Okay, maybe not, but I was intensely glad to be able to get my hands on a copy of the first Fuzzorama Records release (fuzz CD001), Fuzzsplit of the Century, featuring Truckfighters and Firestone. Neither band is stranger to these parts, Truckfighters having released one of my favorite albums of last year in Mania, and Firestone’s Stonebeliever EP having been covered in a previous Buried Treasure, but to get them both on this split CD from 2003, when Truckfighters were really just getting going and Firestone was on their way out, was too much for me to resist. Fortunately, Freebird Records had a copy on the (relatively) cheap and I grabbed it from their mailorder.

In a way, it’s a “what you see is what you get”-type scenario. While the “of the Century” is as debatable as any claim of anything being the greatest anything ever is, I won’t argue it’s a fantastic bit of fuzz both bands grow from out their Orange amps. We already know Oskar Cedermalm is the link between the groups (he played guitar in Firestone and handles bass and vocals in Truckfighters), but what’s more interesting about Fuzzsplit of the Century is precisely what was alluded to in the paragraph above: hearing Truckfighters in their beginnings and what could probably be called the most realized version of Firestone before their dissolution.

As someone who encountered Truckfighters first with the Gravity X album, their more nascent approach here is less assured, and, though it carries the seeds that in context can be seen as what would later become Mania’s progressive bent, less established. They were a young band in 2003. Firestone, on the other hand, had their mission clear from the outset and so sound like the tighter unit. Of course, it’s worth saying that both bands were fuzzy as all hell at this stage in their careers.

It was a kind of curiosity purchase, bought basically so I could hear the roots of one of Sweden’s top riffing outfits, and though Fuzzsplit of the Century certainly isn’t their best group of songs, it’s a fascinating go-through nonetheless, and worth investigation for anyone who’s been mesmerized by their work since. And since Firestone remains a mystery to me (they released several EPs that, so far, seem impossible to find), having five more tracks of them at their best is definitely a win.

If there’s one buzzword The Patient Mrs. can’t stand hearing me say, it’s “completist.” Now, whether that’s because she doesn’t think the term accomplishes anything that “collector” doesn’t or because she just doesn’t like being married to one, I don’t really know, but it drives her up the god damn wall.

On the other hand, I think “completist” describes a very specific mindset — particularly as it relates to music — that “collector” just doesn’t capture. It gets to a certain point where it’s not even about the music anymore, about the bands, their songs or any of that. It’s about the thing, about having that thing that you don’t have yet, getting it before someone else can, finishing the band’s catalog or just having one more record with that band’s name on it to sit on the shelf with the others.

Case in point: I recently purchased a Kyuss promo off eBay, titled Sky Valley Part III. After shipping and a five dollar donation to Haiti, I paid a whopping $17.98. It came in the mail yesterday, and it is, as I knew when I bought it, just the last four songs from the classic 1994 album, Welcome to Sky Valley. You get “Odyssey,” “Conan Troutman,” “N.O.” and “Whitewater” (still as one track, mind you), and that’s it.

I’m not sorry I bought it, but I don’t think there could possibly be an argument made on the side of my needing this CD. I already have two copies of Sky Valley itself (a standalone and one in the 3 for One box set), and with nothing more than the last four songs and separate artwork — an interesting journey back in time to when a label could afford something like putting a jewel case promo like this together — even I can’t say I had to own Sky Valley Part III.

Maybe it’s a status thing? Bragging rights? Like the douchebag banker and his Ferrari? I’m certainly not a better person for having paid for what someone initially got for free, but it was an impulse I couldn’t have fought if I’d wanted to, and even now, I don’t really have buyer’s remorse for having snatched it just before the auction ended. This is what I do. I’m a completist. If I’m going to be obsessive compulsive about something, at least I’m not hurting anyone other than myself, and that only fiscally.

But I think there’s a strong case to be made for the differences between collecting and completism. And if anyone needs me to make that case for them, I’d be more than happy to do so just as soon as I’m done seeing if I can get a copy of Masters of Reality’s Reality Show cheap on any of the international Amazon.com sites.

The reason this is a Buried Treasure and not a review or something — aside from album’s having been already reviewed — is that I just finally got around to buying a physical copy last night at Vintage Vinyl. I was there for the Crippled Black Phoenix, The Resurrectionists/Night Raider box and figured since opening track “As Horizons End” has been in my head for a couple days, I’d grab the 2009 Paradise Lost release as well. Maybe there was some subliminal connection because both bands are British. In any case, I had some store credit to burn.

Faith Divides Us – Death Unites Us is not an album I’ve consistently gone back to, but for some reason, I recently clicked open the folder of promo mp3s from which the review was written and gave it another shot. It’s still formulaic, but as I stood with the copy of it in my hands and debated taking it to the register, I realized formulaic was exactly what I wanted. There’s no question there’s some filler toward the record’s back half — I know that now even more than the first time around — but that’s what I wanted. A metal album. Something I could put on and not think about. A couple catchy choruses, some decent guitar work, and done. Mind-boggling complexity is wonderful, but sometimes you just want to relax.

I felt way back in August and still feel “As Horizons End” is the strongest cut on the record. It’s the one that led me back to Faith Divides Us – Death Unites Us, and a good portion of motivation for any subsequent listens will be to hear that one song. But what follows it, at least for the next four songs until you get past the title track, isn’t half bad either. I doubt the purchase will instill in me a wholesale new affection for the album, but hey, at least I know it’s on the shelf should I decide to pay it another visit half a year from now.

I was kind of bummed when CD World on Rt. 46 in Totowa went out of business, and couldn’t have cared less when Coconuts right down the road did the same. As I stood in the FYE on Rt. 10 in East Hanover with the “LAST 3 DAYS!” sign outside and all the yellow “Going out of Business — Everything Must Go!” paraphernalia strewn about the place, I was appreciative of the fact that the indies, the Vintage Vinyls and Sound Exchanges, are still going. Who knows for how long.

Everything was at least half off, and I was down that way anyway picking up my car at long last after the whole key/toilet debacle, so I figured I’d pop in. They had a few copies of Behemoth’s Evangelion left, one of which I grabbed just for the hell of it, and a disc called Super Duper by the band Valentine Saloon that was $1.99 (before the sale) and had artwork that looked like it was by Frank Kozik. It wasn’t. The album was, however, produced by Jack Endino. Unfortunately, it was also really, really bad.

The upshot was the self-titled album from Portland, OR’s Red Fang, whose new school beery/bearded boogie Melvins rocking got me wherever the hell I was going that night. The highlight of the record is probably “Humans Remain Human Remains,” although “Good to Die” has balls big enough to trip over them. There’s a definite Floor/Torche influence, which adds pop flair, and at their most unhinged, they’re not quite as break-stuffy as Akimbo — who’ve more or less mastered the art of cerebral post-hardcore violence — but they’re not so terribly far off.

It was a pleasant surprise to come upon Red Fang in that setting, where once, by sheer luck, I found a used copy of Astroqueen’s Into Submission, but even so, I’m not sorry to see FYE go. It’s a bummer for anyone if they were looking to make a lifetime career out of working there, but judging by the bored looks on the faces of the post-adolescents behind the counter, I don’t think they were too concerned. As some ring bells in memory of physical media, I’m more than happy to pick up their discarded treasures for half price. And yeah, if Beyonce stops making CDs, that’s fine, but I’m pretty sure Red Fang’s next one will be pressed to plastic one way or another. When it is, I’ll be ready for it.

Here’s a quick tip for those of you on either side of the buying and selling of goods via the webunets: USE A FUCKING PADDED ENVELOPE.

Doesn’t seem like too much to ask, right? And perhaps you’re thinking to yourself, “What the hell does it matter? I sandwiched the disc between two pieces of cardboard and sent it in a regular envelope, it should be fine.” NO. It makes a difference, and two pieces of cardboard is not the same as bubblewrap. This should be kindergarten level shit, but apparently it needs to be said.

And I say “apparently” because twice in the last month have I received packages of CDs — one off eBay and another from the StonerRock.com message board (not the All that is Heavy webstore, with which I’ve had no such issues) — where, after dashing to the mailbox and rejoicing at seeing the wanted package, I’ve opened it up and found the jewel cases smashed all to hell.

No problem, right? I’ve got extra jewel cases, and a switch is easy enough. But hey, maybe after paying $35+ for a copy of Spirit Caravan’s rare-as-fuck Jug Fulla Sun, I’d like to get it without the back liner ripped because broken shards of jewel case plastic punctured it? Same fucking thing happened with the Man’s Ruin issue of Brant Bjork’s Jalamanta a couple weeks ago, so clearly, for the good of the internet buying community at large, I need to repeat myself: USE A FUCKING PADDED ENVELOPE.

This concludes this public service announcement. Remember kids, padded envelopes save lives, or at very least make you seem like much less of an asshole to the people buying out-of-print albums from you.

Unless that Blue Cheer disc shows up in the mail tomorrow, I just received the final album I will have purchased this decade. It was Trouble, by Trouble. I bought it off Amazon used, but as close to mint as anything I’ve seen, spent $30 of an Xmas gift card and $18 of my hard-earned on top of that to get it. Worth every penny, virtual and otherwise.

The 1990 release is widely regarded as the apex of Trouble’s career, and with tracks like “Psychotic Reaction,” “At the End of My Daze” and “Black Shapes of Doom,” it’s hard to argue. The classic lineup of vocalist Eric Wagner, guitarist Bruce Franklin and Rick Wartell, bassist Ron Holzner and drummer Barry Stern (RIP) captured a defining moment in doom which even 20 years later many bands still emulate without the same kind of effect on the listener.

Whatever they’ve done since — the lineup changes, naming their yet-to-be-released new album The Dark Riff, etc. — there’s no denying the presence of Trouble, and two decades on, the power of these tracks still speaks for itself. It is an acquisition most welcome, and a fitting end to 10 years of rampant expenditure without regard for credit rating, checking account balance or common sense.

Speaking of, anyone got a lead on a CD copy of the Saint Vitus live record on Hellhound? There’s a couple extra tracks they left off the Southern Lord reissue I’d like to get my hands on.

If it hasn’t been said before in this space, I love Philadelphia. I’ll admit it doesn’t have the same sense of cosmopolitanism as New York — its history designates it a purely American city — but the people are so much nicer. It’s as though the city wasn’t constantly acting in a commercial for the city. It’s like someone turned down the asshole factor. If I could ever afford to live anywhere (which I don’t expect to be able to), I’d live there in a second. Even the hippest Philly record store I’ve been to yet, AKA Music, made NYC’s Other Music look like a parody of itself.

Along with an extensive (if somewhat disheveled) used section from which I grabbed someone’s promo of the new Alice in Chains (meh), and a dollar bargain bin that yielded a copy of Pharaoh Overlord’s II, they also had both prog and psychedelic sections. The prog section even had a krautrock subheading. Awesome. And for vinyl heads, there’s a whole other store’s worth of it in the back.

I nabbed a compilation of early Peruvian psychedelic music called The Roots of Chicha, which proved to be awesome, and the self-titled release from Iron Claw on Rockadrome’s Vintage division. Yes, the name comes from King Crimson. The record is a collection of tracks recorded from 1970-1974 from the Scottish band, most of which I’m fairly certain were unreleased before, and on the plastic wrapping of the disc there were five magic words that assured the purchase: “For Fans of Black Sabbath.”

And that more or less sums up what Iron Claw had going on nearly 35-40 years ago. According to the label, they started out by playing Black Sabbath’s Black Sabbath in its entirety during their sets along with their originals, formed in ‘69 in Dumfries, were done in ‘74, and until this exhumation, were buried by time and obscurity. The extensive liner notes detail their years together with notable shows and lineup changes and how different players affected the band, and the music is blown to hell, but a track like “Skullcrusher” still lives up to its name.

For serious devotees of the heavy ’70s new and old, Iron Claw’s a can’t miss. They can’t all be Leaf Hound’s Growers of Mushroom, but I think I prefer Iron Claw to the self-titled Jerusalem record Rockadrome put out a while back. You’ve got 16 tracks of classic hard riffing with the occasional prog freakout (“Pavement Artist”). Put that together with a city like Philly and mark it a win.

Aside from being closest to the valley, Sound Exchange in Wayne on Rt. 23 is one of the few genuine small mom and pop stores left around these parts. I can’t even think of another in North Jersey — maybe that one in Passaic County I can never remember the name of. There used to be Mr. Muck’s right down the road, but that closed a couple years back. And even CD World (owned by FYE) and Coconuts (I think also owned by FYE) on 46 have gone and are going out of business. So really, Sound Exchange is it.

And it’s a record shopper’s store. CDs, vinyl, cassettes, used and new, with some t-shirts and books for good measure. It’s crowded, expertly organized (side-projects next to main outlets; Brant Bjork in with Kyuss, for example), and usually being perused by one or more of the local record store types. You know the type. Anywhere else in the world, they just don’t fit, but flipping the racks, they’re right at home.

Over the years I’ve accrued more buried treasure from Sound Exchange than perhaps any other single physical store, and this time, in addition to the latest Satyricon, I was happy to find used a copy of the 1996 debut full-length from Texas doomers Las Cruces, S.O.L. When last I heard from the band (last year at around this time, actually), they were looking to hook up a release for a new LP, Dusk, through Brainticket. That may not have happened yet, but that doesn’t make S.O.L. any less enjoyable on its own.

Las Cruces was a trio in ‘96, consisting of Mark Zammaron on bass and vocals, Michael Hosman on drums and Mark Lopez on guitar. None of them are in the band since the 2005 reunion, and the sonic differences even between S.O.L. and 1998’s Ringmaster are palpable. Ringmaster may have been thicker sounding, but S.O.L. puts an unmistakable Trouble influence to excellent use on straightforward doom cuts “Sophia,” “Valley of Unrest” and “Shotgun.” Lopez’s guitar is often double-tracked, and though it’s somewhat simplistic, the album is more than welcome to doom its way into my collection. For $6.98, you can’t really go wrong.

The issue was that I’d been standing in Vintage Vinyl for nearly an hour already and wasn’t any closer to finding a single thing I wanted to buy. Okay, that’s not exactly true, but there was nothing I was willing to shell out for at the new or used prices. I’d been all through the used bins, back and forth through the alphabet of the new stuff too, and nothing.

I could have just left. That probably would have been the reasonable course of action. But I’m not a reasonable man, and so — as I stared at the racks one more time and the archetypal cute record store girl behind the counter in the SunnO))) hoodie and Mastodon t-shirt with the dyed red hair began, increasingly, to give me funny looks because there weren’t that many other people in the store and I was the guy who’d been pacing around for almost 60 minutes — I finally just decided to grab something and go. That something was Across Tundras‘ 2008 full-length, Western Sky Ride.

It was right there, I was standing in front of the ‘A’ section, and I just wanted to get out of there. I panicked. And because I remembered liking the first Across Tundras record, 2006’s Dark Songs of the Prarie, well enough, I figured I’d be alright.

Wrong-o.

Out in the parking lot, I disrobed the disc of its shrinkwrap and popped it in, taking out the Them Crooked Vultures CD which I’d been listening to for the umpteenth time. The first song up was “Carrion Crow.” I don’t know what I expected of it — maybe something more atmospheric, à la Earth — but what I got was sloppy post-metal that sounded like it was recorded in a basement (and not in a good way) and immediate buyer’s remorse. And the only good riff in the song? They fucking WHISTLED over it. Hey man, I’m all for experimentation, more than most, but throw me a bone.

I didn’t make it all the way through “Thunderclap Stomp” before just skipping to the last track, “Gallow’s Pole” to see if it was a Zeppelin cover. Once I ascertained it wasn’t, out came Western Sky Ride. Maybe permanently. There goes $14 I’ll never see again. Too much hip, not enough good.

You know, it probably should have occurred to me before, but I just didn’t think about it. Ireland’s Mourning Beloveth first came to my attention after reading an interview a while back, and I never put two and two together (you’d think I’d be used to that by now). Mourning Beloveth — My Dying Bride?? It’s pretty much the same shit.

I was at my favorite NYC shop, Generation Records, and grabbed the 2006 Grau Records reissue of Mourning Beloveth’s Dust (2001) basically because I was curious. Whether I actively wanted it is up for debate, but times are tough, and if you’re gonna go into a record store — especially a good one — the least you can do is buy something. Maybe that way they won’t all go out of business.

Whenever it was between then and now that I finally put on Dust for the first time, I literally laughed out loud at how much it sounded like My Dying Bride. Hey, I’m all for the melancholic Euro-doom sound, but this was over the top. Mourning Beloveth has put out three records since, including last year’s A Disease for the Ages, so I won’t profess to knowing how they’ve developed over the course of this decade, but it was uncanny. From the woeful progressions to the hyper-dramatized poetry reading vocals, it was The Dreadful Hours all over again.

And then, finally, I got it. Beloveth equals Bride. She’s already dead, so instead of My Dying, you’re already in Mourning. I don’t know if this is clever on the part of the band, or if they did it on purpose, or if they were just hoping no one would pick up on it. All I know is if it was their intent to sound just like My Dying Bride when they started out, they certainly accomplished that. And even though Mourning Beloveth allegedly formed in 1992 (their first demo wouldn’t come until four years later), that doesn’t mean MDB couldn’t have influenced them as they went along. If anything, all that says is they had more time to hone their own sound and they didn’t.

Again, not saying they couldn’t have become something wholly different in the years since. I genuinely wouldn’t know since I haven’t heard the records. Just saying that I probably should have put a little more thought into contextualizing the name Mourning Beloveth before I bought the album. Six bucks I won’t see again. Hindsight is… something or other.

It was one of those records I’d downloaded in my college days of downloading more albums than I could ever possibly listen to, and though the name was always memorable, I didn’t know squat about what it sounded like when I picked it up. Toadliquor’s 2003 compilation of unreleased material, The Hortator’s Lament, on Southern Lord, was $4.99 in the Vintage Vinyl used bin. Even if it sucked, I wouldn’t really lose out in that situation.

That didn’t turn out to be a problem anyway, since The Hortator’s Lament (and a hortator is the Roman military officer responsible for crew morale and coordinating rowing) is full of mid-’90s sludge and blown out doom. I suspect this isn’t so much “Buried Treasure” as it is “An Album a Bunch of People Already Have that I Didn’t Until Now,” but on a trip that also yielded Serpent Throne’s The Battle of Old Crow, Kaptain Sun’s Rainbowride and the super-fancypants edition of Master of Reality, among others, I thought somehow this was the most fitting. Maybe that’s because I haven’t listened yet to the Kaptain Sun record.

But hey, even if I am late to the party, maybe you haven’t broken out Toadliquor in a while and this can be a reminder that it’s over on the shelf, just waiting for you to blow the dust off and give it another go. Let that be the worst thing that ever happens.

If we look at the discography of Southern Lord, it’s arguable that the period beginning in 2001 (say, with Warhorse’s As Heaven Turns to Ash…) and ending in 2004 (say, with The Hidden Hand’s Mother Teacher Destroyer) could be considered a “Golden Age.” Certainly they released some great stuff before — The Obsessed, Burning Witch, etc. — and some of their best work has come after — Earth, Wolves in the Throne Room, SunnO)))/Boris, etc. — but in terms of what the label originally stood for, the three year period 2001-2004 really captured the essence of its (perceived) doomed mission.

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In a word: passion. Take, for example, Dan and Melanie, who run StonerRock.com, the All that is Heavy webstore and MeteorCity. They’re on vacation, and still, rather than skip a week of updating, they decided to send out an update saying there won’t be an update. Brilliant. You think whoever runs CrappyAutotunedPopSongs.com is doing that? Not a chance.

Here’s the email. To sign up for the All that is Heavy mailing list (a recommended move), go here.

Howdy!

This is just a quick update to let you know that there will be no update this time around! Usually, we would have done one on Friday but we just got back from vacation so that is impossible. Instead of killing ourselves trying to get something together in a rush we’ve decided that it would be best to just skip this update altogether.

So, now’s your chance to dig into our back-catalog and/or start chipping away at your wishlist!

We’ll be back in 2 weeks for our next regularly scheduled update.

Over and out from:
Dan and Melanie

Howdy!

 This is just a quick update to let you know that there will be no update this time around! Usually, we would have done one on Friday but we just got back from vacation so that is impossible. Instead of killing ourselves trying to get something together in a rush we've decided that it would be best to just skip this update altogether.

 So, now's your chance to dig into our back-catalog and/or start chipping away at your wishlist!

 We'll be back in 2 weeks for our next regularly scheduled update.

 Over and out from:
 Dan and Melanie

Connecticut was where I ended up this past weekend after much back and forth indecisiveness. A familiar enough setting by now, I can even navigate around Wallingford without a map, which came in handy when for the third time (here’s the second) I stopped in at Red Scroll Records on North Colony and hit their precariously positioned used rack to see what I could find. Of note, they had both Croatan’s Curse of the Red Queen and Soulpreacher’s Sonic Witchcraft, which I picked up in Maryland at SHoD X, and there were a couple other points of interest along the way, but what I ended up leaving with, paramount in the haul, was Lamentations by UK epic doomers Solstice and Suspect Symmetry by Ontario sludge-grinders Buried Inside.

I’ll be honest, I almost didn’t buy the latter. After reviewing their latest record earlier in the year I barely listened to it, and Suspect Symmetry didn’t seem to justify my $7.50, but curiosity won out, and since this was the record that ostensibly got them signed to Relapse, I figured it was at least worthy of hearing. And yeah, I guess it was.

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Woke up not half an hour ago realizing I never said a word about the shops I hit while in Asheville last weekend. An egregious error to be immediately remedied. It was 10:30AM, probably time to get up anyway, but surely I wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep again without this task completed. Maybe I’ll take a nap this afternoon.

There were three shops amidst the list of important addresses The Patient Mrs. compiled for me before I left the valley, and they were, in order, those of Static Age Records, Harvest Records and Voltage Records. Both Static Age and Voltage were on N. Lexington — about three doors down from each other; which should say something about the town itself — so I figured I’d hit them simultaneously.

Nice thought, and one complicated by the overarching hippieness of Asheville. Static Age’s listed opening time of 11:00AM was more like 1:30PM. Since they were the shop with a Caltrop show listed on their website, they’d been the one I was most looking forward to checking out, but I hit Voltage first instead. No Holy Grails there, but I’d have probably been more into it if I was buying vinyl, since that’s mostly what they had to offer. Some cool Beatles records, “imports,” but nothing I could afford given my liquor budget.

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While in Maryland last Thursday and Friday for Stoner Hands of Doom X — the allegedly last in the 10 year tenure of the festival, which continued without me through Sunday — I managed to sneak away from the main room in Krug’s Place for a while and hit the bar area, where there was set up one lonely vendor with a ton of good shit. Most of it wasn’t necessarily SHoD-applicable, but had I needed to purchase a bootleg copy of Power Metal or Projects in the Jungle by Pantera, I could have done so easily on my way to the bathroom.

Power Metal is hilarious, by the way, if you’ve never heard it.

Uncharacteristically, I only grabbed two CDs from his several laid out boxes thereof. The first was Croatan’s Curse of the Red Queen and the second was Sonic Witchcraft, by Soulpreacher. Both were maybe five bucks, about the price I was paying for a Leinenkugel at the bar, and though the former features such good time hits as “Gravity 1, Sisyphus 0″ and “Rebel from the Waist Down,” it was the Soulpreacher record that stuck out as more of a surprise.

Maybe that’s because I knew nothing about the band and only bought the disc because, like the Croatan, it was released on Man’s Ruin, but either way, when I popped it in my car player to listen, the out and out misery of the sludge emanating from the speakers was unbelievable. I was surprised to learn in the decade since Sonic Witchcraft’s release (and with a new lineup) the band has adopted a more European doom style, influenced by Paradise Lost and My Dying Bride, but there’s no taking away from the wholly American tinge to 10-minute opener “Blues for a Blackened World” or the Southern death-boogie of “Empty and Hollow.” They’re from North Carolina, whether they like it or not.

They debuted their new sound and two new guitarists replacing Mike Avery with 2004’s Lost Words demo but eeked out another EP, When the Black Sunn Rises… the Holy Men Burn (Game Two Records) with the original lineup in 2000 and a demo in 2002 before Avery left for law school (“Your honor, I’d like this Eyehategod riff to be read into evidence”). They’ve allegedly got a new album called All the Drugs are Failing, but damned if it’s for sale on their MySpace or website. There’s a couple tracks from it on the MySpace anyway and it’s nowhere near as skin-curdling as their earlier work, so maybe it’s for the best. In the meantime, I’ve got Sonic Witchcraft drilling a hole in my eardrum and I think I’m starting to like it. Hail the fuzz of “Sunday Morning Revelation.”