America Needs Cumin

It's a mild January day as I write this. South Texas is coming off of a bitterly cold winter, although not the grandma-killing, pet-freezing kind we had last year. Still, it makes me want to slash a weatherman's tires. Not that the weatherman had anything to do with it, but someone's got to pay.

Texans thrive on blistering, brain-melting weather. I think that's why we vote the way we do. With a few exceptions, Texas is a red state. We love prisons, Wal-Marts and Shiner Bock. We hate immigrants, poetry, and any beer that is consumed ironically. We also claim to hate the rich, unless they're wearing jeans. Rush Limbaugh's show does well here, as would his drug habit if he'd only give us a chance. Ted Nugent lives - and his four-legged neighbors die - here. All in all, pretty red.

The exceptions are counties like mine. If you get in your spaceship and fly over Texas during an election, you'll notice that Bexar County is a cool blue, while surrounding areas are a terrifying, rage-induced red. (You could also figure this out by looking at an electoral map.) It's kind of like a rash with one tiny, uninfected spot. It's kind of like the one grown-up ride at the kiddie park. It's kind of like the racists and homophobes left the rest of us with our ice cream trucks and lower property taxes. (I had to research that joke. Thankfully, I know an ice cream vendor.)

I guess what I'm saying is, keep getting laid, Bexar County. It scares the squares.

To be fair, not everyone who leaves is a racist. Some people just really like dirt, and want to be surrounded by miles and miles of it.

I guess what I'm also saying is that Tex-Mex food makes you smarter, and no one does Tex-Mex like San Antonio. In fact, no one else really does Tex-Mex at all. Maybe they think they do, but they're more wrong than American cheese on a crispy taco. I know that correlation is not causation, but I've noticed that in areas where you can't get good enchiladas, people tend to vote against their interests. The number two plate at Don Pedro won't turn you into Stephen Hawking overnight. But over time...

Yeah, many San Antonians fat. And sometimes our restaurants get low health ratings, and every time I roll a tear like someone littered. It's okay. At least we're not sitting around the dinner table saying, "May-un, that Rick Pay-urry's doin' a fine ol' job. Pass me that sour cream and olive boon-way-low." Or whatever they're eating in Dallas.

Got the Proof

I wrote a punk song, my first since 1997. Enjoy.

Here are the lyrics:

Bangin your head against the wall

To see if you still bleed

You walk just fine but you'd rather crawl

And tell me what I need

Don't care if you call me arrogant

Don't care if you tell me I'm through

Don't care if you call me ignorant

Long as I'm ignoring you

And you try so hard, you try so hard

You try so hard to make me someone else

So I'll play that card, I'll be that god

I'll be that god myself

Anytime you think you got the proof, I dare you

Trashin my name to everyone you know

To see if they still hear

It's sad to know you'll never grow

Beyond this innate fear

Of moving on, of growing up

Of life beyond the lie

The past is yours, the future's mine

Forgotten you shall die

And you try so hard, you try so hard

You try so hard to be someone else

So I'll play that card, I'll be that god

I'll be that god myself

In the name of all I am

In the name of all I've been

In the name of all I could be

In the name of all I will be

Anytime you think you got the proof, I dare you

Two new videos with my music.

Here's footage of the California Redwoods (and a dead rat), set to the "Consistently Drinkin'" Dim Remix.

Here's a game video/Frank Miller tribute set to "Red Void."

Grunge Turns Twenty

The grunge fad turns twenty this year. That's right. It's been two decades since that one time MTV played the Screaming Trees. It's also been two decades since a lost generation of heavy metal fans grew old before their time.

At the beginning of the nineties, things looked deceptively good for metal. Metallica had become a household name. Megadeth, Anthrax, Slayer and Pantera were getting mainstream rock airplay. Bands like Faith No More, Alice in Chains and Jane's Addiction were merging metal with other styles. Industrial metal was becoming heavier with Ministry's Psalm 69 and Nine Inch Nails' Broken. Publications like Rip and Metal Edge were in every grocery store. Even Ice-T had a metal band. For a brief moment, it was as if the kid from the “Peace Sells” video, in turning the knob on his father's TV, had turned our knobs, too.

The hated scourge of hair metal was still around, but its star was fading. MTV's Headbanger's Ball was featuring louder, faster, heavier bands. While it wouldn't quite turn Warrant and Firehouse into fringe acts (no pun intended), this technical, stamina-driven music at least proved them poseurs. This kind of metal, an addled nephew of album rock, had always been outsider music, but it now seemed poised to take over everything.

Then, as Anthrax's Scott Ian so eloquently put it, “Nirvana happened.” If you turned on MTV twenty years ago, you heard “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” If you turned on Vh1 two years ago, you might have heard the opening riff to “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” followed by some jokes.

The song's hook was almost alien. Its catchy, four-chord jangle had its origins in punk, sixties pop and even blues, but to most young rock fans, this was the new way. It was like the remote control, Facebook or Top Ramen: you didn't know you wanted it until you had it. Once you had it, though, you needed it.

Although metal fans have been conditioned to hate grunge since its peak, Nirvana's Nevermind was arguably another brief moment when things looked like they would be okay for heavy music. It sounded more punk than anything else, but a healthy love of punk was part of many a metal fan's regular routine. Even the reviled, detested hair bands had been inspired by the New York Dolls and the Sex Pistols. Maybe metal and this nu-punk could live side by side. And maybe your Hypercolor shirt still works.

We all know the aftermath. Nirvana conquered. For a little while there, they lived up to the hype of their name. The more melodic Pearl Jam were even bigger. The new poseurs followed, like an unshaven, beanie-wearing, spin-doctoring infinity loop. Lumberjack shirts were now overpriced, as if there had been an overnight flannel shortage. An unknown comedian named Ben Stiller had a Monkees parody, The Grungees, on his new sketch show. A guy from Boston who sounded an awful lot like Bill Hicks was making jokes about Nirvana songs causing aneurisms.

Metal fans still had their favorite bands, but it would not be a metal world. (The world remains mostly dirt and water, which, objectively speaking, would make it rather grungy.) Worst of all, no one wanted to call Alice in Chains a metal band anymore, even though they had opened the Clash of the Titans tour a mere two years before.

By mid-decade, metal was dead, and glam was deader. Kurt Cobain was deadest, but that didn't matter. The grunge howl became an alternative whimper, which alienated metal fans even further. Some had adapted, running to flannels like Linus to a blanket. It was fashionable. Kids will do that. Ironically, metal's brief flirtation with mainstream success made it every bit as lame as glam in the eyes of the new angry youth. To the young rock fan, Kreator was indistinguishable from Whitesnake.

As a result, legions of metal fans began to sound like old men. A “get off my lawn” mentality set in. Metalheads joke about staying true until they're eating applesauce in leather and studs, but in 1995, that day seemed dangerously close. Unless you knew where to look, metal was nowhere.

Metal would eventually achieve the mainstream success it had courted long ago, although it would suffer through several other permutations. It would be commemorated in exhaustively-researched documentaries like Get Thrashed and Metal: A Headbanger's Journey. Some say it never really died. Like horror films and pro wrestling, metal's popularity tends to wax and wane.

Grunge, by comparison, died quickly. Post-grunge mega-successes like Creed and Matchbox Twenty softened the sound to a dull whine, making Stone Temple Pilots sound like Cannibal Corpse by comparison. It was like metal's commercialization in the eighties, but in half the time. For some reason, it felt longer.

Other than the Soundgarden reunion tour (something the Rolling Stones should find hilarious) and the fact that Pearl Jam kept it together, there are few signs of a grunge resurgence. The two best bands of the movement are still around, and likely count fans of Judas Priest and Slayer among their own.

As for a return of the grunge knock-offs, only time will tell. Fifteen minutes, but time nonetheless.

Note: This article was originally written for publication last year.

Charles Bronson is Reading