Christmas (Tortuga)
by Craig Regala
As William Burroughs said, “chase fuck, spavined bastards-driven and driven, our ammonia, headache thrills.” Dude, I’m with’m. You should be with’m too. Old Man Gloom (I thought it was “Oh My Gawd” the first time I saw it abbreviated) drift and drone, hammer and drive through meta-metal language and not. Consciousness was the first sin, well before willingness: Ask Lillith, Adam’s first babe who turned away his animal advances for… for… shit, I dunno the Talmud that well. But Adam hooked with Eve, and history (read: Guilt) started. Many cheer (and curse; let’s be moderately truthful in an election year), this unit. As do I. Many also call them the “East Coast Neurosis,” and it makes more sense than not, culturally. Sense, however, is not my divining rod: Feeling is. And I’ve paid for it. So have OMG.
Yes, “I go heavy.” So, will you buy me a drink? More importantly, will you buy the OMG rec? OMG’s membership comprises several people in bands you’ve heard and possibly liked. I’d be lying if I said those units were Melvins, Swans, and Yob cut with a spinal fluid injection from the tiny baby Jesus, albeit previous to knowing his role in life. That lie may be mythic. Myths are generally perceived as “a lie that tells the truth,” a crack in reality, a flip of the fin that turns the world, the cloth our lurid culture is weaved from.
(www.tortugarecordings.com)