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Monday, 18 October 2010

The Mystery of the Stolen Lyric - A Voice From the Pillow Adventure! (Text)

It was a day just like any other, I was researching for an article on what various album covers would look like with pictures of Tacos inserted in them, and had just scrolled past an amusing photoshop of Big Black’s Songs About Fucking when I saw it. The cover to Sonic Youth’s “Goo”. I had seen this T-Shirt worn by Indie-kids before, but as I tend to ignore anyone wearing shutter-shades or drain-pipes, had never read the words.

because, seriously, fuck this guy.

But there they were, staring me right in the face, along with a crudely photoshopped image of a taco.

“We killed my parents and hit the road”.

It couldn’t be possible. I had heard these lyrics countless times before, only varied to “killed our parents”, and not spoken by Sonic Youth. Could it really be true? Did Acid Bath really steal that line from Sonic Youth? I couldn’t believe it – and yet here was the proof, staring me right in the face. I’m not that up on Sonic Youth albums, but I knew for a fact that Goo came out before When the Kite String Pops. Could my second favourite stoner sludge Doom-metal band really have stolen from these Indie motherfuckers? There was only one thing to do – I would have to delve into the worlds of both bands, and explore their innermost depths, to discover the truth.

“You Scream, I scream, Everybody Screams for Morphine”

Amazingly, the Taco-editors seem to have the exact same taste in music as I do...

If you wanted to know about the roots of an Acid Bath lyric, the obvious place to go would be to the band’s bassist and founder, Audie Pitre. Unfortunately for me, Pitre had died way back in 1997, at the surprisingly young age of 26. I say surprising, because Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain all made it to 27 before finally succumbing to the effects of the Rock N Roll life style. So, I was instead forced to track down vocalist Dax Riggs, who I found backstage after a Deadboy and the Elephantmen reunion gig.

“Yeah, I stole the lyric. So what?” he said, completely unconcerned with the seriousness of it all.

“But why?” I asked, still unable to comprehend what was happening “Acid Bath is one of the greatest stoner sludge doom metal bands to have ever existed. How could you have stolen your lyrics from a band that fucking Indie kids wear T-Shirts of?”

“Bleed me an Ocean, will ya? It’s just business. You listen to your competition so you can gauge what you’re up against, and cash in on what’s popular. You don’t wanna just release Old Skin all the time. That’s how you end up forgotten, a Dope Fiend strung out on Cheap Vodka, waiting for the arrival of the New Death Sensation, so that you may feel the embrace of the Mortician’s Flame, and rest among the Graveflowers of Venus Blue, as a New Corpse. With Thirteen Fingers. Understand?”

“Uh… sure. But why would you steal a lyric from Sonic Youth? I mean, you guys had so much going for you – do you really want to go down in history as being nothing more than that band who stole lyrics from that T-Shirt the Indie kids like?”

“It was never my choice. I used those lyrics as an Ode of the Paegan, to depict What Color is Death, so that Jezebel could understand the Finger Paintings of the Insane, and see that Dr Seuss is Dead, laying among the Bones of Baby Dolls alongside her, a Dead Girl. Diäb Soulé.”

“Ok, I’m going to be completely honest with you now, I have no idea what the fuck you just said. Is there something wrong with you?”

“The Doctors had me Tranquilized so I could not prevent their Paegan Terrorism Tactics. They’re trying to get The Blue Locust Spawning again!”

Just as I began to reach for the nearest heavy blunt object to defend myself with, in this case one of the massive Dildos from Rammstein’s special edition version of Liebe Ist Fur Alle Da, which happened to be on the table next to me, Riggs’ Deadboy bandmate Tessie Brunet walked in.

“What’s going on here?” asked Tessie, as I attempted to inconspicuously hide the 11inch pink rubber Dildo behind my back. She was kinda hot, and in different circumstances, I imagine me, her, and Ollie Riedel’s Rubber Cock could have had quite a bit of fun.

But I was here to do business, and you can’t let your dick think business. After all, how many cocks have MBAs? Point taken…

“Nothing.” I replied “I’m just asking Dax about some Acid Bath lyrics”.

“Well, you won’t get much out of him” answered Tessie, looking over at Dax in a sympathetic manner “he lost it a few years ago whilst we were on tour. Apparently someone compared us to The White Stripes, and he just couldn’t take being compared to such a pile of wank. They don’t even have a bassist for fuck’s sake! What kind of a band doesn’t have a bassist? Honestly.”

“Uh, you don’t.” I responded, clearly to the disdain of Brunet’s sensibilities.

“WE’VE HAD FOUR FUCKING BASS PLAYERS!” she screamed at me, the anger glowing like a napalm fire in her eyes. “It’s not my fault they keep quitting on us!”

“Ok, ok. My mistake” I said, attempting to cool off the situation so I wouldn’t have to deploy the Dildo that was now hidden up my shirt sleeve “I didn’t mean to insult you, I just wanted to know about this lyric is all.”

“Ok, I guess I may have over-reacted a little” replied Tessie, clearly understating her psychotic reaction to a factual statement “which lyric did you want to know more about?”

“It’s a line from Scream of the Butterfly” I stated, not sure of how much she could help, not being a member of Acid Bath “where Dax sings about how he and his Angel killed their parents, then hit the road.”

“Ah yes, I recall that one” acknowledged Tessie “What do you want to know about it?”

“Well” I said “I just discovered that it’s a line that’s used in a Sonic Youth song which came out before Hymns of the Needle Freak, and I just wanted to know if Acid Bath stole it from them, and if so why? I mean, Acid Bath are way better than some shitty Indie band.”

“HOW DARE YOU INSULT INDIE MUSIC!” Tessie roared, picking up a TV and hurling it at me. I dodged it, and deployed the weapon up my sleeve, which hit her square in the eye. Do chicks like that kind of thing???

“Aaaaargh!” she screamed out in pain as I ran away, kicking myself for forgetting that any band a reviewer compares to The White Stripes is obviously going to be Indie, and not appreciate attacks on the genre. It looked like I was going to have to find another way to get the information I desired. But how?

“Cinderella’s Big Score”

I found Sonic Youth’s hideout in the town of South Jonic, in Maryland. It had taken me 3 days, and 4 fights with Hobos, but I had finally discovered their base of operations. I walked in slowly.

“Hello?” I called, subconsciously putting my hand on the grip of the .45 tucked into the back of my jeans as I did so “anyone here?”

“Who the fuck are you?” came a female voice, and I looked up to see Kim Gordon standing at the top of a flight of stairs. At least, I’m pretty sure it was her. Sonic Youth only have one chick in their band, right?

“I’m a journalist” I lied, figuring it sounded slightly more respectable than saying I was a Blogger, and slightly less creepy than saying I’m an expert in the field of psychopathy and sexual offences, which I kind of am, but not in that way.

“A journalist, huh?” she smiled, walking down the stairs and coming to a rest in front of me. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Well, Ms Gordon” I responded, trying to sound professional “I was interested in knowing the roots of the lyrics you featured on the cover of the Album Goo”.

“Of course” she replied, looking disappointed “that’s all anyone wants to know about. Well, follow me.”

She walked off into the back of the darkened house, into what I presumed was the kitchen. I followed, nervously, wondering what I might discover.

We emerged in a dank utility area, filled with various white goods. As in appliances, not goods that only white people can buy. She took a seat on top of the washing machine, and I was just wondering whether she was going to turn it on and use the vibrations as a masturbation aid when she spoke.

“I suppose you want to know which one of us came up with the line then?” she asked.

“If that’s not too much of a problem?” I responded. She held my gaze, calculating her next move.

“Do you like my Dirty Boots?” She asked, flashing me a glimpse of the black leather fetish boots she was wearing.

“they’re very nice” I lied.

“You can have them, you know?” she said, in a bizarre attempt to apparently buy me off.

“No thanks” I answered “I don’t think they’ll fit me. Now, about the line…”

She sighed, and looked up into my eyes. I was worried she might be trying to read my mind, so averted my gaze slightly to look at the ‘Titanium Expose’ refrigerator magazine sitting nearby.

“We got the idea from Oliver Stone” she said, softly. I rounded on her.

“What?” I said, unable to believe what I was hearing.

“You heard me” she replied “Oliver Stone, the guy who directed Wall Street. He gave us the idea for the story.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible” I stated firmly, becoming agitated. She must be lying. She MUST be.

“Honestly, it’s the truth” she said, getting down from the washing machine, and standing before me once again. “It all happened in the summer of ’89. Stone was in the neighbourhood, celebrating the wrapping of Born on the Fourth of July. We were all getting drunk, and partying, when I realised my kittens, Scooter and Jinx were missing”

“I see…” I said, not really seeing, but showing off the active listening skills I had acquired whilst studying Interviewing and Testimony for my Criminal Psychology Course.

“We looked everywhere for the two of them. After all, it’s not as if they could have just disappeared into thin air like some sort of Disappearer, is it?”

“Quite” I said. Man, I was good at this active listening shit – I was gonna nail that Interviewing and Testimony unit! “Please, continue.”

“Well” she said, getting back to the story “We decided the only place they could have gone was Old Dr Benway’s House, so we crept in, and began to sneak up to the bedroom…”

“We?” I questioned. Honestly, this was so easy to do I couldn’t understand why the police force and Home Office take so long teaching their recruits how to do it.

“Yes, Mildred Pierce and myself” she replied.

“Interesting” I said, not really that interested as I had no idea who the fuck Mildred Pierce was “keep going.”

“Well” she said “We got into the bedroom, and started to look for the kitties, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a man in a Tunic…”

“Uh-huh” I said, thoroughly bored now and contemplating whether or not it would be easier just to shoot her and go interrogate Oliver Stone instead, given she’d named him as an accomplice. After all, at least I know Oliver Stone can tell a good story – fucking Platoon is the shit!

“I screamed ‘Mary-Christ’ and turned to run out of there, when we saw that the man was Tom Cruise!”

“Come again?” I asked, genuinely surprised this time.

“You know, Tom Cruise, the actor!” she said, as though I was a complete and utter moron. “He’s the inventor of the Christian Scientist movement!”

“I’m fairly sure he’s not” I said flippantly “but feel free to continue.”

“Well, he stood up like one of those Tuff Boyz, and started to walk towards me, when Oliver Stone walked in, drunk as a skunk, and started screaming about how he was going to make Tom Cruise and I the star of his next picture, which was going to be about-”

“CHARLES STARKWEATHER AND CARIL FUGATE!” I screamed, finally getting it!

“No, Mickey and Mallory Knox” she said “apparently, he was going to use his telepathic abilities to implant the idea into Quentin Tarantino’s brain, and then buy the script off him once it was written. I have no idea why.”

“Yes!” I said, excited as a paedophile watching a young boy through binoculars on Christmas morning “and Natural Born Killers was based on the case of Charles Starkweather and Caril Fugate! I may just have solved this thing!”

“Well, I hope that’s all you need” said Kim, “Because that’s all I know… Right Now”.

“I think that is all I need!” I said, turning to walk out of the door “thanks for the help!”

“Don’t mention it” she said, getting back up on the washing machine and turning it on. “Sure you can’t stay a little longer?”

“Sorry” I responded “But I have a case to solve!”

And with that, I ran out of the building, the orgasmic screams of Kim Gordon following me all the way down the road to the nearest Taxi rank, where I beat another hobo into unconsciousness just to show the cab drivers I wasn’t to be fucked with. This was going to be a good day.

"Lights out tonight, trouble in the heartland"

It was snowing when I got to Lansing, Michigan, Fugate’s current home city. Starkweather had been executed for his crimes in 1959, so she was my last hope. I walked up medical centre Wikipedia informed me she now worked in, and walked up to the reception desk.

“Ms Fugate, please” I stated. The receptionist gave me an odd look.

“You’re not one of them weirdos who is interested in them murders she was accused of way back, are you?” she enquired.

“Of course not” I responded curtly “I was always more of a Bundy man myself”.

“Hmmm…” she seemed to be deliberating whether or not I was to be trusted “ok, then – you have the face of an honest man.”

“I know” I said “it wasn’t easy slicing it off him, though!” I laughed. She gave me a cold, hard stare.

“Caril’s in the staff room” she said. “The code’s 8653. Do you want me to write that down?”

“I think I’ve played enough Splinter Cell to remember a 4 digit door code” I responded, and walked off down the corridor.

I got into the staff room after my 51st attempt at the code. Which I thought was very impressive, given a 4 digit lock has 10,000 different combinations, or something. I walked in, and saw her sitting at the nearest table. I gotta say, she was pretty fucking hot for a 77 year old woman.

“Caril?” I asked as I approached her.

“Yes?” She said, looking up.

“I’m a Journalist, I’m investigating some lyrics I believe were based around you and Charles Starkweather. Would it be ok for me to have a moment of your time?” I asked.

“Can’t you just Google it?” She said.

“… I suppose” I responded, shocked I was unable to think of this earlier. “Do you have WiFi here?”

“Sure” she replied. And with that, I took out my laptop, and logged into Google. I searched for ‘Goo album cover lyrics’ on Google. I was linked to the Wikipedia page, which told me the truth.

“So…” I said “The picture is of the witnesses in the Moors Murders case”

“and my guess would be that the quote is somehow related to that case” she said.

“yes, that would be my guess too.” I said “back to England it is!”

And with that, I dived out the window, and ran to the nearest airport. There was a little trouble at customs, because apparently seeing an out-of-breath guy running through the terminal screaming about the Moors Murders isn’t normal in America, fucking shit country that it is.


I ran into Broadmoor penitentiary a mere 4 hours after my flight landed at Gatwick international (how’s that for timing?) and went straight up to the nearest guard.

“I need to speak to Ian Brady” I panted “Please, it’s urgent!”

“Uh, Brady’s in Ashworth Hospital” the guard replied “you know, in Merseyside”.

“I thought Merseyside was in Yorkshire?” I asked, surely there couldn’t be more than one high security prison/hospital in the same county.

“No, you’re thinking of Teesside” said the guard. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way we can get you to see Brady. We have the Crossbow Cannibal, if you’re interested?”

“What, that tosser who picked his own nickname?” I asked rhetorically “can I tell him that real men let the media name them, and don’t try and come up with their own nickname they want people to remember them by?”

“Uh, sure, I guess” replied the guard, and he took me over to a cell marked ‘Stephen Griffiths’.

“What’s he doing in Broadmoor by the way?” I asked the guard quietly as we approached the cell “Surely he shouldn’t be in here unless he’s been convicted?”

“True” replied the guard “But he’s a mecha-fag. Wakefield doesn’t have time for mecha-fags, so they sent him here.”

“I see. So a Mecha fag is a Muslim homosexual or something, right?”

“That would be Mecca-Fag” said the guard “and no, he’s just a douche. Here you are.”

The guard dropped me off by the cell.

“Who are you?” Came the voice from inside.

“Stephen Griffiths?” I asked.

“That’s right” he said, coming over to the door “who are you?”

“I’m a journalist” I lied for the third time “and I just wanted to say what an honour it is to meet Pepsi Sutcliffe”.

“What?” he said in surprise “What did you call me?”

“Pepsi Sutcliffe. You know, because Peter Sutcliffe is the Coca Cola of Yorkshire based serial killings, and you’re just a poor imitation of him.”

“You son of a-”

Griffiths ran at the bars, and went headfirst into them, cracking his skull open on one of the bars, and fell slumped to the floor. The Guard turned up again.

“I think you should leave” he said.

“But I didn’t even get to rant at him about what a gay name ‘The Crossbow cannibal’ is yet!” I said, disappointed.

“Tell you what” said the guard “If he wakes up, how about I tell him for you?”

And with that, I left Broadmoor with a smile on my face. I may not have discovered the true origins of the lyrics written on the cover of Goo, but I managed to screw with someone who has mental difficulties. And in the end, is that not what made this country great to begin with?

"Most Likely You'll go you way, and I'll go Mine"

In a twist of fate, it seems Ian Brady heard about my plight, and sent me a confession admitting the origins of the lyrics a few days later. Apparently, he and Myra Hindley had written the lyrics together on a napkin during their trial, and the napkin had then been sold at auction to the highest bidder, a collector named “Stephen King”. When researching his project “Mickey and Mallory Knox, the totally bitching killers who are totally not the characters from Badlands”, Oliver Stone had contacted Stephen King about the Starkweather case, knowing King had followed it intensely throughout his childhood, and at a meeting between the two of them had stolen the napkin believing it to be magic. He had later passed the lyrics on to Kim Gordon in the attic with Tom Cruise, although the whereabouts of the napkin itself is unknown. In an Ironic twist, it turns out Ian Brady hates Hipsters, and swears on his release that he will murder everyone on the planet who owns a copy of Juno. If you want to join the campaign for Brady’s release, there is a link at the bottom of the page. I’m glad I could solve the case of the missing lyric, and prove once and for all that Acid Bath stole that line from a hardcore source, and not some hipster piece of shit. I think a child murderer qualifies as being Hardcore, don’t you?

The King of Hardcore agrees.


Stephen Griffiths goes on trial on November 16th. Please do not reprint this article until after the trial comes to an end or he may claim it infringes on his Article 6 rights under the European Convention of Human Rights, but if he does, he’s a total Mecha-fag.


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