Official Abysmal Crucifix Website

Welcome to the official homepage of heavy metal band Abysmal Crucifix. This site provides a comprehensive look at the band: its history, albums, lyrics, and more!

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November 7, 2008

Dropping the Ball

Hey, all. This is Girth, posting to you direct from the Paint Shaker in Hollywood.

Here’s something you ought to know: the entire band blogged extensively this summer, and you guys are gonna want to hear about it—some fucked up, crazy shit happened. Unfortunately, our stupid intern, Marty Rabinowicz, stopped posting blogs after a couple of weeks. I know he was only getting college credit, but we’re finding out the hard way that he didn’t do anything.

We’re really busy recording our new album, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’, but whenever I have some downtime, I’ll spend it posting our old blogs. Keep your eyes peeled, and sorry, folks!

—G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on November 7, 2008 4:05 PM
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June 4, 2008

Imperfect Pitch

Earlier today, we all pitched concepts to Dean Charleston. He told us that he’d take the best ideas to the board at Mildew, but he was less than receptive to our ideas. Because we couldn’t agree on any one concept as a group, I decided last week that we should each take our individual pet projects and pitch them separately. Here’s how it broke down:

I pitched a bunch of recent songs we’ve written, like “Meth Amp City” and a kind of hip-hop/R&B sound I’ve been experimenting with since Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’ for a song about craving black cocks. I just pitched 13 polished gems of rock bliss, along the lines of our most commercial successful effort (Delightlah!, 1998), and Dean Charleston shot the whole idea down with a hand-wave—he doesn’t want songs. He wants a concept album that will live up to the artistry we very nearly achieved on our uncompleted masterpiece You Can Touch It for a Quarter. Keeping that in mind… I had nothing, so I turned the floor over to Margo.

Margo’s idea is about a sassy, brassy exotic dancer who struggles against adversity to marry a prominent heavy metal star. Dean Charleston, turned around, placed his hands in his lap, and started making strange arm movements as Margo described the idea. At the end, he asked her to sing a little bit—since the idea is about a woman, he correctly assumed I wouldn’t be singing the lead vocals on (m)any of the songs. Margo gave a demonstration of her honking, Brooklyn-cum-N’Orleans vocal stylings. It lasted maybe 15 seconds before Charleston, scowling, whirled around and made her stop as he tucked in his shirt-tails.

Little Riffs Nicky tossed out an idea about a teenage Lothario, raised from infancy in a brothel, who spends his life seducing and murdering rich women. The moment he compared it to Sweeney Todd, Charleston looked around the room and said, “What else you got?”

Mikey stepped up, insisting he had a “good one.” Mikey Parker’s Jazz Destructor, a solo album he’s been promising since he got fired from the band two years ago, could be converted into a full-scale Abysmal Crucifix affair. Instead, we’d merely call it Metal Destructor and give it our usual hard-edged, guitar-driven sound. Unfortunately, when Charleston asked Mikey to give an example of what these songs were about, every single one involved the everyday problems associated with forklift operators. Although Charleston admired getting in touch with the blue-collar mindset, he thought an album about working such a pointless job would drive too many fans to suicide. Mikey agreed.

Finally, Carl called back to “Meth Amp City” and suggested expanding it to a full concept album, detailing the harrowing meth addiction that is plaguing many parts of this country. He described a hopeful album where we could show, in song, how far a person can fall, and then, in the second half of the album, build that person back up, and the album as a whole could serve as a metaphor for addiction and recovery.

Dean Charleston leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin. He said, “It’s all shit. You kids should be ashamed.”

“Aren’t you younger than we are?” Carl asked.

“Maybe in years,” Charleston said. “But, come on… Albums about teen sex and recovery from addiction? What are we, fifth-graders?”

“But—” I started.

“This is terrible,” Dean Charleston sighed. “I can’t take any of this shit to the board. Look, I’ll give you another week. Maybe…” He opened up his calendar. “Six days. We’ll meet on Tuesday, same time. You give me a really good idea, one I can take to the board, one we can market and get the ball rolling on. You’ll have a deal. Okay?”

We all looked at each other with uncertainty, then filed out of the office.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 4, 2008 3:46 PM
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May 29, 2008

The Poz Gala

Yesterday afternoon, Colby called me up and told me to get on my least-stained tuxedo t-shirt and track down an invitation to the biennial Poz Gala in West Hollywood. For those not in the know, the Poz Gala is a $2000-per-plate charity dinner “designed to raise money for research into virginal curative properties associated with AIDS” (quoted from their literature). More to the point, there’s a long-standing theory (possibly untrue) that the AIDS virus can be destroyed if a person has sex with a virgin, and the Poz Organization wants to back this up using science. Good luck!

Why did Colby have such a desperate desire to go? Big shock: his love muffin, Perdida Cheyenne, is a scheduled keynote speaker. Considering his obsession with her supposed imminent death, he wants to keep an eye on things. He also seems to believe, if it’s a murder, it’ll most likely happen in a public place. I always felt like the best way would be very private—no witnesses, nobody around to chase you down. But what do I know?

May 26, 2008

Mildew Recording Artists

“We’ve had a change of heart,” I blurted. “We really would like to become officially sanctioned Mildew Recording Artists.”

Dean Charleston’s watery eyes gazed at me, lips forming a hostile smile. “You missed your shot, McDürchstein. We own the Kelleystein label, and although Redstain albums still sell well, especially since Sarah’s unfortunate passing, but will draw attention to the label until the next Abysmal Crucifix release.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Look, I’m not unreasonable,” Charleston sneered. “I know you’re hurting for money.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 26, 2008 1:27 PM
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May 23, 2008

Finishing Crocodemon

Today, I had to go back to Perdida Cheyenne’s apartment. Last time, she mistook me for Vance Sloane’s enforcer and promised she’d finish her latest script (Dinocroc 3: Crocodemon) by today. According to Colby, who has monitored her like crazy since I implanted that bug, Perdida hasn’t worked on the script at all since I left her apartment.

I didn’t want to do it, but Colby’s my biggest fan. I’d give that up, but my second-biggest fan, at the moment, is a Seattle-based actuary who reads this blog and mails lengthy letters each month, describing what my actions have cost various insurance companies over the years. His writings have tempted me to insurance myself for a high amount, then fake my death, but I couldn’t even get away with the prison scam.

So anyway, I went up to NoHo, to her apartment, and beat down the door.

May 20, 2008

Recourse

“You obviously don’t understand,” Feinstein whined. “There is nothing we can do about Mildew.”

“There has to be a way,” I barked.

“I’m the lawyer here, kid. Trust me.”

I didn’t know what to say to him. He’d been my lawyer for over a decade, but his expertise seemed to have slipped over the past few years. Was it time to seek out someone new?

May 17, 2008

The Obsession

Margo and I were in the middle of a pretty typical Saturday afternoon. We decided to go coffin-shopping because, now that the hectic pace has slowed down a little, I got the opportunity to relive Abysmal’s recent greatness by checking back over old blog posts. It reminded me that we never bothered to buy matching coffins for sleeping. Optimally, we’d find a nice old casket-maker whose eyes would bulge to the size and brilliance of agates at the mere thought of a customized king-size coffin, a creation of such opulence and comfort we really could spend eternity lying on it. With our recent advance and sale providing financial freedom we haven’t experienced since I swindled those Nigerians, we could afford to live in style.

Unfortunately, we found ourselves confront with aghast stares rather than sinister grins. Nobody liked our customization plans; they especially disliked it when I informed them the coffin was for living occupants, and what’s worse, we couldn’t find any single-occupant coffins that suited our comfort.

While trying to think of how to take matters into our own hands, I got a phone call.

“This is Girth,” I announced into the phone.

“It’s Colby,” a ragged, panic-stricken voice replied. “I need you.”

May 13, 2008

New Intern

We weren’t going to do this again, because the last guy was a disaster, but because Colby’s been such a flake lately, Margo decided we needed to bring someone else in to help us out with the website and blog.

So we’d like to introduce Marty Rabinowicz, this summer’s intern. He’ll be making things hum behind the scenes, in more ways than one.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 13, 2008 7:19 PM
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May 11, 2008

Mildon't

I took the contract to Feinstein. The band had absolutely no complaints about the deal (in fact, the phrases “thank fucking God” and “holy fuck why didn’t you sign already” were tossed around liberally), but I figured I should take it to a lawyer to make sure Mildew wasn’t trying to fuck us in some way.

Feinstein checked it out as thoroughly as he usually does, and he said it was fine—“nothing objectionable,” he said. “In fact, it’s a suspiciously good offer, all things considered.”

May 8, 2008

Colby's Blog

He mentioned it, so I finally got around to checking out Colby’s blog. It’s fucking terrifying. After this, I hope I don’t hear from him.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 8, 2008 2:36 PM
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May 5, 2008

Mildew Meeting

Dean Charleston had a smarmy look about him—skin so deeply tanned it had begun to develop premature wrinkles, teeth so blinding white I would have needed sunglasses if I hadn’t already been wearing my mirrored aviators, hair so greasy you could plant a flag in it. He sat at the end of the conference table with some other A&R people—one go-getting blow-combed junior-executive wannabe, the other a bored-looking goth chick—when I walked into the room.

“Girth,” he said. In person, his voice oozed game-show host affability that I hadn’t heard when I spoke with him on the phone.

“Mr. Charleston,” I said, shaking his hand. I extended my hand to the others, who looked at me like I had offered them a shit sandwich. I withdrew my hand and sat.

April 30, 2008

Back in L.A.

Getting back wasn’t too bad. To our surprise, we got most of the deposit back for the van, despite driving it through several cornfields and streams during our unfortunate mushroom tripping in Kansas. The flight was only 15 minutes late leaving Cincinnati, but it got into LAX early.

After touring the snowy, then rainy Midwest, I was happy to get back to the sun-dappled majesty of Southern California.

Click image for a larger view

Huh.

April 28, 2008

Tour Blog: Dayton -- 'The Hedge' Redux

“It’s glorious,” I gasped as I stared up at the beautiful old stage of the Dayton Ecumenical Youth Theatre.

Turning to Margo, I said, “You know what we could do?”

She thought for a moment, then scowled. “No.”

“Come on,” I said. “It’d be perfect.”

“We don’t have the money,” she said. “Remember?”

“I’ll look backstage and see what kind of props, costumes, and set dressings they have just lying around,” I said. “It’s feasible.”

“Where are we going to get actors on such short notice?”

“We’ll act, just like we used to.”

“Okay, then,” Margo said. “Where are we going to get musicians on such short notice?”

I sighed. Margo had just dashed my dreams of doing a fully staged rendition of Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge’ for the first time in four years (you’ll remember, my attempt in celebration of The Hedge’s fifth anniversary didn’t go well).

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 28, 2008 5:11 AM
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April 26, 2008

Tour Blog: Columbus -- Family Ties

“I’ve fucking had it!” I screamed. “I quit, man! Fuck this bullshit band, and fuck you!”

I punctuated those last two words by pounding my index and middle fingers into Girth’s chest. He had a stunned, slackjawed look on his face, an expressed that made me want to feel bad for him, but when I thought about all the fucking lies and the bullshit, it made me want to yell “fuck you” all over again!

Written by Mikey Parker on April 26, 2008 5:08 PM
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April 25, 2008

Tour Blog: Cleveland -- American Splendor

This morning, I got up early and went down the street to get a cup of coffee. The weather was nice—not too cold like it’s been lately. So down at the coffee shop, I found myself stuck in a line. I hate waiting in lines, waiting for all them people to stand around figuring out what they want, like they haven’t been standing in line for 10 minutes waiting for other people to decide, time they could have spent looking at the menu board and making a decision. All I want is a damn cup of coffee—no donuts, no scones, none of that shit. Just coffee. And I have wait endlessly.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 25, 2008 6:16 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08, Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

April 22, 2008

Tour Blog: Fort Wayne -- Big Disappointment

I was bummed when we got into Fort Wayne yesterday morning and I saw this on the front page:

Click image for a larger view

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 22, 2008 12:57 PM
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April 21, 2008

Tour Blog: Traverse City, Part 2 -- Infiltrated

From the moment I saw the bastard impostors, I knew something bad had happened. I didn’t know what, exactly. I just knew, off the bat, that it wasn’t Girth. Plenty of folks have tried to impersonate Girth over the years—he’s a favorite of those standup comics who claim to find the metal scene ridiculous even as they desperately try to impersonate and impress with their own, shall we say, limited musical skills. They get the voice or the mannerisms, sometimes even both, but there’s something about his swagger—maybe you have to be married to understand. I could tell if a man walked in the room dressed identically—hell, cloned or whatever these mad scientist assholes were up to—and know from the way he walks that he’s not my Girthy.

Written by Margo Atwater on April 21, 2008 6:41 PM
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Tour Blog: Traverse City -- Milligan & Strosby

There Carl and I sat, at the classy Amical Bistro on Front Street. We’d just come from a local department store across the street, where we’d bought some new clothes. Matching Hawaiian shirts, in fact. You see, he and I planned this tour for a Midwestern spring—meaning nothing but parkas, sweaters, and long pants. We were left in the lurch when it started to get warm earlier than expected.

Across the street, the department store loomed, casting a deep shadow across the street and into the restaurant. The only source of light was its dim red sign: STROSBY-MILLIGAN.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 21, 2008 11:27 AM
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April 18, 2008

Tour Blog: Grand Rapids -- Ballin'

Staring, entranced, at the hot dog rotisserie in Roger’s Food-Pride, I barked at Lacey over my cell phone: “Well, what the hell do you expect me to do?! They’re threatening to cancel thanks to that fucking newspaper picture. What the fuck kind of publicist are you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be making sure shit like that doesn’t get into the paper?”

“Well, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Lacey argued.

“Yes, there is!” I screamed. “When you get shows canceled because of your publicity, that is bad publicity!”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 18, 2008 8:14 AM
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April 15, 2008

Family Shit

Everybody knows there’s a place called Kokomo. An odd tropical-island paradise in central Indiana. Nobody knows how it happens that an island with a tropical climate found its way to the middle of an Indiana lake, but Midwesterners love it. It’s become a vacation spot on par with Mackinac Island and Rhinelander, Wisconsin.

Margo didn’t exactly grow up here. Born in San Francisco, she lived in that weird, hippie-dippy city until she was old enough to participate in her parents’ lucrative confidence-scheme business. After that, they traveled the country before the elder Atwaters settled into retirement in Kokomo. Margo was 16 at the time and spent a few awkward high school years there, but she hasn’t returned since…until now.