OM @ the Independent, San Francisco, 1-18-08

OM
Al Cisneros: bass / vocals
Chris Hakius: drums

I saw OM two years prior at the Echo in Los Angeles as they opened for Comets on Fire, another Bay Area heavy psychedelic band, and admittedly, had a hard time enjoying myself. OM can be somewhat polarizing in regards to likeability, but perhaps I just wasn't ready for them, so I have given them another chance.

I got word this stoner-doom experimental outfit would be gracing the Independent in their hometown of San Francisco, as they tour in support of their third release, “Pilgrimage”, on Southern Lord Records, so I grabbed an innocently sweet girl and dragged her to the show with me. I believe she gave up on them in 10 minutes, but my experience turned out to be quite insightful.

OM is a mirror that reveals all the excess material and easily accumulated baggage one has garnered over a lifetime of listening to music, an image too ugly to accept. At first, the stripped down wall of sound that slowly fills you with waves-crashing-upon-the-shore bass lines, chant-like monotone vocals, and tribally cardiac percussion, is an assault to one’s normal musical perceptions. Your mind screams, "What the hell is this crap?" yet ironically the subconscious body begins to move with the rhythms channeled through the duo upon the stage.

The word itself, Om, is most often associated with meditation. According to various Mantras, the vibrational frequency of Om is the sound or hum of the universe. When chanted, it can dissolve the mind of the layered caking that comes with everyday trivialities and bring an inner peace.

Though I do believe meditation would help in a modern world of crumbling attention spans and shiny objects, I am not hear to preach from my soapbox. While experiencing this local San Francisco band, which consists of the former rhythm section of the disbanded stoner-doom metal outfit, Sleep, my faculties slowly give in and internal struggles of acceptance begin to choose sides.

Upon listening, this antithesis of radio length pop songs seems more like an exercise in musical tolerance than an evening of cotton candy and elevated heart rates. Everything you've been told to love in sing along lyrics, scream inducing frontmen, and infectious melodies has been discarded.

However, without any thought or conscious acknowledgement on my part, the cup is slowly filled to overflowing and all previous conceptions of music, thoughts and worries spill over the brim and evaporate. There is no categorization, genre holing, labeling within the brains musical library. There are no thoughts of trying to learn their songs on guitar to impress a lady friend. Worries of work, relationships and the world have faded away. All thats left...is OM.

The last bass note falls and the lights come on replacing the streaming shades of purple, green, orange and red. As I look upon the faces of those shuffling their feet towards the exit, a sad realization sets in that a large handful of people there did not have the same calming, eviscerating experience I just had. The girl at my side is one of them.

I am always surprised at OM's popularity. Their brand of heavy psychedelia is definitely not for all, but when the connection is made, its a much needed breath of fresh perspective on a world thought process so disturbingly intertwined with American media and entertainment outlets.

Check out the band’s other albums "Variations on a Theme" (2005) and "Conference of the Birds" (2006) at Holy Mountain Records, and give them a spin in a quiet environment with the psychedelic of your choice. And if OM happens to be journeying through your hometown, drag yourself and your stony cohorts out to have all former notions of what music should be, pummeled away, only to leave with a transcendentally calm grin chiseled upon your face.

- Lucifer Sam

Myspace - http://www.myspace.com/variationsontheme
Homepage - http://www.omvibratory.com
Holy Mountain records - http://www.holymountain.com
Southern Lord records - http://www.southernlord.com

January 26th - An Awesome Day for Aussies

Today, January 26, 2008 is Australian Day.

It’s a national holiday to celebrate the enduring spirit of fairness and mateship with a beer, a firework, a kangaroo, a dingo, and of course, your fellow mates.

History:
January 26, 1788: Captain Arthur Phillip, commander of the first fleet of eleven convict ships from Great Britain arrives at Sydney cove and raises the Union Jack to symbolize British occupation of the east half of the continent. On this day, Australia was founded.

I will of course celebrate by bottling my 3rd batch of Jalapeño ale and perhaps an evening pub crawl. But for now, he’s a story of two of our mates and their encounters with the current ancestors of convicts.

Steve and Jerry, two college buddies of my former roommate Greg, came to our New Years party last year (2007). We drank alot of beer, watched Beerfest, drank beer, and watched Beerfest again.

Jerry is the laid back dude who could pull off the part of Jake Gyllenhall in Brokeback Mountain...if you dawned him in a cowboy hat, a plaid t-shirt and assless chaps...without being gay. It has been woefully observed and noted that cougars love to stick their tongues down his throat. When Jerry is choking on a food / toy item, he doesn't ask for the heimlich, he just calls upon his harem of recently divorced and still shakin' vixens to use their tonsil cleansers to clear his windpipe.

Sidenote: The Australian Heath Ledger, has now tried to immortalize himself among the pantheon of those who offed themselves during the height of their career. He was two years too late to join the infamous 27 Club. But no matter, lots of 20 something girls, and the entire Castro District are now in mourning...and will probably make his attempts at immortality, successful.

Steve, is pretty much German...but of American origins. He had been living and going to grad school there when Jerry recently decided to join him in the lands of the Rhine. A bit taller than Jerry, who towers at 5'11, the last I saw of him he was wearing euro tight jeans and metro-ed eyebrows. A dark goatee hides his lines of laughter, while every now and then an aryan female hides his bratwurst.

Now that Steve and Jerry have been introduced, here's their story to celebrate Australian Day. They live together in Germany.

Have you seen the movie “Beerfest”? ...From the same guys who brought you “Supertroopers”? Well, to ring in this past Oktoberfest, Steve and Jerry wore the jumpsuits/uniforms of the drunken bunch of scragglers who represent Team America in the world Beerfest. To prove their dedication they even got them tailored and embroidered. A con man once said, "the proof is in the details."...and these two Americans nailed it.

Heading to a tent packed with foreigners, they gather steins in their hands, look eachother in the eye and yell "Proost!" The golden lager begins its journey into their blood stream, slowly killing those bastardly brain cells that keep one from bedding a land beast, becoming blood brothers, and most importantly, keeping the white man off the dance floor.

Its customary with much of the world to look your fellow drinkers in the eye when cheers-ing to enhance camaraderie and brotherhood...as well as stave off the 7 years of bad sex that happens when you don't. Americans are infamous at looking at the drink they're about to down instead of the eyes of their mates. We're horrible in bed. But then again, with us it has always been about quantity over quality.

Rain pours endlessly filling liquid coffers and building treacherously behind the dam; the time comes for the floodgates to be opened. Steve heads off in search of the urinals.

Cauldron-bellied Germans, Swagger-addled Italians, Mate-tossing Australians, many adorned in velvety green lederhosen, flower-stitched suspenders, and a matching feathered cap are strewn upon his path. Wait...mate-tossing Australians? Curiousity...

On the way to the bathroom, Steve sees a bunch of Aussies screaming and yelling. In the middle of them is a man repeatedly bouncing up and down in the air, as if he's the greens of a salad being tossed. Getting a closer look, he realizes they're not throwing him in the air by just any means, but by the man's underwear. They gather round, grab hold of the waistband, and then continuously jerk him up and down until the thing breaks.

Steve, standing out like a fellow in a Team America Beerfest Uniform, did not want to be a part of this and tries to continue on to the bathroom, but an aussie catches him.
"Hey mate! You wearing any underwear?" inquires the Aussie, who tries to reach out a hand to grab pants.
"NO!”, replies Steve who weaves free and runs to the pisser. No wedgies for this mate.

Upon coming out, he finds Jerry looking very forlorn and sullen...in much the same way McCauley Culkin walks from Michael Jackson's room after a night at the Neverland Ranch.
"Jerry, are you alright?" Turns out Jerry needed to piss too and had tried to follow Steve to the bathroom. "Oh no...did they get you?”

Without saying anything, Jerry holds up this tattered bit of cloth between his two fingers...all thats left of his boxers...a symbol of destroyed manhood.
"Well its only 6 pm, lets grab some more beers," says Steve. Beers always make a man feel better.
"No, I think I'm just gonna head home."
"Are you serious?? Holy shit! Did they hurt you?"
"Nah. Nah man...just my pride. Just my pride."

Jerry heads home.

Thats some serious shit if those bloomin' Aussies can make a man who drinks until his eyes turn yellow, head home when there’s still plenty of drinking to be had at one of the greatest beer swilling festivals in the world.

Steve stays. But, he knows that the Aussies will be on the lookout for him after sacking his team mate. Not taking any chances, he heads back to the bathroom, removes his underwear, and stuffs it in his pocket. These Beerfest uniforms tend to stand out.

The man makes his way through the crowd to grab another brew...when that same Aussie catches him. Probably the same one who ended Jerry's chances of making the whites of his eyes resemble the same color as his lager.

Without warning, the Aussie immediately sticks his hand past the waistband of the Team America Beerfest pants bottom. After a moment of rooting around, realization sinks in that he's now handling American grown junk. Knowing he'd just been had, the Aussie withdraws his hand and with a grin on his face, points a finger at Steve.
"Ahhhhh...good one mate."

The aftermath:
Jerry has now made a full recovery, but constantly freeballs in the presence of those from down-under. He has now started a counseling group called, "The Aussies tattered my underwear and manhood...as well as my pride" to help those who have been afflicted, and have yet to recover. His main tool of therapy is beer.

Steve, also free balls on occasion, but without the physical and emotional scarring of being wedgied until your knickers break, still wears underwear out on dates.

They both still live in Germany, and have now returned to imbibing massive quantities of Alemania's most successful export...lager.

Happy Australian Day! Cheers Mate!