I've always thought punk music was just for kids in angry moods. You know, guys who just want to smash things or jump around because they're so pissed at the world. Supposedly, the fury and energy of the music releases tension and whatnot. Doesn't matter if it's good. Well, I've never really paired the pissy punk with the pissy mood before-- at least, not on purpose-- but I finally got to try today. Turns out it doesn't work that way for me, pal. Oh, no. No, it does not.

I have a little story, and it's pretty trivial, but you're going to read it anyway. Because that's just how you are. See, I'm going to a concert in two days. It's not important who's playing. Oh, okay, it's the Residents. Anyway, I ordered from an online ticket service who shall remain nameless. Oh, okay, it's Ticketmaster. Or as I like to call them, Ticketretard. Or sometimes, "Bitches! Fuck! I hate you!" Yes, gentle reader, sometimes only the most unnecessarily blunt language can describe how a person feels about things. I'm here to entertain.

I called their service number, since I hadn't received these tickets yet. Also, the website said the transaction hadn't been printed. I spent over an hour and a half on the phone. I went through something like seventeen computerized menus. I memorized, note for note, the smooth jazz ditty they played on loop. Go ahead, give them a call now. It's worth it just to listen to this song. It's in my top 25 of 2001 and it's only May!

Suddenly, after the nth fade-in of the soothing beat, I hear... silence. Maybe they'll tell me when I can talk to someone? Maybe there's finally a person on the line? Maybe...they hung up? They hung up! While I was on hold! To talk to them! They hung up on me! What's the fucking deal?! So I call again. Busy signal. More computerized menus. I like to think of it optimistically: they may have shitty, impersonal customer service, but hey, at least they charge you $10 extra per ticket for it. Long story short (well, too late), the tickets are going to be at will call. "Guaranteed," they say. Right, I really trust them.

And now I have to write a review. So I grab the Black Halos-- Black, mind you-- from the pile. Their record is called The Violent Years-- Violent, mind you. And they play punk rock. You know. Guitars that play with distortion. Guitars that play power chords in major keys. Drums that play in 2/4. Bass that growls. Vocals that are angry. And vocals that are, in this case, inexcusably grating.

Singer Billy Hopeless has a way of pronouncing vowels which doesn't exist in any accent I've ever heard, and a growling tone which makes them all the more intolerable. You might have noticed in my XBXRX review that I have a gift with transcribing the certain alien syllables that some singers use. But doing this for Captain Hopeless would not do him justice. There's too much. Each pronunciation quirk makes it worse. And the only thing he does is sing!

So, the lyrics on The Violent Years have something to do with being violent and angry about things, or more specifically, bad things. I think. Girls, sometimes. And while I admit that even this most banal of formulas can succeed, even with the most traditional of melodies or chord progressions, it doesn't work here. There's nothing new, and there's nothing to make the old sound new. And even if that's okay with you, the vocals are not easy to get accustomed to. Myself, I'm on my fourth listen of the record and I'm about to break. Like Linkin Park! Just one step closer to the edge!

How's my mood, meanwhile? Oh, not so good, thanks. I hate to say it, but Linkin Park are really speaking my mind right about now, those lovable, screamy scruffs. How young I am; how embittered I feel. I realize that when I'm in a bad mood, the last thing I need is more agitation. Sure, the music's angry. Sure, the music's sufficiently mindless. But it's working against me right now. "Then it's not objective," you'll say! Damn right, it isn't. I'll just come out and say it. Even at times like this, though, I still have an objective part of me that knows the truth. And the truth here is as such: the Black Halos are one cow in a pasture of thousands-- the one you kill first at harvest time because its moo is just that much more annoying than the rest.

-Spencer Owen