Posted tagged ‘supernatural’

Monstrance Clock

August 12, 2013

Come together, together as a one
Come together for Lucifer’s son
Come together, together as a one
Come together for Lucifer’s son


I’ve seen the future of rock n’ roll and it is doom. There is a rock group from Sweden treading the boards whose front man dresses as the devil incarnate. The vocalist goes by the name of Papa Emeritus II, (He was Papa Emeritus on the first album, we’ll get to that in a moment) the other members of the band have no names preferring to be called nameless ghouls. The band are called Ghost.

Ghost have released two albums and another of their gimmicks was pretending that Papa Emeritus II was a different singer from the one on their debut album, the plain Papa Emeritus, presumably the first. Those of us with an ear for music are not buying it. The singer remains the same. Incidentally, bookmakers are taking no money on a Papa Emeritus III being on the third LP.

Following in the footsteps of other costumed bands -Kiss, Slipknot, Lordi, The Wombles- Ghost put on a theatrical show, a hard rock equivalent of Phantom of the Opera. Playing mock-satanic music while incense burns in the background their concerts are a mixture of dark forboding and humour. After all, the devil worship thing is not for real. Most heavy metal fans have normal jobs and a steady head on their dandruff-ridden shoulders. We don’t take ourselves seriously.

Now for more confusion. Ghost had to change their name in North America to Ghost BC for copyright reasons but for those of us that were in on them from the beginning they will always be plain Ghost. And these dark Lords just might make the mainstream as their music has a commercial ring to it, notwithstanding the occult lyrics and spooky tunes. If they do make it big, you heard it here first.

This little song has a singalong catchy chorus. It will stick in your head and you’ll find yourself humming it for days, end of days.


Tear your Playhouses down

January 1, 2013

The flames of a wicker man was burning at the side of the road as Long Hair trail blazed along the freeway. He had no inclination to see if there were any human sacrifice taking place in the straw. Necking down on a bottle of Jameson’s he was looking forward to the next three songs on radio 666’s Metal Chainsaw show’s playlist. They would be-

Evile- Cult
Opeth- Folklore
Marillion- Grendel

Before the barnstorming trio could be heard through the airwaves, Long Hair found himself going through the space and time continuum -as can happen to any one, from time to time. He was transported back through the ages and landed somewhere in a stony place in Wiltshire. The grounds were populated by natives of the era. This was dangerous, thought Long Hair, even Dr Who said you had to be careful with time travel. One little minor change can cause the whole of history to be re-written.

“Greetings, stranger. I am the chief Druid” The ancient druid welcomed Long Hair to the bustling nightclub that was Stonehenge. The flowing robes of members of the ancient order were dancing around an arc of stones. The Stones were set in a perfect, circular order. Some of the more adventurous dancing druids had mistletoe above their heads and were kissing their cousins.

Ignoring the rousing family get together that was in progress, the newcomer said. “I’m thirsty. Have you anything to drink around here?”

“Yes, my good man, we have many potions. Try this, it’s our best concoction. We call it Hooch.”

Taking a pitcher of the alcoholic beverage from the Chief Druid, the parched traveller drank merrily like a drain. What goes down must come up and he sprayed the regurgitated mixture out like a stream onto the chief Druid’s face.

“That Hooch is garbage.“ was the visitor’s opinion. “Tell you what, druidy boy, can you make me some of this.” He handed the drenched druids man an empty bottle of Jamesons.

“Of course we can. We can make anything here. Won’t be long.”

True to his word, within minutes a huge vat of Jamesons was produced that was as good as the original. Long Hair dunked his face in the bowl and filled his boots up.

“That Pict can’t half drink.” said one of the partying druids. Long Hair lifted his head from the cauldron.

“Did you call me a Pict?” he asked the innocent lower order druid.

“Yes, I did. You’re a Pict, aren’t you?” repeated the half-drunk partygoer in a pleasant tone of voice.

History was about to be changed. An enraged Long Hair battered the drunken druids one after the other -they were all guilty by association- into submission. Not content with dazing the druids Long Hair became a kind of Samson -he still had his long hair, after all- and he destroyed their nightclub of stones. Not a stone was left untouched. But he still wasn’t happy so he picked a few of the big blocks up and placed them horizontally on two upright blocks to make up a selection of goal posts. Should have brought a ball with me, thought Long hair.


“You’ve ruined our runes.” said the Chief Druid, coming back into consciousness.

“No, I’ve not, I’ve made them better. Only last week I tore off the arms from a statute and I was told it made it more ‘aesthetically pleasing’”

“You’re right. The place does look more distinctive.” agreed the Chief as he surveyed his new surroundings.

Long Hair pulled the robes of the druid and drawing him close to his face, with a fiery whisky breath uttered “How do I get out of here, wise man?”

Using a skeletal hand that had a large fingernail, the druid indicated. “The future is that way.” he said.

Loading the cauldron of Jamesons into the back seat of his car and breaking the axles in the process, Long Hair jumped into the driver’s seat. With his engine roaring he hurtled back to the future.

Emperor of the East

July 17, 2010

A sinister fog descended on the speeding car inducing large flakes of snow. Long Hair, the driver tried desperately to tune his stereo to the Metal Chainsaw show on radio 666. He thumped the dashboard to no avail as the radio was stuck on channel 1812: Klassische Schnitte. Swigging his Jameson and oblivious to the snow storm outside long Hair heard the announcer say the last three pieces of music were-

Beethoven- Piano Concerto#5
1. Allegro
2. Adagio un poco moso
3. Rondo: Allegro ma non troppo

Soon the road was pure winter and everything was white in the world. The drunken motorist refused to lift his foot off the accelerator and ploughed through the blizzard to the sounds of Moonlight Sonata.

The ghosts of Borodino rose from their graves. Uniforms stained with blood and fragments of cuirasses hurled themselves at the vehicle. Skeletal death masks rattled into the windscreen. Ice enveloped the interior giving the cabin a coffin like appearance. Long Hair flicked the icicle dripping curls off his face and bludgeoned the grimacing car onto a frozen lake.

Racing over the lake, the ice was breaking behind him splitting in frightful cracks. One wrong wheel and he would plunge into a watery chasm, a Waterloo of sorts; the fate that was befalling the wailing spirits that pursued him. Crying with anguish the dead were dying again in an icy doom. Knocking back another Jameson’s with a belch, Long hair made it onto the rainy motorway leaving the Hell of the East in his wake.

“I must be one of Napoleon’s lucky generals.” He shouted. “Nay, the luckiest.”

The broadcaster on radio 1812 said that next up is Beethoven’s third symphony, the Eroica. This was initially to be dedicated to Bonaparte but Ludwig van had second thoughts and recoiled in horror at the exploits of the little dictator. Long Hair shrugged his dandruff ridden shoulders and sped into the worsening downpour.

Musical Graves

January 26, 2010

Ricardo Viola was not the World Hopscotch Champion for nothing. His dedication to his craft ensured he left no stone unturned, no rock unrolled and no boulder not given the hard shoulder in his desire to stay one jump ahead of the opposition.

A charge was stigmatised that Viola was so good he had done a deal with the Devil. He denied the rumours and blamed the Charlie Daniels Band and their one-hit wonder song “The Devil went down to Georgia”. My name is Viola and not fiddle, he would shout, although the term fiddle may refer to any bowed string musical instrument. For his profession he said that a deal with the ghost of Fred Astaire would be more helpful.

As the Championships were soon to be played, he practiced more than he’d ever done before. He wandered the streets at night looking for a suitable venue to hone his skills. He trained until the witching hour and made his way home. For quickness he decided to take a short cut through a graveyard.

Deep into the cemetery he thought this was a bad idea. If the paparazzi could see him now all those allegations would have some corroboration. And then he stepped on someone’s grave and the sound was the sound of a sombre G note.

Slightly shaken, Viola looked at the line of graves set up in neat rows and saw in the splinter of his mind’s eye the appearance of a hopscotch heaven. He jumped once, then twice quickly, then once again on the melancholic G note as it aired a deathly tune. He repeated the sequence and as he leaped two graves the note emitted from this crypt was an atmospheric B note.

It is a little known fact that hopscotch experts have an uncanny ear for music and Viola began to skip from grave to grave and the noise was one of unremitting grimness. Mephistopheles stood in the wings and applauded. A band of demons joined in and it sounded something like this.

Chopin’s piano sonata No. 2, opus 35.

Don’t tell me you were expecting Fred Astaire and Ginger Roberts 

Something wicked this way comes

December 15, 2009

It was damp and downcast on the outside but the interior of the car was blasting out the sounds of the Metal Chainsaw Show on radio 666 FM. The playlist was a veritable bloodlust of Satan’s finest fret players at their most frenzied. The trinity of evil music recently played were-

Slayer- Raining Blood

Megadeth- Gears of War

Pantera- Domination

The long haired male driver of the vehicle was smoking a cigarette and slugging straight Jameson’s while veering the car disjointedly on the motorway. Out of his head he was too drunk to rock let alone drive. Conditions had taken a turn for the worse and the drizzly rain was transmogrifying into a torrential downpour.

Setting the windscreen wipers to full speed and with the noise of Mastodon screaming from the speakers the wayward road hog put his foot to the floor. Soon the motorway was alive with the juxtaposition of grinding mechanical parts, wails of banshee guitars and sonic sprays of natural thunderstorms.

“Damn!” the driver cursed.

He remembered there was a leak somewhere in his lights and water had intruded into the machine causing a faulty earth connection. His Mickey Hazard lights had a mind of their own as they flashed a Morse code warning of imminent death. For safety reasons he chooses to leave the motorway at the upcoming exit.

Suddenly a ghost rider on a horse drawn hearse overtakes and cuts in front of the inebriated motorist. Offended by this flagrant disregard for driving etiquette the drunkard presses his horn and klaxons at the coffin. The casket slowly opens and a skeletal hand appears with a bony middle finger raised in the air.