Iron Monkey
Our Problem

The human tendency to compare on a single and poor level a creature that would require in-depth studies and infinite variants leads to the total lobotomization of the subject, rendering it subsequently unable to layer a future product and irreversibly bastardizing its own ears. A sound considered classy and high-profile in the mainstream mentality, no matter how perfect, does not give otherworldly sensations in the way that the sulfurous potential of rot in crescendo on a few riffs supported by a barrage of genius disguised as a drummer and from howler monkeys that contribute from the tips of the beech trees to the giant creature that outdoes any neat and perfect performance on the stage of any mainstream rock-pop-metal festival. Prof. Bernarda always told me this while she sucked me off eagerly and with infernal passion. The iron monkey equation:

Few well-made riffs + putridity + exquisite cadence + morestinkymorewelikeit = intrinsic value superior to any solo by guitarherodistocaz ("hey, what's up?" "Sorry, I don't understand" "I said what's up!"), I've never seen a film with more annoying characters, Larry Clark is a jerk), but people don’t understand. Often. Sometimes they do.

Imagining why a product generally identified in the collective mentality as of low quality by incomprehensible judgment metrics (perhaps invented by Bob Geldof for how nonsensical they are) when it actually overflows with concept, more than any other sound appearing after the 80s, gives headaches to those who understand, study the steps, and memorize the lyrics. It croaks. The voice, more than a thousand syringes in the throat, and it’s intentional, because it’s emitted by people with brains, intelligent, with a prehensile grip, capable of rolling a log as well as modulating the volume equalization, thus thoughtful. For what obscure reason is it considered low-profile?
Drums. And there are no words, because the drummer monkey owes no explanations to anyone, not even to those who don’t know it, the best drummer monkey old John Wayne has seen in the wild west at the counter of any bar, with attached Eldorado up its ass, while John hit himself up and down as if smacking his balls against the corner of the stool, as if screwing himself, from top to bottom, while he could not even breathe from so many kicks his own balls had taken.

And the God of monkeys, Andy Sneppo, with his damn English accent and long, straight, blonde hair that was so in vogue in the 80s, when they made the pussy drool for millions of heavy lovers, started showing off around, rightly tarnishing himself as a great producer. Because no one provided a better home to the sound of the monkey and metal of the years to come, along with two or three other big guys (Matt Bayles, Steve Albini, who else? Boh.) And the imagery? Like few others. The complete album cover (not the one up there) is worth more than a thousand words, because where there's Barilla, there's home.

And as a good lad who has a firm grasp of the intrinsic quality concept of a presumed low-profile product pointed out to me, the "imeneeeeeeee" shouted at the opening is worth the price. Then there’s everything else, but that’s enough.

PS: I screw all your sisters.