Doctors these days! I’ve been having migraines now for six months and I finally went to see a doctor about them after a particularly bad headache caused me to crash my car into a KFC and the court ordered me to attend counseling. So I go to see this quack, this Doctor Windon, and get this, he says to me that I’d have less headaches if I didn’t just drink four gallons of Mountain Dew every day.
Wow, so it’s my fault? I’m the victim here and he’s laying the blame at my feet. He tells me I’ve got to drink more water. News flash moron, Mountain Dew has water in it along with high fructose corn syrup, caffeine, citric acid, and yellow 5, which has got to be better for me than yellows 1 through 4. I’m not some big-headed doctor person but that feels like it’s just science.
Anyway, this Windon guy tries to put me on a diet. No more Mountain Dew, not even Baja Blast, for two weeks to see if the headaches go and I said, nah Doc. I got to have my Dew. Then four of my teeth fell out, which keeps on happening, and I bounced.
This kind of victim blaming must go on all the time. Doctors are supposed to help, not judge. Unlike the judge who sentenced me to community service for the KFC thing. He was meant to judge. He nailed his role, unlike that preachy-ass doctor.
I asked my court-appointed public defender if I could sue the doctor for trying to get me off the Dew and he told me to stop calling him at 3 a.m. Sorry dude, you’re supposed to help me, and I haven’t slept in weeks so I have a lot of free time.
But I have a plan to keep doing the Dew. I’m going to see a doctor (not that victim-blaming ass Windon) and get a blood transfusion, only he’s going to swap my blood for Mountain Dew Code Red. Red Dew, red blood. What could go wrong?
So it turns out there are tons of things that could go wrong and every doctor I spoke to said that I was a dangerous moron for asking them to do that. Yeah, more victim blaming. We live in a society where a man can’t switch out his blood for that sweet, sweet Knoxville sugar water. It’s a travesty and as soon as my hands stop shaking enough for me to hold a pen I will be writing to my congressman asking, nay demanding that the rights our forefathers fought to enshrine into the constitution should extend to me drinking only Mountain Dew and people leaving me alone for it and not asking why my teeth are all rotting and green.
Until then I’ll be picking up trash along the highway and chugging back the green ambrosia until they take it from my cold dead hands.
First album to be released since their self-titled debut without Adrian Smith on guitar, there was a noticeable step down in songwriting quality that seemed to have gotten lost somewhere along the line, and performances all suffered as a result. For the first time in their career up until that point, Maiden seemed to be at a loss for words, sounds, and needed to cover new grounds instead of retreading old if they were to stay relevant.
A meandering rehash of music previously explored, lacking in both songwriting and actual songs, “Senjutsu” fell flat after the late career high that was “Book of Souls,” ironic since this album could use some souls from that book. When your songs become unrelatable (with sometimes unpronounceable names), it’s time to look into sejuts-you.
Named for their recently departed singer, the album sees replacement Blayze Bailey provide a balance between the raw vocals of Paul Di’Anno and the Operatic Bruce Dickinson, without the visceral punch of either. The songwriting, on both the more straightforward and longer songs, drag and bore when compared to other Maiden releases, so do yourself a favor and release yourself from this album.
Maiden’s last album of the millennium to feature Bruce Dickinson on vocals was marred with infighting and disagreement, evidenced by the lack of collaboration between Dickinson and Harris, at this point the songwriting team in Iron Maiden. “Fear of the Dark” showcases Maiden at both their best and worst simultaneously, with future lullaby “Fear of the Dark” reaching the scared child in metalheads everywhere, and the straight-up lies of “Be Quick or Be Dead,” since while that song is fast, it hits dead in the water.
What the Fuck is “Virtual XI” anyways? It is a step up from the X Factor, and to be honest, kind of a kickass entry into the Maiden mythos, with all the standard Maiden trademarks, even ’80s style synths on “The Angel and The Gambler.” There is a lot going on with this album, and the band was making the most of a not-great situation, so props to them, it lands with magnificence and grace, sooo, um Maiden Bro?
Going forward there are no bad Maiden Albums, but we must rank these albums with as much journalistic integrity as possible, so someone has to be the least best, eh. Which is a real shame because this album is also great, and may not have as many “classics” as other albums on this list, “The Final Frontier” dares us to look beyond our earthly coil, or Maiden’s early career, proving that while they’re old, they’re far from obsolete. So good job boys, good job indeed at making ours harder.
Maiden’s millennium comeback, featuring the return of both Bruce Dickinson and Adrian Smith, with an unprecedented 3 guitar lineup. Maiden’s recovery from the Metal-unfriendly ’90s is as refreshing as their trooper brand ale. That’s not to say that this album is flawless, but since they had just re-enlisted their PILOT lead singer, course correction would be a simple task, and with heart to give, Maiden were begging to be set free.
Recovering from the terrible cover of “Dance of the Dead” with one of the more kickass album covers of any band, Maiden continued their millennium march of majestic proportion, with not just one, but two discs of your typical thrashers and a healthy amount of prog epics to boot. The band was truly playing as if this were a matter of life and death, and they chose life, to the dismay of longtime fan Mark Renton!
Closing out the ’80s in the most ’80s way possible, this record sees Maiden at their cleanest production-wise, at times too clean for the discerning metal head (they’re not known for hygiene). It was also the most keyboard-heavy and prog-tinted record the band had put out at this point, marking an inflection between the older, rawer Maiden and the middle-aged metal gentlemen they were becoming. Like everything else on this list, it’s essential listening
Maiden’s official debut featured a more raw, more punk production which didn’t detract from the proggier songs, proving that you could have both raw aggression and compositional competence. The only record with guitarist Dennis Stratton, it set the stage for what was to come, and the cover art has one of the most popular t-shirt designs worldwide to this very day.
Featuring one of the second most popular t-shirt designs, and guitarist Adrian Smith for the first of many successful outings, “Killers” refined the previous rawness of the band’s debut with noticeably better production and one of metal’s defining guitar duos. This would unfortunately be the last outing with singer Paul Di’Anno, as he succumbed to powder, negatively affecting his performance, but check out his work in Battlezone if you ever wanna feel like a Wrathchild.
Looking to the new millennium with a renewed sense of optimism, the band decided to use CGI art for the cover, to disastrous results. But don’t let the album art fool you, Maiden look to the day that we all dance to death, and with this collection of catchy, propulsive songs, who could resist the call of the dance.
Church groups to the left of them. PMRC to the right. But still, regardless of opposition, Maiden was determined to rule the night, and with a chunk of brain serving as tribute, the metal gods determined that Maiden had earned the status of Lords of Metal (the title, not the film), and it’s a title well earned. This is also the first album with Nicko McBrain, so big smiles everyone, that’s an order (RIP Clive Burr).
A late-career gem from Iron Maiden sees the band in golden god form that would make Dennis Reynolds both proud and jealous, “Book of Souls” fuses Maiden’s metal, prog, and symphonic influences into holy perfection, reinforced by decades of experiments coming to this glorious occasion. Even including a tribute to the late great Robin Williams in the form of “Tears for a Clown,” this album is a career on glorious display.
Sometime in the ’80s, the synthesizer became the instrument de jour, allowing many bands and musicians to explore newer, more ethereal sounds. And while their metal compatriots on the other side of the pond were going for a more jagged and raw sound with the burgeoning thrash scene, Steve Harris and Co. were fusing their love of ’70s prog with modern technology, proving that Maiden are neither stuck in the past, present, or future, but somewhere in time.
A metal and Maiden milestone, debuting the all mighty Bruce Dickinson for all to see and experience, with his iconic scream on the title track becoming a historical moment in metal, so much so that we predict there will be songs written about it in the future. Every song on this album is either a live staple, or a certified classic, or a certified classic that was removed to give room to other future classics (looking your way “Run to the Hills”).
Opening with one of Rock’n’Roll’s best one two punches and condensed WW2-Cold war history lessons in the form of “Aces High” and “2 Minutes to Midnight,” this album sees the band at the height of their power, with not succumbing to this power, and becoming a slave. Plus that album artwork is the cherry on top with its majestic and presumably accurate portrayal of ancient Egypt. Just like how Maiden sings the praises of historical events, future generations are bound to sing about the wonders of this masterpiece. Maiden Bro!
TSA officers would be correct in thinking other passengers might not want to see that particular arrangement of words on a shirt while they’re 30,000 feet in the air. They’ll probably ask you to turn your shirt inside out like it’s 1995 and you wore a Beavis and Butthead tee to school.
If you’re going to survive in this increasingly authoritarian world, it’s best if you can learn to blend in a little and avoid attention in public. Choose your battles: maybe go with an innocuous Dave Matthews Band shirt for the trip.
Wearing a shirt with the word “gun” on it to the airport isn’t a great idea. Officers who belong to actual gun clubs won’t know what to make of your shirt, but they’ll rightfully assume it doesn’t refer to a place to shoot AR-15s and talk about Joe Rogan.
If you get spotted wearing this shirt by a divorced, middle-aged, beer-swilling TSA officer, you may get flagged as a “cool guy who likes good music”, getting you an invite to a private Telegram group where they discuss the band and also goon-out to insurrection fantasies.
ICP are officially categorized as a criminal street gang by the FBI, so you’ll definitely be flagged if you walk around in hatchet man apparel. If you cause a scene (as Juggalos are wont to do) be sure to let out a few loud “whoop whoops” while you’re being hogtied to add some excitement to TikTok videos of your arrest.
You can try explaining that Burning Airlines was one of J. Robbins’ bands, but unfortunately the security officer swabbing your hands for explosive residue has never even heard of Jawbox—unbelievable, right?
Obviously “terror” isn’t a word you want to bandy about in an airport. To longtime fans such as yourself, the word evokes the legendary LA beatdown band. But to a TSA officer, “terror” in any context is a big red flag and you may wind up being subjected to a beatdown of a different kind.
Most of us can appreciate “Cop Killer” for being ahead of its time with its ACAB message. Of course, you’re in for a bad time if you attempt to board a plane wearing that shirt. The only thing that might save you is if you plead ignorance and claim you’re just a big fan of Ice T’s work on “Law & Order: SVU.”
You’re just asking for it, aren’t you? A good rule of thumb is to avoid talking about or otherwise referencing bombing anything at the airport. If you wind up getting arrested, it couldn’t hurt to ask Jeff Rosenstock to organize a fundraiser to help with your legal fees.
Iranian death metal band Arsames risks imprisonment and death simply by existing. Wearing an Arsames shirt in Iran or the US is bound to get you noticed by the authorities—because if there’s anything the two countries’ governments can agree upon, it’s their mutual disdain for Satan-worshiping and heavy metal.
This shirt will get you flagged—not necessarily for the vile artwork, but because the word “cannibal” suggests you’d be among the first to start hungrily eyeballing other survivors in the event of a crash in the remote wilderness.
TSA officers aren’t law enforcement; most are just working-class people trying to get by. However, a portion of them are bitter wannabes who failed out of the police academy and are eager to exercise their modicum of power in order to make your life hell.
You just wanted to rep your indie cred with an NMH shirt. However, the figure giving a vaguely Nazi-esque salute might cause some concern to a TSA officer. Prepare to be grilled with questions like, “What’s going to happen to the aeroplane over the sea? What do you know?”
TSA officers aren’t concerned that someone wearing a RATM shirt is going to start shit on ideological grounds—but they do know there’s a decent chance someone wearing one is a contrarian normie who’s likely to get drunk and shout “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!” when the flight attendant asks them to stop vaping in the bathroom.
The band Isis chose their name years before the Islamic State adopted the moniker of ISIS. Good luck describing the impact that Isis the band had on the post-metal landscape to a grumpy TSA officer who did two tours in Afghanistan.
More like exhausted fire, this album feels like a step back from the previous release “Ultraviolet,” with frankly doomier sounds, without as much gloom as previous records. The band sounds checked out man, and not in a good, tripping our manner, but in a fucking around on Excel until you get your paycheck and fuck off kind of way. Not a bad record by any stretch, but the band was clearly losing steam, and the ensuing hiatus should not have came as a surprise to anyone, but the band closed their career with one of the best and most inventive Black Sabbath covers ever with a beautiful, ethereal “Paranoid” laying Kylesa peacefully to rest (for now).
No, the band didn’t start their career with a Metallica cover, but it would have been poetic if they did, as their career bookends with another cover of a legendary metal band. This album is Kylesa at their rawest, with much more extreme metal influences being thrown into the proverbial stew that was Kylesa’s evolving sound. This record definitely feels like a calibration record, with the band’s influence on clear display, whereas later records would see their ingredients mixed with more flair and pzazz that is uniquely their own, just like good and spicy Jambalaya on the Bayou where the meat is cooked juussstttt right.
Kylesa in peak sludge metal form here, and ‘In Memory” kicks things off with a riff as memorable as it is crushing, and the rest of the riffs would make Tony Iommi and co. proud mixed with modern sensibilities, hence the death growls courtesy of noisy jowls, Laura and Phil really come into their own on this record as both guitarist, songwriters, and singers. While it may not have been the first Kylesa record, it was the one that clearly established them as a blazing force in modern metal (of both the riff and spliff variety). The only really bad thing to say about this album is that it doesn’t quite hit the highs of later albums, but you gotta test your rockets before you make a moon landing, and while Kylesa doesn’t quite land on the moon, closing track “Crashing Slow” makes us feel like we’re damn close.
More atmospheric and expansive when compared to its predecessor, this record is not a drag, but it does take a drag off you, just like the weed plant in the first Scary Movie lighting up Shorty, which makes sense when coming off hot from Static Tensions. This to say, the record is on fire, and if you don’t play it at the right speed on your record player, it may just get hot enough to start a fire, but it also functions as a better lighter than your stove element when your mate has pocketed your lighter, getting two birds stoned at once without having to leave your living room.
Kylesa’s most straight-up moon orbit record, there’s less aggression here than all of the previous records but that’s not such a bad thing. Phil and Laura firmly cement their place as the Dave Murray and Adrian Smith of sludge, and masters of the guitar trudge, with the ever-reliable Mr. McGinnley on drums, and Eric Hernandez playing bass, drums AND Guitar on this record, there’s more talent on display here than on many contemporary records. Satisfies like a Po’boy when you have the munchies.
Starting off as slow thicc Southern gravy, with just as rich and complex a flavor profile, a funky taste too, and quite frankly, were not sure quite what’s going on now, apparently the flower is turning into some person and their face on the album cover, but the vibes are good man, lots of weird song structures, this album is both crushing and uplifting at the same time. Woooaaaaahhhh!!! And if we’re not, we’re just dust in the wind dude, one with all and all with one, and if anything is worth anything, time will surely fuse its worth. We’re cool, we swear.
“Scapegoat” starts the album by creating an aural experience mimicking the feels and spirals sometimes provided on little strips of paper, this is not just an album but an experience. The two-drummer setup kicks the Grateful Dead’s sorry hippie asses to the curb with an experience just as psychedelic but without all that wonk wonk guitar crap, rending splendor for all of your sense holes. Serious props to Phillip Cope on not just the guitar, but the production as well, providing the right balance of filth and fervor, perfecting the sound to a collection of perfect songs, with a sound cleaner than your average hippie or crustie, defining haut sludge.