Begin by assuming that everyone you’ve ever hated will see your photo. So in my case, I just assume everyone will see my photo.

“But I have no enemies, I’m loved!”

You’re cute. Let me assure you that a) you do and your unbridled ignorance has led you to this point, much like Frauline Maria danced her way into a Nazi deathtrap, or b) you don’t but will immediately subsequent to the publication of your author photo; you’re a star, and people hate stars.

So now that we’ve established that you’re hated, let’s get to work.

“So where do I pose? In my room, so you can see all my Quentin Tarantino posters?”

You fool on a hill, no wonder you’re despised, I don’t even think Quentin Taratino would have the conceit to pose in front of his own posters, but you, you really take the biscuit. Aside from the obvious demonstration of your toolishness, this mise-en-scene would be at best grotesque and at worst amplify the public’s existing death wish for you. So no.

Your second instinct, if I may be so bold, I imagine will be to place yourself immediately before or adjacent to a mighty bookcase. Yet once again I must intervene. Whilst this is unlikely to compell the public to fill their eye sockets with Selley’s Space Invader in the hope they will blind themselves permanently and rupture any surrounding optic nerves and their short-term memory facility, it’s still lazy. We get it, you’re literate, this isn’t Sumeria, we can all do it now, welcome to AD.

The trick is to find something new, something that announces your arrival with bold, Matt Preston-like flair. Elizabeth Wurtzel (author of Prozac Nation*) achieved this by looking as suicidally depressed as possible at all times. Which, of course, was her thing; in her words, “I hate myself and want to die.” I say it’s good to have goals. Of course, Wurtzel might have gone further, and I wish she had. Instead of merely appearing unwashed and constantly smelling faeces (which I don’t malign, whatever shifts units), Wurtzel could have actually photographed herself mid-suicide — strapped to the tracks of an uncoming train screaming for her life, plummeting three hundred stories into pavement inches before her face becomes jam — whatever. My point is to think laterally!

“I think I get it. But I’m strangely ugly, the kind of person that makes people puke. Any advice?”

First off, you needn’t describe yourself ugly, it’s unnecessarily mean. I prefer “memorable”. Secondly, no matter how ugly you may be, you could not possibly be the ugliest person of all time. That title has already been snatched by the highly memorable Chuck Klosterman (author of Killing Yourself to Live, shown above), who is so visually disturbing, he appears to have been manufactured from pieces of other ugly people, much like a human coppa**. Even so, this godforsaken creature has a following that could only be described as cult. So you see, ugliness alone is no barrier to a bloated career and a sycophantic readership, that success can be yours too! Note: Klosterman works around his physical shortcomings by contributing bold accessories to his face, a crumb-like beard, heavy glasses, all of which effectively distract the eye into submission. Game, Klosterman!

“Okay, okay. But what about the photography itself? Should I hire a shmo?”

Maybe yes, maybe no. My concern with photographic practitioners is that the actual skills are so often alleged. Consider, any psychopath can pick up a camera and call themselves a photographer. Photography is like rape, it’s a choice. The only safe method of selecting a photographer (who expects any number of beans in exchange) is off a personal tip. Make it so.

* A book that I actually think was worse than the straight-to-DVD film that it inspired, but then again I’m pro Twins. PS Sue me.

** Coppa is an Italian salami that is made from cubes of pig that float in a clear gelatin that is rendered solid and sliced. On second thoughts, this was a pretty weak analogy, but I think the notion of composite meats is basically apt.

This column was published in The Reader 2009 (the inaugural anthology of the Emerging Writers’ Festival.)

Landslide of US critics described watching film like witnessing 120 minute abortion (my words); desciption is unfair, however, as cameos are like ever-flowing stream and eclipse core narrative and major characters, which have no inherent replay value whatsoever (note: executive producers actually wanted to exorcise terminal illness plot from film entirely; producers were allegedly demolished by internet-based fan opinion, who demanded cancer was retained; either this story was invented by the internet, which is sad, or this story is true, which is terrifying).

Stellar moments as direct result of cameos include Seth Rogen, who is facially deformed in order to play incidental Star Trek tour guide in Iowa, and Ethan Suplee, fat guy from My Name Is Earl, who plays person from actual world Harry Knowles of internet publication Ain’t It Cool News. Other cameos appear pointless and weird, such as Kevin Smith who in world of film publicly auctions Jason Mewes’ butt for purposes of gay intercouse at local petrol station, suggests parts of film were devised by actual pot fiend determined to reengineer film as cancer nerd’s toolfaced adventure to Vegas (which, bizarrely, also actually happens).

This review was published in Beat #1169 3 June 2009.

Product introduces moisture via water spray conduit. A pro! Oil-like conduit invariably reacts to even finest rain cloud mist for self. How do I know this? Interesting you ask. Interesting inasmuch as I’m not actually here reading this to you, nor do we have a telepathic connection, and even if we did, you would still require the power of time travel to ask me, plus we’re not actually friends, so it would be like, I don’t dislike you, but this feels like you’re calling me after ten, except directly into my brain, and this is seriously why I don’t have Facebook—because it’s bullshit.

Redken, “Blown Away 09” Protective Blow Dry Gel

Feared using product, due to ongoing contempt of oil-like products. Why is this? Long story short, some woman in a bar told me she had burnt her fringe off in a house fire, and I was like, “Just the fringe, seriously?” and she was like, “Just the fringe, seriously.” Then she gave me this oil-like product, which actually isn’t that unusual, since strangers are always gifting me with the weirdest shit, for example this woman on a tram gave me some pen she claimed was directly from Jesus, but basically the product redefined “hideous shit”. Actual product in question: no such effect, stellar shine!

O&M, “The Power Lift” Protein Treatment

Stellar product, burdened with a name that evokes all the awesome power of elevators. Possibly better to name product after teaspoon or car keys, at least keys aren’t slow and full of fat people. Incidentally, if this translates in your brain to me hating all fat people, then you’re deliberately being a bitch—I’m just saying I don’t want to be crushed to death. I didn’t like the film Yes Man, but this doesn’t mean I want to feed Jim Carrey to pigs, then eat the pigs so I can shit him out and send the shit to the film’s producers with the message “No stars.”

Kiehl’s Stylist Series, “Weightless” Curl-Defining Spray

Product is a gel spray engineered to hold curls, containing fluid extracted from sesame seeds and soy beans. Beans for hair is certainly a new concept to my ears! And one to which I am pro. I underrated beans for my entire life until about a week ago, at which point I just thought, I’m going to eat a bunch of beans, sue me, and although I was assured of colossal gas abortions after the fact, there were none whatsoever! How did beans get so maligned? When did beans become Jews? I am pro-bean and pro-Jew. Beans should run Hollywood. Product smells vaguely like a cologne.

Burt’s Bees, Hair Repair “Shea & Grapefruit” Deep Conditioner

Adore this family of products, owing to stellar My Little Pony-grade softness after the fact. This product—an addition on par with its shampoo friends. Still, I wonder: to what extent are My Little Ponies, Lego towns and other miniature representations of struggling life designed to be owned and crushed by the fists of children constructs of oppression—master over slave, human over pony? In the hands of the child, the pony can be beaten, decapitated, melted down to its hooves and made to dance at gunpoint, a task it will inevitably fail to perform and affirm everything the child suspects—time heals nothing, death conquers all.

Evo, “Mane Prescription” Protein Treatment

Sorbet-like crème, product is engineered to restructure broken hair shaft. I experience vague life disappointment when using products of this nature, as it is actual acknowledgement of my failure heretofore—also what is occurring here in actual terms? While I am pro sorbet conceptually, this would appear to fall down actually, like curing cancer with jelly bean, or if my hair were a raging heroine addict, and I tried to hug it out, or my hair was engineering a suicide attack, and I said, Have a cookie, no seriously they’re Halal. Happily, hair responds in this instance with stellar shine of new bowling ball and all is forgiven.

Aromas, Colour Fix Ends Therapy

Product for hair of artificial colourisation, is also vehicle for “botanical” odours, including lavender, patchouli and geranium. Is somewhat antiseptic bouquet by my nose? Yes, more robust flavours of actual garden are maybe preferable. Although not my own garden! This would translate to worm, cement, dead cat, petrol, family of dead cat, sharps—I’m kidding about the sharps obviously, but the cat thing is so true it’s depressing, although the problem is not literally the cats themselves but the attitude and the pimp-like arrogance, seriously it’s like living with Klansmen. Product boosts shimmer in actual terms, pleasing.

REF, 141 Stay Smooth

Product is “silk cream” for application to dampened hair, functions as softening agent. Product fragrance is somehow delicious, yet in a sense that is somehow intangible to me, a cat floating through the memory shafts of my mind, a realm which is ultimately incapable of navigation by the either myself or the fictional airborne cat now working the controls, since the amount of lies I have engineered to make myself sound less or more drunk at any given time are now merely an amalgam of bullshit, ultimately regarded as a footnote to nothing.

These reviews were published in Frankie #30 Aug/Sept 2009.

This is NOT my idea of a joke. Nemesis is my idea of a joke, along with every Star Trek film since 1991, which have been needlessly baked in shit.

“I don’t think people even understand what Star Trek means anymore.” — JJ Abrams

Star Trek—the concept—refers to a) dissecting the cow’s heart of morality in the face of certain mass execution, b) masterminding a suite of spontaneous, unprecedented kill moves in space, and c) successfully uniting the entire human species under William Shatner. This is NOT NEWS. Nor is this rat microsurgery. This is the bedrock of the eternal story of man. Yet not even a rogue nugget of these BASIC concepts can be found in any installment of Star Trek since Gene Roddenberry—the series’ chief architect and eyeball of authority—expired in 1991. Do you even recall what happened in Nemesis? I fucking hope not. All I can recall is Data committing suicide by jumping into a cloud. The fact I recall even that makes me want to cut my heart out and feed it to Hitler, before telling him with my dying breath, “Whatever you do, man, don’t watch Nemesis.”

“He’s beyond a genius. He really is his generation’s Spielberg.” — Lloyd Braun (ABC Chairman who commissioned Lost) on JJ Abrams

I literally threw up when I heard JJ Abrams was employed to helm the forthcoming Star Trek shit festival, since the only thing I could recollect of JJ’s previous $200 million abortion—Mission Impossible III—was Philip Seymour Hoffman exploding, then turning into a pair of shoes. What an artist! Yet I had failed to observe what was both obvious and key—Star Trek had contracted full-blown bowel cancer some fifteen years ago, and officially expired sometime around 2001. LITERALLY NOTHING WAS AT STAKE. In fact, all JJ Abrams had to do was NOT direct the biggest piece of shit of all time, and Star Trek would, by definition, be restored—the inherent obstacle, of course, being JJ Abrams NOT directing the biggest piece of shit of all time.

“How can I make this not suck?” — JJ Abrams

JJ Abrams seemed determined to emotionally wedgie the Star Trek fan continuum in the years preceding Star Trek XI’s release, by repeatedly pronouncing that a) he is not a Star Trek fan, and b) he is not making a film for Star Trek fans—therefore he hates Star Trek and its fans. Great! Presumably Abrams will engineer a giant fart to fill the theatre during the film, so we can all die and make him happy. Obviously, Abrams’ pronouncements effectively guillotined any expectations I had for this film to not suck. I thus entered Paramount’s pre-release screening grateful to see this film before I died, but only in order to be able to definitively say it sucked, then die.

“I actually paid JJ a small fee to be in this film.” — Simon Pegg, to a German press conference

The subsequent 120 minutes redefined the universe as I understood it, wherein JJ Abrams is President Douchebag and I’m sitting in the sixth floor of the book depository. It seems JJ was either lying about refusing to make a film for fans, or he accidentally made the biggest Star Trek fan film of all time. Either scenario would make him a genius. Of course, as an action film, Star Trek XI is stunningly bad; I still don’t know what Eric Bana (the film’s antagonist) was planning to do, how he was going to do it, or what motivated him to do the thing that I don’t actually know of in the first place. But as an installment in Star Trek, Star Trek XI is an outstanding achievement in the field of excellence.

“Getting into Star Trek is like buying a house.” — Tim Finney, to me

Star Trek XI’s perfection can be wholly illustrated by Chris Pine’s portrayal of Kirk. Critics claim the newly installed Star Trek actors are just “characters playing characters”; this is a fallacy. Pine does not mimic Shatner, nor does he betray Shatner’s essence—he IS Shatner, without literally BEING him (a reality which cannot be understood without actually SEEING him). Pine portrays a character which must be fundamentally ridiculous, but believes in that ridiculousness with a raging intensity. Because Captain Kirk is more than a man; he is a symbol. He is Star Trek. And thus Star Trek XI is Star Trek (in concept), thereby restoring Star Trek, thereby making Star Trek XI the greatest film of all time, even though it’s not the greatest film of all time. In fact, in the context of all time, Star Trek XI may not even be remembered as NOT being a piece of shit—but it’s not the BIGGEST piece of shit. It’s not Nemesis—and that’s enough.

This cover story was published in Beat #1164 29 April 2009.

Sam, something you said at Flight 666’s opening is chiseled into my consciousness: “We’re at a point now where legendary metal bands deserve to have films like this made about them.” I found your use of the word “deserve” compelling. To me, that suggests metal is still spat on culturally.

Well, I think it is! But I think we’re getting to a point in modern music history where people are maybe slowly starting to acknowledge that metal is not mainstream, but it’s certainly not going away—like a lot of people hoped it would. And I think that these bands, like Iron Maiden, have had a massive influence on our culture. And they have their own story.

That said, to be metal is to exist on the knife’s edge of society. We feed off being underappreciated as zombies feed off corpses.

Yeah! And I think part of the excitement of being a metal head is feeling like you’re part of a community. I don’t know if you feel the same strong sense of community in other genres of music—probably in hip hop. But I think it’s pretty powerful when you get in a football stadium in Chile with 60,000 Iron Maiden fans, all singing along to “Fear of the Dark”. Like [pauses] people should pay attention to that!

Flight 666 shows that Maiden burn with the same raging intensity of their youth. This makes an epic comment about ageism. Society dictates middle-aged artists choke on their own vomit and die, because a) seeing them physically decay is revolting and b) hearing them play music they wrote at twenty-five is inherently pathetic. But that’s ageist.

At the core of it, they’re artists, right? And I don’t know why in some art forms it’s “okay” to grow old. But for some reason, as a society, we don’t have a context for rock and roll—and especially metal. When people watch Flight 666, they hold certain expectations. Especially non-Maiden fans. First of all, they don’t even know that Maiden are still TOGETHER. They assume this is going to be Spinal Tap or something. And I think they’re surprised when they discover these are highly functional individuals, staying relevant and flying THEIR OWN PLANE around the world. But you’re speaking of a much larger cultural issue, of course. We’ve long lived in a society where the cult of youth and beauty is very strong. And metal is not unique that way. Metal has always been a genre of youth and power and virility. And yes, Iron Maiden is shattering that myth. But you’re opening a big can of worms here, Mia.

But does metal worship the cult of beauty? I think no, Sam. I mean, rejection of “beauty”, so-called, at least in the bullshit Ashton Kutcher sense of the word, forms the bedrock of my attraction to the genre. Plus, you know, I’ve always found Devin Townsend really appealing physically.

You’re a fan of the skullet!

I am!

You’re the first. But your point has made me think of something. There is something in metal that is [pauses] different, in the way that it honours its old. It’s a genre very based on respecting your elders. And I think that’s what DOES set metal apart from a lot of other styles of music. Certainly modern music. Especially now. Plus, in order to be a real metal head, you can’t just know who Atreyu and Trivium are.

Your films illustrate that metal is never a burp on one’s musical landscape—it engulfs one’s total human condition.

In Flight 666, one fan in Brazil says, “Maiden is my religion.” There’s also a scene in San Paolo with the priest who does his sermons based on the morality of Maiden’s lyrics. In most cases, I think that the Maiden experience is very TOTAL. It’s visual. It’s lyrical. It’s philosophical. It has a sense of community. And I think it represents some of the things that people look for through “faith” or spirituality. So I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch to say it fulfills those same needs for people. And certainly when we were on this Maiden tour, we experienced it at a level that we NEVER expected. When we went to Costa Rica with Maiden, that was the biggest show in Central America’s history.

Do you think this is something peculiar to metal? Because I find it hard to believe that an Iron Maiden fan’s relationship with Iron Maiden is comparable with a Neil Diamond fan’s relationship with Neil Diamond.

[cackles] Well, we DID have Heavy Metal Parking Lot AND Neil Diamond Parking Lot.

Ha! I know!

So they’re not THAT far apart.

But are people experiencing the same depth and intensity of emotions with Neil Diamond? I can’t gauge that.

It’s hard to know. I mean, it could sound elitist or righteous to say so. But I think there’s a certain power to metal that you don’t see in other forms of music. There’s something real about it. Something authentic. But we’ve only made three movies about it. We don’t really know that much yet.

I’m recalling the scene from Headbanger’s Journey with the guy carving “Slayer” into his arm. I find it hard to believe someone is ever going to carve “Neil Diamond” into their arm.

Ha! You’re right! Probably not. For a start, it’s a lot longer of a word.

This cover story was published in Beat #1163 22 April 2009.

Name of shade eludes self … Never the mind! Self shall christen thee “raging whore”. Question: why does “whore” contain cognitive association of “glamour”? Maybe population connects whore with Julia Roberts character in moving picture. Recap from my brain cache: whore meets solvent human male, affection is cultivated, seed is exchanged, male confronts local drug dealer, beats him senseless, finally executes him via stab wound to the forehead by means of corkscrew. No, wait! That was Out For Justice. Apologies. My brain automatically records over shit. Interesting side note: I once met an actual whore. She had an STD that was slowly eating her bowel — ooh la la.

MAC, Nail Lacquer Vernis à Ongles

Fluid is brown. Matches that of chocolate river — same as that depicted in film concerning Gene Wilder’s chocolate factory midget death camp. Film appeals to entire family, yes? Note to Hitler: next time sell candy. History will record extermination of Jews as “laugh riot, five stars”. Note: I kid. Note: not really — think about it. Shade of polish will presumably appeal to those who apply melted chocolate to their own butt during intercourse. Mmm-mmm! Great concept. Food, your rump, smeared. Maybe next time you people can dissolve your Milo in piss. I kid, I kid — that shit is totally high carb.

Kit, Nail Polish

Why is pigment mildly fluorescent? Evokes memory of mid-90s slap band. This is a memory I wished to purge, not carve into the sands of time! Note: slap band was popular children’s accessory, comprising metal strip covered in woven fabric, yielded to shape of human wrist upon violent impact, ultimately removed from market following incidents of children stabbing others in face — ironically its only practical use, i.e. as instrument of death. Godspeed, baby psychopaths! You show us a better way. Product yields high grade gloss, mimicking the glaze William Shatner’s chest circa Star Trek Original Series.

Make Up Store, Nail Polish

Shade is massively erotic, although appears in bottle as dried pig’s blood — weird, no? In the words of Hercule Poirot, “Oui, oui!” Oui, oui? The man speaks fluent English yet cannot bring himself to say “yes”? Here’s an idea, Poirot. Why don’t you look up the word “yes”, then the word “douche bag”, then get a fucking job. Shade excites self over possibilities of red. I therefore offer rule of thumb — bright red, whore paint; dark red, muted slut. Note also: darker shade implies despotic personality — is ideal for seething bitch, no? Is maybe also good for use during litigation, implies will to drink blood.

Bloom, Nail Polish

Shade is blue of sky. Will possibly match bootie of infant. Does human baby require foot cosmetic? If yes, then baby needs to spend some time in Nam, lose a limb, half its platoon, and come back with some fucking perspective. Designer boasts brush contains 330 strands and states it is therefore “incredible”. Incredible? This word means NOT credible. Unless this brush engineered the moon landing, invented sonar and wrote the Bible, then it’s not NOT credible. No offence — am just really tired of this word being raped. Product is sterling in actual terms.

Estée Lauder, Pure Colour Nail Lacquer

Exquisite porcelain shade, implies total physical perfection, renders as immaculate colour from single application. Note well: my devotion to this brand of cosmetics is Jonestown grade. Bedrock of my devotion is derived from face products, however — not these trinkets for fingernail whores. Night repair serum restores face skin to baby grade. Side note: more Hollywood films in which babies switch brains with adults are required. At this moment can recall none, but believe Stanely Tucci was able to engineer sociopathic monkey by means of wafer-thin slice of Hitler brain — I believe the scientific term is “the old switcheroo”. Blah, blah, you get the picture.

These reviews were published in Frankie #28 Apr/May 2009.

Aerosol spray, scent of human child. Is appealing to women seeking to portray selves as babies, yes? Recall department store employee attempted to sell self various cosmetics on grounds that own face will be rendered into “baby’s arse” (direct quote). Was disturbed by employee’s fixation with children’s bottom meat. Side note: who is in direct face-to-arse contact with child? Presumably only those wiping it of shit. Also: why would self dream of replacing existing adult face with arse cheeks? Added note: why are babies and dogs recurring marketing instruments for toilet paper? Marketing: both those parties are notorious for crapping in public, get clue, move on.

Thursday Plantation, Tee Tree Deodorant

Totally bought this at Priceline. Asked employee for assistance in locating of product, said: I need that tea tree crap, person required actual half hour to locate, was briefly sympathetic as person was obviously thirty and spends life selling fucking tampons, so attempted to charm with small talk. Said: love this shit, eliminates acne and smells like magical forest! Employee replied: yeah, it cures everything. Self replied: totally, except cancer! Employee looked as if I had just shat in store. Self clarified: tea tree oil, it doesn’t cure cancer. Employee appeared genuinely terrified, then replied slowly: yeah, it doesn’t cure that. Moral of story: none. Deodorant: awesome.

Imperial Leather, Original Anti-Persperant Deodorant

Oil-like product, scent of hospital grade disinfectant. Ideal for use on person who carries collective stench of hospital, yes? How foul. Person should really fucking bathe. No offense. Actually, offense. I don’t see how that’s my problem. Product delivers warning: “do not apply to broken or irritated skin”. Presumably if skin is “broken” it has separated and is emptying body of blood and vital organs. What fucking retard does Imperial Leather imagine is rolling deodorant onto exposed flesh gushing blood? Perhaps is same freak who wants to reconstruct their face into an arse. Who also smells like a hospital bin. Great demographic.

Clarins, Eau Dynamisante

Eau Dynamisante: okay, that’s not even English. Eau? Some tool clearly made that shit up. Calm down, I know it’s that frog language. Product emits mini puff of liquid like perfume squirt mechanism, scent combines citrus and wood notes, like sexy old man, Mickey Rooney is leaping to mind for some reason, he is definitely someone I want to smell like — short, fat, scary, camp. Product is contained in glass bottle bladder. Is actually my favourite product herein, scent is pretty arousing. Side note: Satanic Witches’ Bible suggests women cultivate smell of menstrual blood to attract male subject, no shit. Religion is maybe ideal for raging sluts.

These reviews were published in Frankie #27 Feb/Mar 2009.

By the way, Cave, you’re clearly unfamiliar with the proven artistic method, i.e. produce weak sequel to original cult work, e.g. And The Ass Saw the Angel 2: Pistol Whipped!, repeat process until duplicate works eclipse original and own name is rendered a joke that merely sickens all who hear it, until years later one is cast as parody of self into ironic comedy with heart based in Manhattan law firm, prompting complete reversal of public opinion, finally permitting self to sell own kidney stone on eBay for mammoth cash bounty. But whatever. Cave is also “curator” of forthcoming Australian installment of “All Tomorrow’s Parties” — a festival franchise Pitchfork described as “the most enjoyable … experience of our reporter’s life”, a statement proving finally and categorically that web journalists never get laid.

This article was published in Jmag #24 Dec 2008.

Dani, I was just translating your Latin on Godspeed on the Devil’s Thunder. So far I have “noble guardian of wolf eggs”.

“Noble guardian of wolf eggs”?

Yeah.

It translates as: “an excellent protector of sheep is the wolf”.

Right, same deal.

I don’t know where the “eggs” bit came into it.

“Ovium”. I was thinking of ovaries.

Uh-huh.

Do you consider Gilles de Rais a monster? [Note: de Rais is a serial killer from the Middle Ages, whose life inspired Godspeed on the Devil's Thunder.]

Well, obviously, yeah. People just assume that we’re just interested in the serial killer aspect of him. That’s not true at all. We like the decadence and the Gothicism and the adult fairy tale aspect to it. So there are Edgar Allen Poe-style mixed feelings about his descent into depravity and madness. At one point he is practically a modern day rock star. He travels around France with his own entourage, his own private army, putting on these huge passion plays to represent his and Joan of Arc’s victories — and this is after her death. That’s before he retires to his castle and begins trying to replenish his fortune through the means of alchemy, which inevitably leads to sorcery, witchcraft, demonology, murder, kidnap, rape, et cetera. But do I think he’s innocent? Well, it’s not an episode of Columbo, this album. It’s not a particularly interesting topic: is Gilles de Rais innocent or guilty? And the translation of that into music would be crap as well, I should imagine.

Do you think that people are fundamentally savage and have the inherent potential to descend to Gilles de Rais’ state?

Well, yes I do. I think the whole story in itself is a blueprint for the means of human debauchery. I often wonder to the excess some people might go, were they in the same position — where they had their own private army, were above the law, above reproach and sanctified by the church. And I think within the jurisdiction of all that wealth, yes, they would.

Would you find it offensive if I described you as a modern day Oscar Wilde character?

Well, without the gay bits [laughs uproariously]. But yeah, but you may do.

[Laughs] Then are you of the opinion that music should aim to be beautiful, even if it’s in a repulsive way?

Well, yeah, obviously.

Why obviously?

Well, there’s no point in NOT appealing to the listener, is there? And it’s the same kind of thing that I’ve never understood about a lot of these underground — not Norwegian — but these underground black metal bands, who just preach and advocate hate and pain. Because obviously they love what they’re doing. They don’t hate what they’re actually doing. Because why are they doing it if they hate it? It’s just such an antithesis of life. But you can see beauty in all kinds of things. Some people find graffiti beautiful. I don’t, I find it fucking offensive. But there you go.

The ancient Greeks — well, some of them — had the idea that beauty is terror, that whatever we call beautiful we quiver before it.

Yeah, I think the other Greeks you’re not talking about found men in loin cloths beautiful [giggles].

[Laughs] I’d like to talk about flamboyance. I’ve always been of the opinion that subtlety is overrated. As the most bombastic man in heavy metal, do you share this view?

[Laughs] Well, obviously sometimes we can be less than subtle. But I think sometimes we get out of bed the wrong side of the proverbial grave. I mean, the “JESUS IS A CUNT” t-shirt, we’re now talking 17 years since its first inception.

And yet it comes up seemingly in every interview.

It’s a powerful metaphor. And it still rears its ugly head from time to time. [Note: earlier this year, a Gold Coast teen was arrested for wearing the shirt, which depicts a masturbating nun; the shirt was also recently banned in New Zealand.] But then on the other side of things, people who have a go at us about that miss the subtleties of our artwork. And every now and then it doesn’t hurt if you are subtlety-based, like Opeth. I dare say that’s [Mikael Åkerfeldt's] release valve.

From all I’ve seen and read of you, you seem consistently cogent. And never really, um … I’m going to say unhinged. Are you really this stable?

I guess so, yeah. I keep it together pretty well.

Yeah, yeah.

Yeah, yeah. You sound convinced.

[Laughs] Well, I guess I just thought you were a bit mad.

Well, that’s irrefutable. But quite a few years back we were well-known for being serious drinkers. And you can only do that so much before it starts affecting the work.

Cradle of Filth, like any band of importance, has had its detractors. Have they ever poisoned your faith in humanity?

Occasionally, yeah. But then, that was a while ago. Nowadays I just laugh at it. I read a review the other day, and the guy obviously had a real problem with the band, because he gave the new album literally half a point. And I just laughed. Rather than ages ago, I would have thought, You bastard! How dare you! Nowadays I just laugh, because at the end of the day, I’d rather people be talking about the band than not talking about us at all. And I guess that’s better than just remaining anonymous. Or just mediocre.

So maintaining this conviction furnishes you with the emotional fortitude to deal with bullshit?

Yeah, yeah. I just think, fuck ‘em. I’m not interested. You know, there’s so much to do. I have no time for anything negative. All it does is worm its way in and fester. So I just ignore it.

The thing that makes me angry is the way that often critics can’t respect risk-taking as a triumph unto itself.

Are you referring to our last record? [giggles]

No, I meant in general.

There’s now a very candid, throw-away sarky attitude, thanks to the internet. On the plus side it unites people. But it also promotes that sort of lazy nonchalance, where you people just look at one thing and then just go to the other. So it’s really easy to dis someone’s entire life’s work with the click of a button.

You’re someone who has evolved –

As a fish?

[Fit of laughter] No, as an artist.

Oh, not as a fish then.

[Additional fit of laughter] So do you think that human beings appreciate someone who evolves, or do you think they just want to hear the same thing spewed out repeatedly?

I don’t know. I think people like things to evolve, but at the same time they like familiarity. I’m like that with some bands. I’m a fan of a band called Bad Religion. And from album to album I don’t care if they stay the same band, because as soon as they start experimenting, they fuck up big style. Everybody’s favourite album at one point was Reign in Blood by Slayer. And they wanted them to make Reign in Blood Part Two, but they never quite did. And then, on the other hand, there’s AC/DC. They’re bringing out the nineteenth studio album, and it’s the same album for the nineteenth time. But nobody cares, because that’s what they want. That’s what I want from AC/DC. I don’t want to hear them experiment with reggae.

I think you make a good point — it varies from artist to artist. Because there are certain people — David Bowie is a good example — who constantly evolve. That’s the very thing that people have come to love about Bowie.

Exactly. His phases.

You too have had a career that has been quite resplendent. Do you have any artistic ambitions that are unfulfilled?

Yeah. There was talk a few years back about working with Diamanda Galás.

No shit?

Yeah, it’ll be great, and that’s something –

Teleconference moderator: Excuse me for the interruption, you have one minute remaining in this call.

Hmm. Voice from beyond the grave. Edgar Allen Poe. Um, yeah, and a few years back we met the last living descendent of Elizabeth Bathory, Dennis Bathory. He’s written an opera about his forebear, and there was talk about us playing alongside his opera at one of her castles, which would be cool. And I’ve always wanted to do a black mass. Like a proper black mass. But half a real black mass and half a launch party. I just like the idea of everybody not knowing where they’re going and meeting up in the woods.

[Laughs] I hope I’m there for it.

Yeah, grease up your broom! [giggles]

Does Dani Filth have a message for the children?

The children? Yeah. Hold tight, I’ll come and visit you tonight.

This feature article was published in Beat #1141 12 Nov 2008.

Hagström is not talking to me. He is talking to Deftones guitarist Stephen Carpenter. Apparently Carpenter was hit by a car as a teenager, had an out-of-body experience during which he floated through the sky of downtown Sacramento, then was revived and in that instant became conscious of everything — every smell, every colour, every angle — in one focused, simultaneous stream. Carpenter claims he has experienced this hyper-reality ever since this incident, and as a result would drink literally anything to dilute the intensity of his focus, until he discovered Meshuggah, which he believes re-directed him back to what he “already knew” — that he is “everything that is”.

So I guess Carpenter is either omniscient or dangerously fucked up. In the same conversation, he also refers to an infinite power we all possess, which is also “nothing” and “doesn’t exist”, but also does exist within himself. Carpenter’s psychological dungeon makes no more sense in context, but does make sense having spoken to Mårten Hagström. When Hagström calls me, I immediately tell him that my brain experiences a programming error every time I hear Destroy Erase Improve (1995) — it registers fearful nostalgia, then seeks out those memories to which it is in thrall, then discovers that the memories do not exist, nor have they ever, and then returns to the original fear, repeating the process for the length of the album — a condition Hagström repeatedly describes to me as “awesome”. I guess I needed to share this information with Hagström for the same reason that Carpenter needed to tell him he once flew through the air.

Formed in 1987, Meshuggah are a five-piece Swedish thrash metal organism, who use eight-string guitars and occasionally a rotating time signature, and thus unfortunately cultivate the witless label of “technical”. This description ignores the concept of Meshuggah — the concept that drives me to experience minor psychological collapse, and for Stephen Carpenter to re-orient his life. Eternal paradox. Agony. Devastation. Nothing. “When I picked up the guitar, I did it because I wanted to be able to make music — that was the first objective,” Hagström says. “The driving force was not to be a guitar hero. The driving force was to be able to make cool songs. That’s something that goes for all of us. And then we just happened to be a bunch of fucked up Swedes that won’t let things lie. We need to experiment and challenge ourselves.”

“As a collective, there is a tendency to lean towards the gloomy,” Hagström continues, “And that’s not because we’re enamoured by it, because it’s cool. It’s just being able — as a human — to be honest about what life is. To be honest about what is good about it. To be honest about what is bad about it. And to dare to live it, rather than telling yourself that this is utopia, and we are so close to achieving the perfect state of humanity, where we’re so civilised and loving to each other. Whereas it seems like on an everyday basis we’re just showing off the opposite. There’s famine, war, everything that we need to deal with as a species, how we’re practically raping the planet — that’s something that you can’t just shrug off in an easy manner. But we don’t want to be political about it. We’re from a human standpoint, where you put the individual in the centre. It’s about how we perceive the turmoil that’s life, and how we choose to make something of it or we choose not to.”

So I conclude that Hagström believes he can sculpt meaning from chaos. But he seems to react to this comment like a conceptual soiled tissue, and he brushes it away. “No. I don’t know anything. To quote one of my favourite authors, Robert Anton Wilson, ‘I don’t believe anything.’ Because it seems to be a fairly medieval and naïve way to look upon the world to decide what you know and not. Because what you knew when you were five is very much different from when you’re 25. It’s a continual learning process. And you need to realize that there’s not a set way of looking at a certain thing. There’s not a ‘reality’. There are realities depending on who is experiencing something.”

I suggest this approach would effectively handicap Hagström’s entire life, prohibiting him from maintaining a conviction of any kind. “No, not really. I mean, it depends on how we categorise the term ‘conviction’. If we’re talking about the conviction that a Catholic is a hundred percent sure that the Pope is elected by a bunch of people to be the communicae that all of a sudden speaks to God — well, that type of conviction, NO, because that would be going against what I feel is logic. But on the other hand, I’m not an agnostic. I’m not sitting and saying, ‘Okay, I’m an atheist,’ or that there’s nothing out there — I don’t have that knowledge. I’m just trying to keep an open mind.”

I ask if Hagström considers himself sane. “No, no, no. Not at all. Not from a technical standpoint. And I don’t think anyone is. Because, well, if you look at it, who is the Average Joe? Where is the Average Joe? Like, okay — whenever you find the Average Joe, who looks like the Average Joe, who’s got like two kids, a car, a wife, who lives in the suburbs some place, has a pretty decent income, and has no really radical thoughts about anything, just pretty much goes with the flow, average intelligence or whatever, you’re going to find he’s got a LOT of skeletons in the closet. Not necessarily the serial killer type, but everybody’s kinky and everybody’s twisted at some point. And suppressing that is what turns into hardcore Catholic and real far-out ideologies where you try and suppress stuff that’s actually just genetically encoded into human nature. We could all learn a lot from acting like the insane people we are, but being responsible about it and trying to be loving while we’re doing it, and not being such messed up repressed people that we have to take out our frustrating existence on someone else.”

This interview was broadcast on 3RRR FM in September 2008 and published in Beat #1136 8 Oct 2008.