Called out.

Okay, Cramer. Here it is. You want a contribution? I'll give you one. 

As we settle in to the semi-Great White North, and it snows a week before Halloween, I shift gears due to cold and the undertaking of dormancy of the foliage from summery pop and colorful images to the grey, cold, mechanical machinations of intricate, studied musics. Why? Have you tried listening to Prog on a hot day? It doesn't fucking work. You need cold, you need to be inside, wearing many layers, sipping tea or smoking illegal, secure in a artificially heated cocoon that will allow you to full digest the notes and the movements. Whilst in the heat, you can let go, and succumb to the 'groove.' Let yourself go, and just 'feel the beat.' 

Nuts to that. Fuck the groove. I want to be overwhelmed by detail. I want to swim in notes and layers, lost in multi-layered melodies that spiral and careen into poly-rhythms and breakdowns that have no direction and leave no indication of where they're headed. 

Why? What's the fucking purpose of this? Huh? Where am I heading? What the fuck am I ranting about? Is it the two VERY strong stouts I've just had? (Well, yeah, maybe.) It could be anything, but it's really about the feeling I've been lucky enough to experience (and actually noticing it due to its infrequency) four times over the last four years. That is to say, from christmases (I don't capitalize because I don't thing the so-called deity and all its so called days should be. I don't capitalize its name, either.)  2004-2007, I left the confines of the "wackjob" state  to spend the last week (or so) of one year and the first (or so) in the chilled landscape of the nicest goddamn people in the upper midwest (and that is saying a HELL of a lot.) 

And when I've come up on those holiday excursions, I've had uncontrollable urges -- not the kinds that 14 year olds get, pervert -- no... Urges to listen to progressive music. Music that takes all the details and explodes them to an nth degree. And none do that better than the one job that not only gives my chills up my spine but (live) will bring a slight tear to my eye. 

OPETH. 

I've been plotting and scheming (and so has Cramey) for ages on writing a post about this particular Swedish megalith, and -- since the aformentioned beard has called me out (in a way) and I've had (now 1 1/2) a good amount of stout, I figured, what the hell? 

Take your mind back to 1999. I, to put it mildly, was having a bad year. (I think academically when it comes to time, so more like 1998-1999 school year.) My mom had passed away in Sept of 1998, my grandfather a month or so later, and my uncle, who was (and still is, I'm sure) a sever alcoholic and raging idiot, got hit by a car, taking out the family dog and one of his legs. Awesome. Needless to say, I didn't need the additional stress of full time college, a part time job, the annoyingness of getting over the "big college EX", and a lawsuit filed by the D-Bag who sued my mom the day she got her fatal stroke, that was also a part of semester one of year 6 at anonymous state university, Michigan. But what kept me going -- aside from drinking and cigarettes -- was the music I loved. Yes, the music that took me away from it all, the music that made me feel like a 100 bucks. 

Opeth? Metal? 

Nope. Not EVEN close. 

You see, back in those days, I was mad for one thing: Oasis. Granted, I still like 'em, but back then, it was all I could see. I tried to wear the clothes, tried to act like the biggest douchebag to come out of England since... Well, England's had a LOT of douchebags over the years. And I defended Liam Gallagher til I was blue in the face. Seriously. 

But on the periphery, there was a friend of mine that quietly bided his time. He worked at the local quasi-indie record shop with all of his friends, and due to his proximity to a friend of mine, we became friends. He was into -- like a rather large number of kids who went to high school in the Mountain Town -- EXTREME metal. I spotted him in a class wearing a Hammerfall shirt and snickered to myself. "Just another townie into bad metal," I thought to myself. But truth was, he had a pretty wide berth in taste. I was able to turn him onto The Holy Bible by Manic Street Preachers, Ray of Light, and Sleater-Kinney's Dig Me Out. He (and his friend Chris Dick) did their best to steer me in the direction of long hair and long sleeve black t-shirts with silly logos, but I resisted. Until one day, Italy Jason -- as he came to be known -- did the math, and sent me home with a few artists that Chris Dick hadn't thought of. For some reason. Truth is, I'm surprised because Chris Dick was and is quite a force in metal journalism. 

What did the Jason give me that day?  Well, to freak me out, Arcturus. To lull me in, the Gathering (Nighttime Birds), and to really give me something to think about, Opeth's Morningrise. It would be that last disc that would stick in my head. Time after time, that became the template for what I was looking for in new, modern, extreme metal. Techincal ability, power, melody, the ability and courage to let it all soften a bit, it was all there. But, since it wasn't Oasis, I kept it at distance and spent my time trying to -- ahem -- 'live forever.' Get it?

Cut to a few years later, and I'm no longer that alcohol soaked idiot with terrible luck. It's 2006(ish), and I'm coming into work on a day off to drop off a pair of CD mixes for a friend who wants to hear what this Akerfeldt fellow and his Opeth band are all about. Now, this friend is someone who I instantly (who? whom?) respected.  A good musician with a damn good ear, I was hesitant about suggesting something that I felt really wasn't 'mine' to give. I sort of wished that Italy Jason had been around to make the suggestions for the mixes for me. But the pair of discs -- apparently -- went over well. So well, in fact, that ol' Johnny Cramer's interest in the Swedish wall of music only served to rekindle my love for them. And on and on it went. It was official: Opeth was now a band I could love. I had passed it on, I had embraced it, understood it, and made it a part of my musical self. No mean feat, especially how territorial we get about such things. Italy Jason was surprised, but understood. He knew all along, the fucker. 

Cut to a couple of years later, and I'm just north of Saint Paul, in a club that will soon feature the talents of Jason Mraz one night and Tesla soon after, nearly getting choked up when Opeth plays my favorite song off of Still Life, Serenity Painted Death. So excited by the announcement that I gave a mighty "YYYYYEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" after hearing Akerfeldt mutter the first syllable of the first word of the title. 

Goddamn I love that band. And to make it all even better, their slower, proggier stuff makes this fall in a town I've wanted to be in for so long makes it all feel so damned RIGHT. 

I can never thank Italy Jason enough for that. Nor Cramer. It all seems silly and maudlin, but it's there. 

So. There you go Cramer.  A post. From me. Hope you think it doesn't suck. I gotta eat now.