It's been a while since The Captain has made it down to the Stoned Village,* or I mean, Sleeping Village, what's the difference? I've been up on Saturn 9 laying down some new track for the world to decimate themselves to.
Here we have The King's Pistol. These fools don't even know what they've gotten themselves into with the likes of me. The bass player, Andy, seems to be scared of my threats, and is worried I'm going to come to his work. He gave me the address, the silly bastard. Why would you give The Decimator of Worlds your location, doesn't he know I have a space ship?
There is something aggressively unsettling--nay, terrifying--about fungi. And I'm not talking about the prospect of eating then, because here at the Village, we can get down with a variety of mushrooms (from a culinary perspective.) Nor am I referring to the one-bite wonders of the world, the Deathcaps and the Autumn Skullcaps and the Destroying Angels, of which the most delicate of bites brings, in many cases, coma or death. No. I'm talking about a vision of mycological apocalypse. The worldwide decomposition at the gaping maw of all-consuming saprophytic fungi--a form of fungus that gains its life-force through the gourmandization of decaying organic matter. As we die, the ultimate decomposer has its way with our remains...and so survives when all else finds inevitable demise. Given the sheer staying power of fungus, it all seems very possible, this eventual process of worldwide reverse fungi-cide. And, unlike zombies, said apocalypse has a concrete basis in biological reality. Scary shit, no matter how you slice it.
Providing thoughtful reviews of music that is heavy, gloomy, and loud enough to wake us from slumber. Written by a groggy-eyed, highfalutin peasantry.