#February2012
Cliff Burton Would Have Turned 50 Today. Throw The Horns Up.
Today, Cliff Burton would have turned a solid half-century. Rest in Peace, sweet prince of the thrashing old school.
Let’s celebrate with his jams.
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Friday Brew Review – Anchor Porter
Having never been there, I can still say without hesitation that I’m a fan of San Francisco.
How does that work? Well, the Golden Gate City is responsible for producing some straight-up characters, individuals whose accomplishments and antics have tacked layers and layers of quality onto my otherwise free-floating existence. And probably yours, as well! If Frisco’d never been established, we’d be without a legendary metal bassist, our modern conception of the perfect family, the man with no name, and America’s most infamous serial killer.
Amongst others.
In essence, San Francisco has carved a notch into my brain-bone as a city of repute, a community that regularly produces pure wonder. So when I ran into a sixer of the city’s Anchor Porter at my local beer-dealer, I knew that I had to bring it home with me. Hell, leaving it on the shelf would’ve been tantamount to sending it across the bridge to Oakland!
DEFEAT. 037 – Stranger Aeons
[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s unabashed love song to the very things that’ve kept him alive – sci-fi, heavy metal, fantasy, war epics, and pop culture. Accompanied by original art by B. Galiano, each weekly episode continues the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero guaranteed to die upon the novella’s conclusion. All are welcome, but nerds are encouraged]
[cue soundtrack]
Cliff stood outside of the bus for an additional moment. His cohorts, having already boarded and begun drinking, urged him onto the mammoth transport. But there was an electricity in the air that made him want to linger. An elusive vapor swam about and Cliff wanted nothing more than to breathe it in forever.
But alas, he had to heed his friends’ calls. After all, it was a long ride to Copenhagen and the sooner they got into the bus the sooner they could get out of it. The partying — the booze, the drugs, the women — it was all a well-designed escape. While many fantasize about touring the world, sharing their art, they don’t consider the means of transportation. Too many people, cramped into too small a space, traveling too far.
Far from ideal and even further from comfortable.
But it was worth it. Every single second of struggle, every instance in which discomfort and uneasiness reigned supreme, the countless arguments and tiffs, all the nonsense was erased from existence on a nightly basis. Walking onto the stage. Hearing the intro tape. Feeling the crowd surge as they waited for lights to hit. And then performing — this eradicated the very molecules of personal turbulence.
It was the goddamn dream – living to express ideas, bearing one’s soul to others, knowing that your perspective is appreciated.
As Cliff climbed into the bus he was nearly knocked backward by the stench of alcohol. The refreshing late September air had been fully expelled and was now replaced with the fumes of Jägermeister and Absolut. Hell, if he weren’t such a trusting man, Cliff would’ve sworn that even the bus driver reeked of booze.
On most evenings the musician wouldn’t have so much as batted an eye, chalking up the bath of ethanol-cologne as another perk of being on tour. But now he couldn’t help but feel overpowered by surreality. It was as though he was beginning to transition into something greater, floating above his body and perceiving the scene from an entirely new angle.
An angle not of the first four dimensions.
