Post by dangerzone on Jun 8, 2006 17:15:56 GMT -5
Rage Against The Machine 'Rage Against The Machine'
1992, Epic
Zack De La Rocha- vocals
Tom Morello- guitar
Timmy C- bass
Brad Wilk- drums
Do I really care for RATM or their music or legacy? No. I do care about some of the more humourous experiences of my life with this album. At various stages this album has reared its head at various occasions, leaving it imprinted on my consciousness. Forget RATM's political stances and tirades, it was bollocks then and still is now. Maybe they did believe in their causes, that's not my concern here. My concern is 1995 and sitting around at a 'friends' house playing his computer every night usually a cricket game, with created names like 'fartleberry' and 'poohsquirt' among the members of our side. In this cramped computer room, myself, Fiji Harrison (then a sprite 34 years of age) and 'friend' would accompany our game session with music playing on a battered tape recorder which originated in the early 80's I'd say. Somewhere along the way 'friend' had come into posession of RATM's debut, three years after its release.
Every night for a year we sat there listening to this album. Every single night. To the point where every note was etched permanently in my brain. Forever! The familiar sound of a LBW appeal, 'howzat!!??' while 'Killing In The Name' blared in the background. It was like a ritual. We could have listened to anything, but somehow 'RATM' never left that recorder. I'll wake up periodically thinking I'm still in that room. Fiji Harrison is haunted by the memories. He'll call me and just say 'howzat!' then sing a line from 'Bullet In The Head'. He still sleeps armed with a gun, waiting for the in house drive by. The occupants of the house we occupied listening to this frequently call me also, asking me to remove Fiji from the premises, standing in a Mad Max like zombie state outside the bedroom window.
I overcame the haunted past until 2001, when one evening a freak I worked with called Sparks sent me into remission. After a drunken evening at a strip club, white trash Sparks left the club shirtless, his rotted teeth shining through.' She wants me man, I'm working on her' he told me about a stripper he blew 200 bucks on that night. I headbutted him and threw him in the back seat. After kissing a fag called James who was with us, Sparks passed out. Until 'Killing In The Name Of' played on the radio. He perked up and sang along, violently. At the songs 'fuck you I won't do what you tell me' climax he sang along as hard and loud as a human is capable of, face reddened, causing me to relapse. I rocked back and forth, watching the scene unfold. He then opened the sunroof of the SUV and in a cornball teen movie move stuck his body through the roof and screamed at the top of his lungs, 'fuck you!!!!!, whoooooo!!!!'. It was summer, he was wasted and out of control, having blown a small fortune on some unattainable whore. He called his wife. 'Light up the grill, baby we're coming home' were his final words before he passed out again. I was trying to stop the shame of 1995 infiltrating my brain. Now I'd remember the album for two reasons.
Make it three. Last week 'Corporate' Bill was busy at work saying how much he hated his job. 'I won't do a thing for this place anymore' he told me. 'Fuck them! Seven years and for what? I'm not doing anything, watch me!' Then word was passed down that we were collectively as a group in danger of missing throughput. That meant missing our weekly bonus of one cent per case picked. Bill was livid. 'I need this money for Christmas, we need to get done!' Throughput was a minimum of 75 percent. Bill turned into a man beaten by the system. Our boss watched him smirking through his office window. He had fooled Bill with false numbers to make him work. I watched 'Corporate' work himself into the ground to get done. I approached him. 'Now you do what they told ya' I mocked him quoting my favourite album. 'Now they do what they told ya!!' I said again louder. I screamed it fifty times at him. He pretended not to hear me.
I convulsed on the floor. 'Fuck you I'll do what you tell me' I continued, altering the words for Bill. Others laughed. At him and me. I heard a bowler appeal a caught behind in my head, 'howzat!'. I was in the room again. I was led out and taken to St Francis hospitals psychiatric ward for overnight observation. Maybe it wasn't so funny. Listening to the album right now is straining my mind. Does it matter if the album is any good or deserves a proper write up? No, because it means nothing to me in reality. It could have been Machine Head or Biohazard we listened to in that shitty room. But it was RATM.
Rating: B
1992, Epic
Zack De La Rocha- vocals
Tom Morello- guitar
Timmy C- bass
Brad Wilk- drums
Do I really care for RATM or their music or legacy? No. I do care about some of the more humourous experiences of my life with this album. At various stages this album has reared its head at various occasions, leaving it imprinted on my consciousness. Forget RATM's political stances and tirades, it was bollocks then and still is now. Maybe they did believe in their causes, that's not my concern here. My concern is 1995 and sitting around at a 'friends' house playing his computer every night usually a cricket game, with created names like 'fartleberry' and 'poohsquirt' among the members of our side. In this cramped computer room, myself, Fiji Harrison (then a sprite 34 years of age) and 'friend' would accompany our game session with music playing on a battered tape recorder which originated in the early 80's I'd say. Somewhere along the way 'friend' had come into posession of RATM's debut, three years after its release.
Every night for a year we sat there listening to this album. Every single night. To the point where every note was etched permanently in my brain. Forever! The familiar sound of a LBW appeal, 'howzat!!??' while 'Killing In The Name' blared in the background. It was like a ritual. We could have listened to anything, but somehow 'RATM' never left that recorder. I'll wake up periodically thinking I'm still in that room. Fiji Harrison is haunted by the memories. He'll call me and just say 'howzat!' then sing a line from 'Bullet In The Head'. He still sleeps armed with a gun, waiting for the in house drive by. The occupants of the house we occupied listening to this frequently call me also, asking me to remove Fiji from the premises, standing in a Mad Max like zombie state outside the bedroom window.
I overcame the haunted past until 2001, when one evening a freak I worked with called Sparks sent me into remission. After a drunken evening at a strip club, white trash Sparks left the club shirtless, his rotted teeth shining through.' She wants me man, I'm working on her' he told me about a stripper he blew 200 bucks on that night. I headbutted him and threw him in the back seat. After kissing a fag called James who was with us, Sparks passed out. Until 'Killing In The Name Of' played on the radio. He perked up and sang along, violently. At the songs 'fuck you I won't do what you tell me' climax he sang along as hard and loud as a human is capable of, face reddened, causing me to relapse. I rocked back and forth, watching the scene unfold. He then opened the sunroof of the SUV and in a cornball teen movie move stuck his body through the roof and screamed at the top of his lungs, 'fuck you!!!!!, whoooooo!!!!'. It was summer, he was wasted and out of control, having blown a small fortune on some unattainable whore. He called his wife. 'Light up the grill, baby we're coming home' were his final words before he passed out again. I was trying to stop the shame of 1995 infiltrating my brain. Now I'd remember the album for two reasons.
Make it three. Last week 'Corporate' Bill was busy at work saying how much he hated his job. 'I won't do a thing for this place anymore' he told me. 'Fuck them! Seven years and for what? I'm not doing anything, watch me!' Then word was passed down that we were collectively as a group in danger of missing throughput. That meant missing our weekly bonus of one cent per case picked. Bill was livid. 'I need this money for Christmas, we need to get done!' Throughput was a minimum of 75 percent. Bill turned into a man beaten by the system. Our boss watched him smirking through his office window. He had fooled Bill with false numbers to make him work. I watched 'Corporate' work himself into the ground to get done. I approached him. 'Now you do what they told ya' I mocked him quoting my favourite album. 'Now they do what they told ya!!' I said again louder. I screamed it fifty times at him. He pretended not to hear me.
I convulsed on the floor. 'Fuck you I'll do what you tell me' I continued, altering the words for Bill. Others laughed. At him and me. I heard a bowler appeal a caught behind in my head, 'howzat!'. I was in the room again. I was led out and taken to St Francis hospitals psychiatric ward for overnight observation. Maybe it wasn't so funny. Listening to the album right now is straining my mind. Does it matter if the album is any good or deserves a proper write up? No, because it means nothing to me in reality. It could have been Machine Head or Biohazard we listened to in that shitty room. But it was RATM.
Rating: B
