And you may ask yourself, "How do I work this?"

Offline pmahoney1337

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #54 on: October 29, 2010, 01:07:54 PM »
11. Getting Past Record Collection.
If you got to this point, dear reader, I suspect you already steadily believe I'm a focking delusional moron, I strongly do. Therefore this paragraph shouldn't surprise you. Much. Wanna try? Fine, I've always believed that albums – and specifically album covers – had their own independent lives. I'm not focking animist, I swear on a tree's soul, but I grew up spending so many hours watching, touching, losing myself into, and talking to record covers while listening to my dad's music that I felt like they were friends of sort.
The thought of someone talking to album covers is quite funny.

This is really captivating. Eagerly looking forward to the remaining scenes.
I'm with RoeDent.

Offline TAC

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #55 on: October 29, 2010, 02:20:58 PM »
but you couldn't fock with him, because he was the same guy who sold you concert tickets. 
How true! Talk about a position that screamed ABUSE OF POWER!

Nothing can replace going to The Record Store and browsing. Sure, there are some great CD stores like Newbury Comics here in Massachusetts, but with the internet, we're constantly browsing. Going to The Record Store was an event, usually weekly. But the Holy Grail of The Record Store was the IMPORT BIN! Flicking through albums, smelling them, and Idiscipline is right..they DO talk!
CDs do as well. Like picking a puppy from the pound, each CD waits to be chosen. It's especially heavy when there's a major release..Dream Theater or Iron Maiden for me, because those CDs will be given a great life in my house, and as I reach for The One, you can hear them screaming Pick ME! Pick ME!!
would have thought the same thing but seeing the OP was TAC i immediately thought Maiden or DT related
Winger Theater Forums................or WTF.  ;D

Offline j

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #56 on: October 29, 2010, 02:47:28 PM »

Offline LieLowTheWantedMan

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #57 on: October 29, 2010, 03:00:13 PM »
I usually don't have the patience to read forum posts this long, but you manage to grasp my attention and not let go. You're quite the writer. :clap:

Offline Ħ

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #58 on: October 29, 2010, 08:43:14 PM »
That.  Was.  Amazing.
"All great works are prepared in the desert, including the redemption of the world. The precursors, the followers, the Master Himself, all obeyed or have to obey one and the same law. Prophets, apostles, preachers, martyrs, pioneers of knowledge, inspired artists in every art, ordinary men and the Man-God, all pay tribute to loneliness, to the life of silence, to the night." - A. G. Sertillanges

Online Indiscipline

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #59 on: November 02, 2010, 06:30:43 AM »
Now that I've finally assassinated my thread's momentum with a whole week of absence, we can quietly proceed with the first series of running diaries, but first a little Q&A with my treasured audience, because I live to serve. I really focking do.

Six Degrees writes:

Dear Indiscipline,
Hero!

You made it so far through that inebriated drivel of mine, you are.


Perpetual Change writes:

Dear Indiscipline,
I'm watching score alone in hong kong, getting drunk of cheap chinese rice wine right now, and am sorely disappointed there's no more to be had.

The lesson, as always: you can't ever have enough cheap Chinese rice wine.


hefdaddy42 and J write:

Dear Indiscipline,  
Sir, you are a god.

I feel fuzzy now. But rest assured gentlemen, once I start touching the actual songs, we're going from god to god help me.


TAC writes:

Dear Indiscipline:
Nothing can replace going to The Record Store and browsing. Sure, there are some great CD stores like Newbury Comics here in Massachusetts, but with the internet, we're constantly browsing. Going to The Record Store was an event, usually weekly. But the Holy Grail of The Record Store was the IMPORT BIN! Flicking through albums, smelling them, and Idiscipline is right..they DO talk!
CDs do as well. Like picking a puppy from the pound, each CD waits to be chosen. It's especially heavy when there's a major release..Dream Theater or Iron Maiden for me, because those CDs will be given a great life in my house, and as I reach for The One, you can hear them screaming Pick ME! Pick ME!!

Love the puppies analogy. Love it on acid.


RoeDent writes:

Dear Indiscipline,
This is really captivating. Eagerly looking forward to the remaining scenes.

Masochism, it can be cured.


pmahoney writes:  

Dear Indiscipline,
The thought of someone talking to album covers is quite funny.

I swear, it's way funnier when they talk back.


LieLowTheWantedMan writes:

Dear Indiscipline:
I usually don't have the patience to read forum posts this long, but you manage to grasp my attention and not let go. You're quite the writer. :clap:

As much as I'd like to take all the credit, 90% goes to Smirnoff.


BrotherH writes:

Dear Indiscipline,
That.  Was.  Amazing.

Thank. You. Bro.


Everybody, a big round of thanks for the positive reception. It won't last.

Stay Classy.


Images and Words: The Running Diary


01. Pull Me Under

0:00 – 0:09  There's a certain sound quality I already dig. Like somebody kidnapped Steve Hackett, smacked him on the head, stuffed him in a space suit with a Rickenbaker and catapulted him in orbit to ad lib. Does it make sense for you? Then quit the Smirnoff, pal.

0:09 – 0:18 What the fock with the snare? Is this Duran Duran?

0:18 – 0:38 Welcome keyboards. Smooth, but sad.

0:38 – 0:56 And enter the bass. Smart band introduction cakewalk. Young but consummate showmen, it would seem.

0:56 – 1:14 I like a good clean icy arpeggio upon a distorted carpet, but I'm still worried. Phoney drums ... not heavy enough ... I'd hate to return poor Shirley Temple.

1:14 – 1:34  All right, it's heavy.

1:34 – 1:52  Thriller keys synched on double bass. Somebody knows his drama here. Furthermore, I instinctively trust any song confident enough to wait at least two minutes before vocals. From now on we're calling it Progressive Heavy Petting.

1:52 – 2:00 Great. The record player is jammed …

2:00 – 2:18 … Or not. Nice voice. A little bit on the Sunset Strip side so far, but nice.

2:18 – 2:37 It's official: I really like the way this Petrucci guy deals with the open chord arpeggio. From now on we're calling it the Space Soda.
 
2:37 – 2:57 A Farfisa Organ is playing Venice Rondo upon a Megadeth Riff. Is it already Drumming Dad summoning time? Not so fast, little Shirley.

2:57 – 3:15 Ok, I will ask. Has Sebastian Bach two bands?

3:15 – 3:33 Wrong question, let's try again. Has this band two drummers?

3:33 – 3:43 Uh-oh. Pretty fast, Johnny. First Tier fast.

3:43 – 4:03 It keeps repeating the title hence it should be the chorus. Well, focking epic and pounding, if you ask me. Plus, it seems Roger Taylor has been hired for backing vocals.

4:03 – 4:12 And we're back to the frisky keys running with the thrashing palm muting. From now on we'll calling it the Hardcastle&McCormick.

4:12 – 4:30 Queensryche moment, and right on cue the Banging Big Bro barges in with his patented I-Am-The-Heavy-Metal-Pope-Thou-Shall-Not-Listen-To-Heavy-Riffage-Without-My-Holy-Permission attitude.

Banging Big Bro: Sounds cool, let me see.

Indiscipline: Buzz off. You have your stuff, this is my revolution calling.

Banging Big Bro: Are you serious or just suicidal?

Indiscipline: Shirley Temple is mine, dammit! MIIIIIIIIIINE!

4:30 – 5:28 Not available, mainly due to the Banging Big Bro beating the images and the words out of me.

5:28 – 6:05 Cool patch for a cool relaxed solo. Quick tangent while rearranging my bones: this record sounds amazing. It's like Phil Spector stealing precision from And Justice For All, atmosphere from Violator, crispiness from The Real Thing in order to concoct a new breed of sound machine. And this, kids, is what a whole infancy spent obsessing over music does to your brain. Go out and play soccer, for fock's sake.
 
6:05 – 6:24 Killer solo. Six minutes in and the guy is already in Nuno/Paul territory. What next?

6:24 – 6:34 We, the listeners, feel very respected when a band bothers to write such a nice transition instead of just juxtaposing and super-gluing bits and pieces. I feel strongly about this.

6:34 – 7:11 I have to say this James LaBrie is very gifted. I still can't figure him out. He makes me think of Joey Belladonna after a steroid throat treatment and a five years opera training.

7:11 – 7:31 Yet another potent riff. This song alone features more ideas than three Whitesnake albums. Banging Big Bro, kiss my sparrow falling. And, Shirley, make yourself at home. You ain't gonna see the Record Shop Heroin Junkie Clerk any time soon.

7:31 – 8:10 Are we allowed to describe a section as Ravel meets Testament?

8:11 Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm proud to introduce the very first instance of Heavy Metal Coitus Interruptus.


Coming next: Another Day
« Last Edit: November 02, 2010, 07:08:52 AM by Indiscipline »

Offline LieLowTheWantedMan

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #60 on: November 02, 2010, 07:49:10 AM »
 :lol that one was funny. I'm sure Another Day is gonna be a great one.

Offline atmyne

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #61 on: November 02, 2010, 08:09:42 AM »
absolutely gagging for the next installment! I listened along with you man, and I heard Pull Me Under in such a way that gave it a certain quality that I had been blinded to any other time I had listened to it. You really directed my attention to all the elements that make it the incredible song that it is, and how much of an incredible band these guys were, especially considering this was 1992. My appreciation for Dream Theater (along with your awesome, humorous, anecdotal writing style)  has increased immensely. Cheers

Offline robwebster

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #62 on: November 02, 2010, 11:57:04 AM »
I'm still not sure precisely how a big bro can be "banging."

Other than that, good job. Bit pretentious, which would usually annoy me in such doses, but somehow the heavy lashings of humour make it thoroughly palatable. Completely wonderful.

Offline pmahoney1337

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #63 on: November 02, 2010, 01:29:50 PM »
I never believed a DT song could get better than it already was, but after reading this, you made me a believer! Once again I am really looking forward to more.
« Last Edit: November 02, 2010, 02:17:57 PM by pmahoney1337 »

Offline kartmaze2

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #64 on: November 02, 2010, 01:54:00 PM »
Somehow I like Pull Me Under better now than before.

Offline Laddenvore

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #65 on: November 03, 2010, 12:16:09 AM »
absolutely gagging for the next installment! I listened along with you man, and I heard Pull Me Under in such a way that gave it a certain quality that I had been blinded to any other time I had listened to it. You really directed my attention to all the elements that make it the incredible song that it is, and how much of an incredible band these guys were, especially considering this was 1992. My appreciation for Dream Theater (along with your awesome, humorous, anecdotal writing style)  has increased immensely. Cheers

This. I'm a pretty casual music listener, so I rarely notice the stuff you brought up like the keys in sync with the double bass in the intro. Somehow made the song so much better.

Also, do you happen to write comedic articles for a website or anything, like cracked.com?
If you don't, you should consider doing so. In fact, cracked.com gives $50 for any good articles by amateurs.
When caught masturbating, stare them in the eye, and finish like a beast.

Offline sneakyblueberry

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #66 on: November 03, 2010, 02:49:12 AM »
After reading through the comments I forced myself to go back and read this outrageous tale.  I am captivated.

Do more please, friend.

Online Indiscipline

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #67 on: November 03, 2010, 11:48:05 AM »
This is getting weird. Anyway, Q&A time, because I live to serve. I really focking do.


LieLowTheWantedMan writes:

Dear Indiscipline:
:lol that one was funny. I'm sure Another Day is gonna be a great one.

Glad to hear that. Happy expectations will kill me faster than a bullet.


Atmyne writes:

Dear Indiscipline:
My appreciation for Dream Theater (along with your awesome, humorous, anecdotal writing style)  has increased immensely. Cheers

Typhoid Indiscipline. Spreading the disease since 1978.


robwester writes:

Dear Indiscipline:
I'm still not sure precisely how a big bro can be "banging."

It seems the Material Mom never quit smoking during her first pregnancy.


pmahoney1337 writes:  

Dear Indiscipline,
you made me a believer!

Mullah Indiscipline. Look Material Mom, I'm being inspirational!


Kartmaze2 writes:

Dear Indiscipline,
Somehow I like Pull Me Under better now than before.

And it gets even better with a couple of Mojitos, believe me.


Laddenvore writes:

Dear Indiscipline:
Also, do you happen to write comedic articles for a website or anything, like cracked.com?
If you don't, you should consider doing so. In fact, cracked.com gives $50 for any good articles by amateurs.

Thanks pal, but I'm doing it for free. Like Live Tyler, this is basically a product of love, drugs and alcohol.


Sneakyblueberry writes:

Dear Indiscipline,
Do more please, friend.

Sure. Stay classy and suit yourself:


02. Another Day

0:00 – 0:14 Fock me on a park bench and call me Aqualung, I'm so sold. I'm a sucker for geometrical intercourse between acoustic piano and acoustic guitar. It's reason 346 for Jethro Tull getting their own lounge inside Indiscipline's Rock Pantheon. Yet, that southpaw sexy moan is worrying me ...

0:14 – 0:56 … There, I knew it. No one is immune to the Power Ballad Virus, not even you, Shirley. And what happens when my musical soul is exposed to large amounts of cheese and sugar? I feel compelled to unleash my BAD, that is Boring Autistic Digressions.

[BAD] Let's try to trace a morbid history of humanity on a black line going from the Black Plague, passing through Smallpox, and spectacularly reaching HIV. Still with me? You've got a serious problem, but fine. Now let's do the same with Rock Music. We go from Punk Rock, coast the New Waves, and finally face the Power Ballad. It's focking inevitable. Let's stare at the problem right in the eye and try a little diagnosis:

1.It usually happens when a band is shooting for the big bucks (Nothing Else Matters), sobering up (Under The Bridge), having a midlife crisis (Wasting Love) or all of the above (Crazy/Crying).

2.It usually forecasts the end. Exhibit A: All of My Love. Why do you think Bonzo went through two dozen shots of vodka on that fateful morning? He knew.

3.Dear Shirley, you better not pull this stunt on the first album's second song. I'm trying to find my generation's first mythological band here. The stakes have never been higher.[/BAD]

0:56 – 1:10 The return of the Space Soda. This time with double sugar. Fock.

1:10 – 1:23 Nonetheless, that Surprising Supertrampish Sax manages to keep things interesting enough for me to not overdose on saccharine. Let's just pray the Drumming Dad isn't coming back from work yet. It would feel like being caught masturbating, only 800 times worse.

1:23 – 1:50 Still searching for something redeeming while Mr. LaBrie gives a world class lesson in Power Crooning.

1:50 – 2:18 Found. And on the bridge, usually the dumber place inside a Power Ballad. You think I'm crazy? Well, technically you're right, but the point is: without drawing attention, this Myung guy has just grabbed the song by the ear and taken it where all the cheese doesn't nauseate you but actually makes sense. It's something fermenting in the back of my mind since the previous song, and I can feel another BAD coming. Feel free to skip.

[BAD] To the two sorry losers who have made it to this point, let me introduce Indiscipline's Three Ways Bass Crossroads. You know that magnificent place where harmony, melody and rhythm meet for a fat circle jerk? Some people call it rock bass, and I love to divide its playing style into three paths. Laugh at me.

1.The Melody Maker. Doesn't shy from the gritty mundane rhythmic duty, but focuses on creating beautiful music under the surface. It's the McCartney-Lake-Burton Way.

2.The Selfish Soloist. Literally another lead guitarist, kindly lent to the rhythm section when he doesn't fell like focking around. The Entwhistle-Squire-Sheehan Street.

3.The Concrete Cage. My favourite. Settles the course and keeps the house together with beautiful ideas, enabling the virtuosos to do the flashy thing. It's John Paul Jones-Michael Anthony Avenue, and it lacks a generation X exponent. Until now.[/BAD]  

2:18 – 2:32 Mother of God, James, was that singable? I mean, with such a perfect balance of power, theatrics, vibrato, seduction, and high notes control? I guess yes. Proof of that? The Material Mom not barging in with her patented “Is someone raping a baby seal?”

2:32 – 2:58 Beautiful change of pace. We're leaving Power Ballad land through Jones-Anthony-Myung Avenue. Fasten seatbelts and prepare for the future.

2:58 – 3:26 Perfect solo spot and execution according to the contest. Something Slash is looking for – failing – since 1987. Don't cry, it's just like that.

3:26 – 3.44 Fine, I'll do it. Bruce, Ronnie, Michael, Eric, please make room and welcome the noob into the Heavy Metal Vocal Pantheon. First round is on Eric because he still into fantasy cosplaying.

3:44 – 4.12 And here comes the sax solo in its best impression of the cigarette after sex.

4:12 – 4:20 Classy harmonics, open finale, wet pants. I'm positive we've got Track 01 for the next Clumsy Sex Attempt Spring Break Mix Tape.

Coming next: Take The Time.

Offline TAC

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #68 on: November 03, 2010, 02:07:53 PM »

3:26 – 3.44 Fine, I'll do it. Bruce, Ronnie, Michael, Eric, please make room and welcome the noob into the Heavy Metal Vocal Pantheon. First round is on Eric because he still into fantasy cosplaying.


The first two are obvious, I'm assuming the next two are Kiske and Adams. When I first heard I&W, I made the Helloween/Kiske connection. As for Kiske, for my money, there's still no one better.
would have thought the same thing but seeing the OP was TAC i immediately thought Maiden or DT related
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Offline sneakyblueberry

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Re: Scenes From My Memory
« Reply #69 on: November 03, 2010, 02:44:30 PM »
Dear Indiscipline,

You forgot to add Steve Harris to your 'Three Ways Bass Crossroads' list.  This saddens me. I'm sure he deserves a mention in the Concrete Cage section, perhaps with a dash of Melody Maker.

Yours, sans pants,

sneakyblueberry