The Sexual Insanity that is ‘Sugar Skulls’

Two eyes, a lens, and a machine of power far beyond our universe took hold of my conscious being and melted it to the floor. Her stare pierced through each strings vibration, charming them to tingle in the tones of her soul. Vibrations were everywhere, and a taste for sin dove down my spinal cord and into my toes. These girls are sexy, sensual and divine, goddesses harvesting the fruit of my loins through electro keyed funk punk pendulum of poweress metal purities!  A symphony of strings struck from the violin player, her fingers moving as if not attached to her hand, audibly creating her hallucinations for all to hear. Her dress transparent in the stage light gave way to her stockings, dancing in synchronicity with the swaying of her arm, piecing together the woes and wants of the typical man fantasy.  Which most typical men aren’t quite typical at all. They’re filled with wild sex fantasies of multiple woman and snorting copious amounts of cocaine, at the same time! Watching the Sugar Skulls on stage made that all seem possible. A roaring stream of sexual insanity flourished by the thrilling echoes of “love me” or “fuck me” or maybe that’s just what I was hearing… ah, I ache for more. The tenderness of each face radiates the stage with awe as my head bounces to the drummer’s strikes. He pounds the rubble into a feminine ensemble and makes everyone want to say, “fuck yea”.  As each sight shares an epic beauty, your attention is not held for long as equivalent qualifications jive next door. From the violin player I move center stage and find Ursula. Stunning. I have never seen a female bass player pound the foundation of the civilization that is Sugar Skulls like I did that night. Her fingers where quick and nimble, powerful yet full of finesse. Talented and tantalizing! I gazed in with a blank stare, unexpected of wild desire. Her eyes move across the crowd as if they were a politely rolling wave gracing the middle of the Pacific Ocean with a rustic groove. They locked with mine. I was thrown into a contortion of, YYYYEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA!! I rumbled with a furry that I hoped to be equivalent with the proportions of Sugar Skulls, and I believe it was. Answered by the drummer, I strode upon the blessed alter and proceeded to seduce and conduct the stimulation of sinful desire, of sexual destiny, of what the early believers called rock and roll. And yes, I rocked the fuck out to one nasty drum solo that my mind never fully comprehended in the first place. Nicely done. And yet, the light beams still reach beyond, further onto the stage to find behind a Motif which motive is to manipulate men into her malice and madness, the key player powered by the red vinyl tie strapped around her neck, holding on for safety as she shrills spoken words of acceptable insanity. Her left heel stomps in time as she simultaneously plays harmonies with crooked fingers of fantasy. At times pure punk was flowing, and at times the funk, at times the metal, at times Bob Ross’s scientifically experimental twin painted rainbows of sound waves overhead that dripped into the crowd and melted the wicked away. The Sugar Skulls finished and began to leave… but, they forgot about one thing, their promise! The promise of silly toys! Lighted gems and a model Chevy machine hung gracefully from my chain of glitter. Thank you key player’s mom, for the Marde Gras beads! They are hung in my home around the Buddha’s neck, in peaceful remembrance of the night I was saved, the night I found salvation. The night I saw the Sugar Skulls.

Celebrating Soul in the Silliest

A lighted way we follow. Towards a hill of sorts, with people superior from most upon it. This is only a quick stop on a journey to a time far beyond my generation. Proper credentials are required for such a place, so fetch them we do upon this, hill. A light on racism is granted from a humble colored man and his classical music. We follow their changes in a tortoise paced rhythm along twisted hills and lighted paths. We search out tonight in celebration, specific and metaphoric … to find release. A gangster from the east coast had reached another passage of life, which is rather odd, but worth applause. If you may, now clap in his rejoice, I would be thankful.
We found a point to go ashore and free ourselves from being stricken by restraint. The fresh air was exceptional and our fingertips ignited with flame.  “Ahh, just a short distance now,” he said as we approached an orderly waste! 11:15pm… wretched timing to travel to a time far beyond my generation! Must we stay in this dimension for much longer?! Our throats quenched the nectar of a new mind. The perimeter walls bowed convex from the capacity of similar thoughts as smiles and laughs smeared down the tinted windows. Fun was happening. The neighboring establishment gave us temporary shelter and nectars a’ plenty as our star gate to salvation slowly relieved itself of patrons! Our excitement was now growing like a beanstalk, passing the clouds, ready to climb! Action was taken. The cost of compliance with time travel was $10 a person. I paid and was tagged like the others with ink. Inside, a dim tunnel of bricks echoed with love, we knew that we must make it through and find our destination of destiny!
The vibrations grew more thunderous with each step. My toes started to tingle, then my legs and hips. My fingers felt electric, everything was changing, you could see beyond, you could feel the soul. Endless limbs flailed in discontent from the real world and journeyed into a world far beyond our minds, a world where you can watch the conception of all the sounds floating through the mainstream. We made it! So what now? What do we do with wealth of inspiration and desire, a time immortalized on vinyl, speaking to us face to face? We do the only thing such noble steeds as ourselves may, get completely shit faced and dance our asses off!! Hit me two times!! Soul Nite at the Lo-Fi, peep that shit fools.

Who is the Grinderman?

It’s almost as you can hear each tiny scale move individually within their mesh armored exterior. Warriors of passion, with a cause far beyond music, unpompously stiff with poise, icons of the other side.  These guys are cool. I mean James Dean cool. I mean James Dean cool plus they rock the fuck out! They make Ferris Bueller look like the home schooled kid who eats his boogers and pulls his pants down all the way to use the urinal! Yet, it’s got to be more than the classy vintage skinny suits and mustaches. The sweltering crunch of guitars swelling and sweeping through outrageously surreal and intensively real lyrics adds a jackpot of points to the cool scale.
Yes the music is all there, its great music. So great, they have headlined European festivals with the likes of Radiohead, Jay-Z, and Neil Young on stage in front of thousands upon thousands of fans. Fans that have supported the Bad Seeds through 14 albums, countless Cave projects, and now this, Grinderman. Playing a sold out show at the 1,500 capacity King Kat Theater Seattle, WA 98121 during the 2010 Thanksgiving weekend, one could only be stoked to have the opportunity to see Nick and the boys in a theater setting and not the arena sized venue they’re used to playing across the pond. Grinderman released their self-titled debut in 2007, the band consisting entirely of Bad Seed members including Warren Ellis, Martyn P. Casey, Jim Sclavunos, and naturally Nick Cave. 
A King of his own conquest, Nick Cave is by far not just an elite artist, but a performer that hypnotizes the crowed with the intensity of Zeus hurling lightning bolts from the heavens! He tramples the stage like a heard of rhinoceroses from one side to the other,  while sound engineers duck and jive to clear cables, he stairs into each set of eyes he can see from his stage. He embodies you for a moment before he continues on to the next lucky soul. For Mr. Cave must be the Grinderman!  Naturally superior from the world, theories and metaphors could be conducted to his Grinderman-ness.
Yet, I find myself veering sight while Nick tromps to the other side of the crowd, to see the fires of hell erupt from the stage. It was the devil himself, playing a fiddle.  And if this devil went down to Georgia, he would fuck Johnny up! The man named Warren Ellis is a possessed and crazed lunatic of genius proportions.  With a rack of at least ten guitars from electric mandolins, fiddles, 4 and 6 string guitars, and a pedal-tropolis of effects below, Satan erupted in flames from the beginning. My mind was ultimately perplexed at the sight, needless to say, it was awesome. Even Nick, after decades of friendship and work, gave Ellis a look of “what the fuck!?” during a few tripped out guitar solos, shredding his bow into strands of what must have been the mane of a unicorn. Seeing his face is like reading the deepest, most interesting, and insightful novel. He seeps passion. Yes, it is true; I believe Warren Ellis himself is the Grinderman.
Together all the boys played a show that was by far the most charismatic performance I have ever witnessed.  Luckily, Mr. Cave has a wonderfully obsessed cult following across the United States, with a large portion residing besides me here in Seattle, so the likelihood of seeing either the Bad Seeds or Grinderman in your northwest future seems promising. Unless of course the entire 2012 thing is correct then we’re all fucked. Well, except for Warren Ellis… he is the Grinderman!

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