Hold the psionics, these sick babies is ah-screamin

As Stephen Colbert says in the cursed video below, “I’m not sure what I’m about to see, but I’m pretty excited about it.” Badly judged quip or terrifying insight into a depraved man’s mind. Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! These three teenage gothlings, Moametal, Su-metal and Yuimetal are the scariest thing to come out of Japan since that little fucker, Sadako Yamamura, crawled out of my TV set and scared the shit out of me nearly 20 years ago.

What seemed to be a bit of a joke has turned into a phenomenon. Their sweet voices exude childlike charm which is then meshed with metal and dark Japanese iconography. Musically, everything from Speed metal, drum’n’bass, Maidenesque guitars and even a bit of Ska is thrown at the pot. It’s all very interesting and slightly terrifying. The ultimate Eurovision group but they’re too good.

They could be a passing fad or as my better munki half says, “they could be the perfect house-band for Blade Runner.” Or maybe they possibly come from the imagination of William Gibson. Indeed, possibly forged from the depths of a room Bill Murray didn’t enter in Lost In Translation while he was leching on Scarlett. These psycho-brats are hanging around my brain like the tail end of a particularly stupid episode of Bell’s Palsy (goddamn Bell’s Palsy). The songs are so so catchy; catchy as when you catch yourself worrying about the fact that you are a grown munki listening to children screaming but of course the heavy guitars and furious drums makes it okay, yeah?

There’s an element of it that makes this munki think that they exist in the aftermath of Aphex Twin’s “Come to Daddy.” The creepy children of the creepy children of those creepy children of that creepy thing which shouted at the creepy lady for a little too long and little too creepily and she was only trying to get home, put the messages away and have a cup of tea and maybe a Jaffa Cake. Nevertheless, the fact that she was a survivor of Jonestown never entered the narrative.

Anyways or I mean what the fuck is going on when some kids from the Sakura Gakuin can’t take the normal route of just being in J-Pop, of just being into professional wrestling or just being (short) lifetime members of a horrendous death cult that live in a rainy but lush green forest. Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death! Babymetal Death!

Instead some creepy management group takes these cutesy girls and locks them into a 900-year contract, presumably ending with a fight against an ancient evil witch who can run up and down walls like a cat with dodgy anal glands AND a song or two or maybe even some Christy Moore or Richard Clayderman covers, I dunno.
Meanwhile, Su-metal endures being crucified on-stage four thousand times, always wondering to herself why the other two fuckers prance around the stage in a state of non-tied-to-a-fucking-crossage. Fuck you Constantine she thinks. A hooded cast of thousands surround her chanting their bizarre incantations while drunk Billy Dumbfuck and Mary Vomitonhertrousers prance around in the crowd and think they are having great craic and that this is probably wholesome and that everything is going to be okay, isn’t it? Isn’t it? A wailing crowd expects more and these kids sell fucking tickets. They play to bigger audiences than most, grimly being crucified every night and having uncomfortable conversations in another language with the worst humans on earth (music journalists). Sounds horrible, but fuck it, it’s better than my fucking job, so suck it up children of Oni!

Su-metal thinks she knows how this dude feels

Su-metal figures she knows how this dude feels


I try to put this out of my mind and sleep, but disturbing dreams have overtaken me where scary little schoolgirls in cctv videos make kitsune signs with their hands while standing over me flashing torches, turning my world quickly into a manga nightmare. Wow! This munki is now on a fast motorcycle hurtling through the streets of rainy, downtown Kyoto, dripping red and black ink behind me. Terrifying Moametal shouts at me,
“Stretch-san, we need help (in Japanese, obviously, duh)”
“What? Why? I’m trying to get some sleep.” I help.
“Stretch! Look! (in Japanese, obviously)” says the other one.
I look out over the city and see through the blinding sunset thousands, no, millions of tiny godzillas (not Godzuki thank christ. Stupid Godzuki) slowly heading toward us, at the speed and creepy movement of Rex from Toy Story.
Yuimetal shouts, “I’ll take care of this (in Japanese, obviously, duh).”
Su-metal agrees to help and so does the other one, whatsername. They start throwing shapes and send giant clouds of hallucinogenic dust toward the army of little green godzillas. In unison the beasts let out a terrible scream and immediately start shuffling around looking for cigarettes, asking each other are they okay, fiddling with their jumpers, and completely overestimating the size of their tongues until they all die from panic attacks (something that could never happen, just in case any anxious gojiras are reading).


“Man, I lost my keys, my phone, wallet, everything”

Su-metal goes Yay; freaky Moametal shouts cha; the other one just squeaks mad-loud like.
They raise an arm each and grip hands in a ceremonial celebration, or high-five. The crowd, arms aloft, roars. Lots of gigantic small lizards are sitting around, head-in-hands waiting to be collected. The rain stops. Night drops. Neon breaks out. Smoke raises from the grates. A dark moody man with three-day-old stubble drinks whiskey from a street bar. The happy girls squeal and wave at him. He does a wry smile, toasts the girls while internally wondering how much he would get for each.

I look on bewildered and they face me, after throwing a few more shapes. A naked gojira runs past screaming “AWESOME!” The scary schoolchilds close their eyes and bow. I uncomfortably begin to bow, when bang, they clap hands, and throw their ancient magic powders colouring me red, yellow, pink and in-di-go.

Blinded, tired and mildly irritated, all I can say is,
“So, you didn’t need me after all then.”
Poof, I disintegrate into a billion suns and wake up sweating and tripping major, major balls.

Did I learn any lessons? Yes, in terms of pubescents, leave well enough alone and if it doesn’t taste like tea, it’s not tea.

"I can tap dance and can kinda play guitar but more bass. Ah nevermind"

“I can tap dance and can kinda play guitar but more bass. I can sing a bit and….Ah nevermind”

DOWN with the kids


Sometimes I look in the mirror and see Henry Hill in the final scene of Goodfellas. That moment when he realises the mundane future,  that expression of weariness stares back at me. I’m not old or young: I’m in the middle, the horrible middle youth. Too young to retire and give up, too old to join a band. Too exhausted even to bother with a mid-life crisis. The span between 30 and 50 is as demanding mentally as the hormonal mess of teen years, filled with the same ‘what the fuck?’ moments every morning when you open your eyes. Is this middle youth? Or something else?

Now, I’m a professional something, with a wife, child, mortgage, car loan, two dogs and a non-stick pan. I’m also an uncool, balding, cynical, wrecked shell of a human, who has finally lost control of the handlebars, looking at music reviews, wondering at what point I started missing all the new bands.  My interests aren’t represented in the media, I am unlikely to harass Joe Duffy of an afternoon, am Irish but not that Irish kind of Irish. Demographically speaking I’m from that group who drink heavily, mangle the guitar, play playstation, write, work in a demanding job and worry about money all the time. If that is a demographic.


My dressing room of disaffection contains black t-shirts, black jeans, black boots, pretty much the same uniform since I was eight, but I was cooler then. The use of branding or logos is prohibited by a demented code I developed as a teen. Colour is always the enemy, as is self-help. I am Max Schumacher in an Anthrax t-shirt.

Why? There is nothing that irritates my soul more than when I see people with GAP or FITCH illuminating their chests. Why be a walking billboard? People are conditioned to wear clothes from the many outlet stores that have popped up because they are on special offer and some weird set of unwritten fashion dogma tells them that a little alligator on their shirt will make their peers sit up and demand to know who this fantastic character is. If you’re not going to bother then don’t. Or else become a hipster, but then again I don’t really know what a hipster is. Someone with skinny jeans, no defined muscle mass and cardigan buttons in their earlobes, right?

I do not react well to that market which feeds us. Maybe I’m William Gibson’s Cayce Pollard, who had a pathological sensitivity to logos and brands. Yet, I’m also that loser who wears band t-shirts at age 37, ha! I met a guy in the lift in work a few years back who commented on my Front 242 t-shirt, sarcastically pointing out that he used to wear such t-shirts before he stopped being angry at the world. I stared at this chinless, overweight shit and resisted the urge to punch him. Who is not angry at this world? Oh.


It all comes down to my teenage obsession with music and how certain people remain consumed throughout their lives. Others choose to drop these childhood things and wear ties and jodphurs and place Dido on their stereos as it is unlikely to offend anyone. People like myself, whose religion changed after hearing Nick Cave’s “Tender Prey,” feel heartache that the underground we loved is now sponsored by mobile phone companies. We grew up with American or British punk, metal, indie, goth and dance music, not because we didn’t love our country, but because the rare Irish gems faded quickly. We listened to those influential groups long before their recent wallet-filling comeback tours. These days I can’t even listen to the amazing Pixies without a sick feeling in my stomach.

I wonder how weird will it be bringing my son to a Metallica gig when he’s old enough? A guilty pleasure since the age of 11, the thrash metal behemoth stopped being any good after 1988, yet like Fall gigs you go to see them live just in case it’s the last chance you get. The anxiety-ridden metallers are not an underground band from the Bay Area anymore, but a corporation in their own right. During their set, a few years back, I stood happily drunk and watched a man with his son on his shoulders. They were both in awe at the spectacle. Ah, one day, yes, one day, I will force my son to see Metallica and demand that he sit on my shoulders regardless of his age.  Later that night I high-fived the kid a few times until the father got uncomfortable and moved position.

Growing up we watched everything that was new and cool, tried to race ahead of hungry marketeers who needed to commodify everything that we loved and ultimately destroyed any feeling we had for it. The music marketplace annihilated itself because of arrogant executives who didn’t believe in the power of the internet. The tools of production and the ability for music to be uploaded to sites means anyone can be a musician and exist outside of the limitation of record companies.

Oddly this has meant that us middle-youthers get to experience the thrill of our youth for a second time, because the bands of my youth are either starting up again or never stopped. They know that they will make more in this era’s consumer model than in the days when they were popular and influential. This isn’t brilliant news for the current generation. Thousands of new groups fall by the wayside: burning brightly and fading away, all in the space of six months. There are too many old bands releasing event albums and headlining festivals, filling the space young acts should.  Look around now, every festival is headlined by forty or fifty-something rebels with mortgages but no cause other than the derivative output of their generation. How many new bands will be plying their trade in 20 years? They’ll be gone, but there will probably be a new Iggy album.


Depressingly evil waking moment: Apple computers have control of my body! My fingers, eyes, ears and lumpy arse have been borrowed at a price by this corporation that constantly bangs me over the head telling me, “No, we’re not a corporation, but your friend. Look how well designed our products are, look how good they go with any room in your house. Doesn’t your dog look cooler standing beside the MacBook Pro? Quick take a pic with your iPhone. Hey is that Gun Club on your iPod?”

Typical though, I am such an old hypocrite, railing against the MAN for all these years, and it turns out the MAN is a geeky fucking hipster who sees even a mess of a human like me as an integral part of his marketing strategy. Apple have since the early nineties forced their oh-so-cool products on a wanton sector of society, the ‘we didn’t have that shit when we were young’ crowd. The age profile for the highest consumers of iPhone and iPad? 30-50, my age-group.

We are willing computer and internet junkies. We don’t see the little adverts flashing through our heads. Every site we go to has a shopping basket, ‘inviting’ us to exist in a global department store. We are the ‘cooler than our kids’ generation and being hooked up to the net, it is mournful for us because we remember the time before. The time before we lost our ideals, that golden time when we ran around fields and wished we had something to stop us from running around fields. Here’s an iPhone! Look! With this app, you can not only control your bowel movements, you can control other people’s too! That’ll be 99c, please.


We are always being informed by the media that we have a unique culture. Do the people who leave comments on the Journal have culture? Those poor bastards can barely raise their knuckles off the floor to actively miss the point. Yet, these are the people who engage with media, my compatriots.

Culture can be video games; gigs; sport; Hello magazine; drinking yourself to sleep after a hard day’s work; the occasional night out surrounded by massive televisions showing footballers at actual size in bars that used to be nice; hoping you will stay alive long enough to finish the many boxsets you are watching and hating Ryan Tubridy because, y’know, he’s Ryan Tubridy.

However, the Irish Times weekend magazine seems to think that the nation is full of upper middle class people who knit their children’s clothes, then wonder why the poor itchy fuckers get bullied at school. Do these things relate to my generation? ‘What to wear when killing foxes. How to stop people killing foxes. Are foxes spreading diseases and killing livestock? Are we too quick to dismiss the ways of the countryside even if it even means the odd fox will get ripped to pieces? How to make fox risotto, with cranberries and chestnuts, YES! CHESTNUTS!’

On the other hand, I am supposed to care about Georgia Salpa, Kate Middleton, Rosanna Davison, John Terry, David Beckham, Tom Cruise, Adele, Susan Boyle, Una Healy, Gerard Kean and Simon Cowell? The question is: would Michael Collins have made this country better or if he lived would he be just another big wanker? Look what happened to Bono.


While some people are out on their mountain bikes, orienteering their fit bodies around grim mountains, others are spending large sums of money in restaurants to eat chips that just don’t fit in your mouth. A few still sit around and pray to gods who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning. But then there are those who can tell key events of their lives based on what version of FIFA football they had at the time. Alternatively they are racking up bodycounts so impressive that their Level 50 status brings them to the attention of various military dictatorships, leading to their dream job: John Cusack’s character in Grosse Pointe Blank. The only downside being the eventual marriage to Minnie Driver’s enormous head.

Teenagers of 2013 have more problems than they realise. Not only are they dealing with the adolescent nightmares of peer pressure, alcohol/drug abuse, fraping, and pus all over their visages, now they’ll have to fight for control of their own game consoles from a growing population of aging gamers who remember playing Sonic and Mario and are damned if they’re going to miss out on the latest gems on the gaming market.

Adults my age play computer games. My Dad didn’t. Your Dad didn’t! The supposedly productive hours in our lives racked up in gaming universes mean that to ignore the incredible new games and game engines wouldn’t be fair on us.  These worlds are so advanced that they transcend the divide between traditional adult entertainment of movies and television. The ability of some games like the Call of Duty series to sell more units than any traditional media is pushing them into a prominent area. Pong is gone. The games developers know that their audience are not just kids, but stressed out adults with disposable income who demand quality and the ability to shoot someone in the face.

Alan Moore, the comic artist who created Watchmen and V for Vendetta, has talked about my generation’s retreat to infancy, pointing out that we didn’t really want to take the responsibility of being an adult in the world we live in, since it’s a pretty shitty world. Middle youthers, although that label is redundant, exist in some horrific Judd Apatow version of reality – minus the misogyny. We are immature, yet have mortgages. We don’t sacrifice our enjoyment of the world in order to survive. We vote the lesser of two evils then vote them out when they become all scaly monster. The church didn’t own us like it did our parents so the guilt isn’t really there. But middle age is real, it is coming and it will be interesting to see how the market is preparing for our generation’s needs. What games will we need? Which bands will still be touring? How will we fill our days? Is it wrong to read the New Yorker on the toilet? The country is a mess, but the market is depending on us not to grow up for a little longer


Who ever met anyone like Sean Sherlock, the Minister of State for Research and Innovation (Ministry of made up ministries)? Where did he come from? Why does he represent my interests in this internet age? He is three years older than me, looks twenty years younger and smiles like he’s telling you to fuck off. I have never met anyone like him. Maybe I could befriend Sherlock, force-feed him brandy and digestive biscuits and while holding his hair over the toilet bowl as he vomits, demand to know why he is representing me. I might just get an answer. More likely, through the tears and snot he will tell me that he has no idea why at our age I am wearing a Cramps t-shirt, smelling of rum and covered in his sick.

182870_527665477279926_395253768_nThis bunch of words I did wrote was published in the summer issue of CULT magazine 2013.