Page 25 - the NOISE March 2013

its way to the graveyard.
“Want me to drive you back to Malibu?” “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure, Bob? We’re almost 20 miles out.” “It’s cool, I can get a ride. You look like you
have business to take care of.”
As he spoke, Dylan rewrapped his head-
dress tightly. Once wound, he crossed the road to the opposite shoulder. Mazzeo got back in the hearse and started the engine. He looked out the window and Dylan raised his hand. Mazzeo raised his hand in return and pulled onto the highway.
As he drove off, Sandy Mazzeo glanced in his side-view mirror and saw a man in cheap polyester clothes and a turban with his thumb out, hitchhiking. He looked like a freako, a nutjob on the lam from the booby hatch who thought he was Bob Dylan. He grew smaller and smaller in the mirror, then disappeared.
Someone would stop for him, right?
James “Sandy” Mazzeo is still an artist and still good friends with Neil Young (who still lives at Broken Arrow). To view some of his work, including a full-color painting of the Zuma cover, go to jamesmazzeo.com and james- mazzeoartworks.com.
— Tony BallZ
REVIEW’D
BY FRANK CHIPOTEL
Swampwolf
The Genius of Feral Thinking
Goin’ Ape Sh*t Records
jjjj
I recently attended my first hardcore show in a long while and perhaps my first “real” hardcore show in an extremely long while. Swampwolf brought out their giant amplifi- ers and did their metal meets thrash sludge. Some other bands played, some of which may have actually been louder, but none were nearly as good.
The boneheads (who I found out later were the kids responsible for booking the show) came out and took over. Not only were they moshing without care or respect for those around them, they actually sought more passive groupings in the crowd to
Swampwolf
jump into. There were several times when I almost grabbed one of them and screamed in his ear, “Stop being an idiot!” or some such (Keep in mind, he would have barely heard me over the caterwauling) but I didn’t want my glasses broken by some dude half my age that hasn’t learned to communicate without swinging his meaty fists. Plus, this was a hardcore show. Though there were folks that would have had my back, (one would hope) there were also those that were just glad it wasn’t some sh*t show- just a bunch of hands in pockets, staring at the band in mild, passive, polite, apt appreciation, and though I could respect that sentiment, it didn’t mean the dudes with the dumbest brains and the most to prove, and in my opinion, the most homoerotic sexual frustration to work out, got to take over. However, for the hardcore kid, the world is a black and white one, and for them, it’s either one or the other.
Don’t want to be a fascist. Especially in the face of fascists. So the space the show was at has settled upon initiating an idiot deposit for any damages or clean up that needs to be done. All we can hope for now is the ladies in attendance read up on their Kathleen Han- nah for the next time the beefheads decide who is welcome up front at a show.
Meanwhile, Swampwolf were nice enough to provide me a copy of their new album to review.
Thirty-four minutes even of epic brutal- ity. Guess what? It starts with feedback. And then guitars that sound like keyboards. And then there’s angry screaming. Dirty Steve still sounds pissed. Oh man, I just got nostalgia goosebumps for my Absinthe records. F*ck, I loved that band. Groundwork just came to mind. Oh, and Four Hundred Years. Look them up, children.
I can’t really tell where these songs end and begin for the most part, and that’s actu- ally a good thing. The shredding, chugging, and double bass pedal just pummel like Obama’s bombing drones on all the innocent children. The changes come often enough, and though there’s nothing groundbreaking, the riffs are all over the metal/hardcore map.
When Dirty Steve gets all emo on track four, I’m in nostalgia heaven, and it only lasts a few bars, and then it’s back to the land of Man Is the Bastard. In my uneducated esti- mation, Swampwolf are largely a hardcore
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