POPAGANDA

MJ Ultra Mind Games

Nothing was hidden about Michael Jackson's hand behind his head. Nothing is secretive in a scripted society of head games. When The King Of Pop died in 2009, new lies were born and an untold truth was reincarnated. To many Blacks in America, MJ died in the early nineties. For twenty years, designated songs, the discography and hidden messages of MJ was long since underway. IT DID MATTER if Michael was Black or White. White people liked him black and American black cultures were insulted on a grandiose scale by The King Of Pops diabolical plan to become a white man. It did matter that he ESCAPED from society and his culture to Neverland the lighter his skin became. MJ died in fear for his life according to his last phone conversations. Again, the Michael Jackson we all grew up with and influenced by had been dead to us on a level many would understand. Abandoned by his own race, fans turning their backs on him by the end was just as apparent as the amount of crooks and cons around him. Was this a modern mock on African Americans to begin with, or is this the repetitive juxtapose in the arts & music industry, to paint yourself along with the towns they paint with every new city and stadium they played in? With his impeccable moves, one would ponder why a gimmick was ever needed in the first place. Controversial propaganda speaks volumes looking back at his and others careers, slammed with legalalities, rumors, and accusations. Clearly, there was little time left for him to enjoy his newfound fatherhood when he had claimed his very own childhood was stripped away by his own sellout father.

If defined, Popaganda is something that stirs our souls, ignites revolutions, controls society using Pop Stars, and propaganda first started it centuries ago using artists and philosophers. Michael Jackson was staged to become the next form of mind control now by some of deadlist silencers the secret service has to offer this country, The CIA; new dogs w/ old tricks. Pharmueciticals was bound to black out memories and replace people with nuerological dissociative disorders, and the rest of society would dismiss them immediately as drug users instead. Whether MJ was a maniquiun or brainwashed puppet, his tasks were to become a mere marketing tool used to boast Black Magic, occultism and rituals by the end of his career. Suddenly, children born in the 60's and 70's were opened to a child entertainer embracing biker gear and fetish wear. This sat well with the crack cocaine unleashed to the vulnerable, multi- colored public. Black or white, red skin or olive, they all gathered to the open occasion of perverse suttle pursasions from a feminine male openly grabbing his crotch with parachute pants and a white glove. It doesn't matter if your MALE or FEMALE now was the true agenda. A systematic structure slowly being introduced to the hindered and impaired audiences potentially facing a genderless populace. Popaganda brewed up a melting pot for organized mobsters to make a killing off sex, drugs and violence in America that is very much still in effect until today with or without his true apparatus. A prominent role played in the new Civil Rights redesigned to encourage, legalize and protect gay marriages.

When music becomes a person's sole escape route from the heavy hitting reality of wage slavery, it's hard to reject the trends and persuasions by the one celebrity standing center stage for it. Its harder and harder TO JUST SAY NO in a world of hate, civil arrests and popular pillheads. It's hard to stay straight in an intoxicating audience of bisexuals, lesbians and flamboyant gays. Denial is out of reach. The unthinkable slowly becomes ever so out-of-reach.  Not only would they stand up for their gods and goddesses but now they would deny, lie and become the POPAGANDA right along with them that they promoted and bought into. They would allow their own icon to fool them, trick them or con them, and a majority will go to the grave with it if even the entire propaganda and person standing in front of it was a sham all along. If you truly believe in your icon rather than yourself, then you're staring fraudulence in the face.

Did a man who had everything going for him truly need prescriptions to alter his moods? Does an artist truly need to reconstruct their entire face? Does the pyramid of Giza have remotely anything to do with bad plastic surgery? Do we need make-up to cover up our gender? Do we truly need mainstream media to depend on hard facts? Is art, talent and lyrics not enough props anymore, or is this POPAGANDA we bought ourselves into as embarrassing as the illusion of us left standing in the shadows of a pop star's unknown cause of life or death? Michael Jackson may be gone, but POPGANDA lives on.

Never Fuggit

Hellmark Days. We all have them from time-to-time, and without an incorporated notion to send a commerative, middle finger-size meme to recipients. Such days, usually fall on, but not limited to; work anniversary days, natural disaster dates, hospital malpractice time frames, pop star death dates, and epic traffic jams that one shoulndt be alive after. But, Hell we continously mark, and marked is our hell, in struggle to find one for others. This I finally will admit to realize. Some of us wish unlawful things to happen to others on Hellmark Days because of our own hell we created for ourselves that literally has nothing to do with their hell, whatsoever.

9/11 is a monumental Hellmark Day which has encouraged your average wage-slave Americans to immediately and quintessentially 'Never Forget.' An instant desire to tell your 9/11 story becomes overheard shoptalk from bar-side blabbermouths. On a scale of 1 to 10, everyone, by now is leaning at 8 or 9 on the inside job proposal whether they will admit it or not.

 I, for one, am posting and insisting my very own Hellmark Day entitled 'Never Fuggit' on this very day. Its iniated at over-exploited Americans who continue to outdo themselves in harassing younger generations, or generalizing the population or beliefs because their hunkered chipped shoulders have finally buckled with their knee replacements. You are absolutely and entirely dispictable at what you have protested without warranty when valuable time has slipped past to alter better judgement equipped with precise decisions to help one another in a destitute country. I vouch for this Hellmark Day to become a reminder to all who have sexually offended me or other women, and peaceful bystanders, nonchalantly living their Nobel lives around the horse manure you left us to writhe in and muck up without biodegradable shovels. With choices made and irreversible, the wheel of fortune pummels backwards if not out of control or forwards. Bitter hasbeens destined to never rediscover diversity is an understatement. Now, on days, I stand alone taking the blame for something I never once participated in nor started all because exploitation exhausted all efforts to finish what you started. Reverse your less than brilliant psychology one more time after you flipped it once already back on me while thumping your defenseless Bible cellphones that billions of sons and daughters have been crucified for on the this tired, molted, over-stepped ground. Useless, pointless, war mongers infested with fowl manners. I propose to mark your hell on earth with Never Fuggit flyers, posters, handbills, buttons and stickers in hopes the remaining salvation of mankind to take a long overdo stance on. Look elsewhere for pity, promises, promotion or purpose from me on Never Fuggit day.  I will bend til my back breaks to end hopeless, aimless individuals lacking unconditional love, emotional prosperity and health wealth. What you achieved if any AT ALL was spreading more hatred, infestations and diseases now. Pat yourself on your shrunken shoulders allowing my own self to rise to your pitiful excuse on this planet. It's no wonder the viscious cycle reoccurs over and over on the bleeding scalps of your hemorraging head. I hereby Never Fuggit because I will never Fuck You. 

Never Fuggit like you have no choice now left besides to face the whole world you apprehensely all chose to Fuck Over, over and over! 

The Cult Never Dies

The Cult Never Dies
Volume One
Author: Dayal Patterson


There it began one mid, hot summer's nightmarish dream. The pages of Dayal Patterson's penned sequel and perception of a secret, Satanic Scandinavian society composing power chords compressed with depressive lyrics and orchestra overlays. In the depths of a Norwegian occult metal scene, sects started deriving as if a scattered and scorned, modern day witch-hunt was underway.  Published archived interviews from Metal Hammer and Terrorizer reborn under Patterson's own publishing company using hemlock for ink having previously used a cyber abyss for a riddled, seamless stream that connected the dots. 'The Cult Never Dies' has a paradox that cannot be compromised,  yet reconciled with interviews from the underbelly of black metal bands and their bowels that death and thrash metal ultimately started shitting out by the early nineties.

He keeps to the main facts and subjects of band formations, such as Satyricon, Manes, Kampfear, Wardruna, and Evilfeast. Black metals grimoire of the Norse's most potent bands along with their cross-counter countries and overbearing European borders.  The race is on, and black metal is giving a good run for fanboy and metalheads money.

On another debate, Satanism is only in the eye of the Satanic beholder. What might appeal as Satanic to some is elementary and juvenile to the utmost Satanic elite. Black metal may be argued to be a mockumentary to the true nature of mankind and their mindful dark angels, saints, demons and beasts. A true witch never reveals their status with magic and spells of sorcery. A Satanist would be wise to follow the footsteps or hoof prints to maintain its solemnly sworn secrecy when coming one with the nature of the beast.

Highlights you may come out with from reading this book are the little inside stories from the bands that stretch from North to South, Poland to Germany. Bethlehem were embraced by American audiences with the help of filmmakers like, Harmony Korine, even though, Gummo edited their tracks out of the final cut version. 18th Century poets and artists had their paws on influencing black metal origins. Depression and drug binges are more than meet the eye in pictures banned from audiences. Never seen before publishings and never heard before projects from earlier works and band breache. A.) This book compels the reader to not even bother looking further and deeper into the black metal rabbit hole or B.) Start backwards from the black metal rabbit hole and work their way back up towards the beginning.

Reviewed by: SMStrutter

Terrorizer's 'Secret History Of Doom Metal': The Ultimate Guide

According to Sir Issac Newton, what goes up must come down. The same theory could be applied to treble, volume and distortion levels, as well, as the rise OR decline of modern day metal genres. In theory, what kills metal is the same matter or band(s) that gave birth to it.


Some try to break it while others try to escape it, but the relativity of doom metal in this day and age of metal matter is impossible to deny, and more and more in demand to defy. Thanks to Terrorizer's tremendous effort in collaborating, collecting, printing and publishing multiple interviews, reviews, write-ups and quotations from all members involved, the art of making doom metal is within arm's reach. If by chance, you passed up on owning this inspirational magazine guide on doom metals forefathers, founders, co-founders, mixers, makers and shakers, then you passed up an undeniable mark on the existence of mankind. This issue is a treasure trove for doom soul suckers and volume vampires unearthing underground sounds by digging up rarities and oddities that no singlehanded, closed-out catacomb record store clerk could find.

Once inside, one can learn which artists embrace it, what members replace others members, and all the deepest, darkest confessions these iconic musicians bare their soul on blackened, glossy pages for in one collective memoir called 'Terrorizer's Secret History Of Doom Metal'. It nearly covers every inch, crack and crevice of an underground, sub-genre coined, Doom metal somewhere along, before and after dates that ould be argued front to back; backward and forward. It could be prevalent to pay more tribute to bands that go unmentioned, however and no matter the view, the magazine at whole, is a brilliant examination under the finest doom metal album scope that North America, Great Britain and Scandinavia have to offer. Equipped with a bonus compilation, the rag could easily hold water, however to float on its own may need some fine-tuned detailing. For instance, some members moreso than others needed three page spreads instead of the five minutes of column fame received. Incredibly, there are musicians coming out of the woodworks for this, recalling their favorite five albums or instructing us on how to cope with physical or mental instabilities.  With commentary from Lee Dorrian on the structure of starting a label, mishaps, lecturing, religious rants and typos are overlooked by others once you realize the amount of triumph it took for everyone to be alive n well today to tell about it. Terrorizer deserves a standing ovation for the time and honor invested in this by the fans and supporters louder than the monitors they're standing in front of. There is zero room for fashion shows and beauty contests in a band room that making music for generations to come. The only thing that should be competitive about doom is the pedal behind the drive to 'Let It Be Known' and heard once and for ALL.




-S    

Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory

Directed by: Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky

HBO FILMS

One can gain a century's worth of loss knowledge watching the West Memphis Three's eye-openeing documentary finale that aired earlier this year on HBO, unless new evidence and laws are otherwise noted, yet again. The story that blindsided Arkansas' typical, taxed, torn and tormented American small town folk for two decades brings new light on a matter and murder invesigation that didnt sit well from day one of the emotionally hasteful murder scene investiagtion on May 6th, 1993 that left the three young children cold-bloodedly slaughtered, hogtied and dead, and three more teenage boys interrogated into lifetime prison sentence. Starring the same 'unusal' suspects as Paradise Lost 1&2, we catch up with the unethically discriminated and wrongfully accused teens now in their prime manhood. As the director's, lawyers, fans, supporters, wives, brothers, mothers, fathers and sisters sat and watched helpfully from the outside, a message thankfully went unheard across the borders and back where justice finally was met with an agreement, if not entirely served. Damien Echols, Jessie Miskelley Jr. and Jason Baldwind were faced with making a decision that would free them of life imprisonment at the same rate of penning them with a conviction that they fought to near death to free and clear their names of. "Free" suddenly went to 'Plea The West Memphis Three To Freedom' when on August 19th, 2011 the three were offered the Alford Pleas after serving 18 years of their life sentence. This film is not recommended for the weak at stomach when it comes to ignorance within the human and civil rights' depts. For every reason you have a cause to watch this, you should make reason to ingest the meaning and courtroom dialogue, as well as, a thorough background check of West Memphis while taking a strong mental note, that it could have very well been any of own kind or city that it happened to. Innocent til proven guilty appears lost but not forgotten, even tho it is hardly considered. Standing from this avid supporters view, who can remember attending charitable rock benefits hosted by Eddie Spaghetti (frontman of the Supersuckers) back in early two thousand, this wasn't a foreign film or subjec for me. I'll leave it for your own to watch in sheer horror and disbelief, because if this film doesnt persuade you not once, twice but thrice in a row since 1996, then you'll need your own jury to persuade me you're not amongst the criminally insane.

Only Death Is Real: An Illustrated History of Hellhammer and Early Celtic Frost (1981-1985)

Embraced by white text on black, glossy pages that absorb your every faint fingerprint is an indepth, illustrated history of early Celtic Frost and Switzerland's most obscure, metal avatars, Hellhammer. Written by the founders and driven by black, 'Only Death Is Real' takes you along fog-ridden, wooded pathways inside Zurich's backroads and villages where these members once met, shared hair styles, women, guitarists, drummers and rebellious, like-wise ideology. Readers may find themselves entranced and sucked in by the vintage Black & White era, from the photographic stills pressed and printed in this 9 1/2" x 11 1/2" hardback published by Bazillion Points. My copy had arrived finally after the third printing in 2012, and much to my dissatisfaction, was delivered to me dented on the bottom-righthand corner. Instead of overreacting like a self-righteous, spoiled brat collector-type, I opened the pages and began reading instead. I knew that whatever fecal matter from a piss poor, Swiss Punk Rock bar Hellhammer might have endured or found themselves booked and rejected in, that my own barely scarred, self-assurance could easily carry on just as well, with an imperfect, misfit copy. Through more perilous trails of rejection and ridicule from peers, civilians and bosses, Hellhammer stuck it out, and balanced their wage-enslaving labor with thier earliest band practice sessions while identifying themselves with the New Wave of Heavy Metal British acts in the early Eighties over the fading Psychadelic era and increasingly, popular Pop Rock charts emerged at the time. Equipped with bullet belts, studded armbands and 'ambitious ammo', the Author, Tom Gabriel Fischer recounts the earliest impure Celtic Frost songs written, such as, "Detroned Emperor" while the co-author, Martin Eric Ain delves deeper into the perverse, philosophical wicked world, known as history. It is under my own personal opinion, these members had a knack for channeling the underworld and awakening ancient war-like, Dark Age historians in their albums giving birth to an unnamed genre that would prosper in underground metal categroies years later. The harder fans strive to find music no one else has, the more they may all find themselves listening and relating to the infamous, Grave Hill bunker's, Hammerhead, later renamed Hellhammer. Again, what this book does for me on personal level is opens my eyes that not all successful metal bands live a decadent lifetstyle of debauchery and drug use, but surprisingly find ways to separate themselevs by overcoming fear, insecurties and stipulations of society through pure, driven determination to produce thier own, unique artform in order to evade conformity. Although it ends abrupty, this book not only rewrites history, but reenacts it, and deserves a standing oviation from Pompeii to the Roman Theatre in Amman, Jordan.

IRON MAN

 - My Journey Through Heaven & Hell W/ Black Sabbath
By: Tony Iommi

with: T.J. Jammers

DA Capo Press

Through his birthplace in Birmingham, UK to restless nights and booked solid flights throughout his geographical music career, Tony Iommi takes us on a trip of a lifetime; His very own astral-traveling  trip. With his father and Italian mother relocating in England to prosper and provide an upbringing for him, Tony's prevailing story of life's hard and earned guitar lessons started Feb. 19th, Nineteen hundred and forty eight, and continues 369 pages up until now, while we are honored to still have his presence available and well-acknowledged along modern day, Heavy Metal's descending dateline.  From up and down his cross-country, 4-star hotel balconies and walls, to backseats of Rolls Royces and fast cars, Iommi zips us through his roller coaster, R N'R career, safely, vitally, and with an impact that will motivate even the slowest, deadlock of lanes and wall-crashed metal collision victims. This book alone could be desribed as a fastpace, inspirational tutorial to tackle any tramatic experience or failed endeavor as an aspiring, artistic musician may have their ownself from time to timeline. Many, in fact, almost all within the heavy rock richter scales, claim without him, Heavy Metal wouldn't have been molded, but from this complexed, cynical skeptic's input, one learns he is every bit subjective as intellectual while crediting Geezer as the brains of Black Sabbath's lyricography instances, and no affiliation with withcraft, at least that he wont jokingly admit to. Now embracing the age of retirement with grace and satire, Iommi reflects on the pranks, plots, plans, flops, rewards and acheivements of playing since the Mid Sixties to founding  International,-chart-topping British acts, such as, Black Sabbath originally named, Earth that went forth to claim worldwide fame. The journey through the heaven and hell of the record-making processes gives an in-depth standpoint view, of how much the lead guitarists has endured to hold the strands of the hand of Doom while alcoholism, attention deficit disorders and drug addictions tore his band apart on more than several occasions. Follow along on the earlier Sabbath material and work your way up through entertaining, comical chapters; 90 Chatpers to be exact. In the end, we appreciate all his success for the struggles and genuine essence of the man who is unafraid to face in front of any size of an audience. I can hardly count chuckles and chills this book brought me from the time I picked it up, to the time I couldnt put it down. "Riffmaster", icon, legend, leader, band mate, and unacquitted arsonist, Iommi acknowledges every past and present band member along with or without him every inch of each page, as if his enire intentions for writing this wasnt of self, but what he has been about his entire existence; music.