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!

Latest News!

February 17, 2009

New Release Date

Hey, folks!

It’s Girth, typing once again, but not for long. I just wanted to let you know we—and by “we,” I mean “Mildew Records”—have a firm date for the release of Fuck Machines. It’ll be out June 23, 2009. Expect a big marketing blitz throughout the month of June in anticipation of its release. We’re hoping to put out a single by April. I’ll keep you posted.

—G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 17, 2009 11:28 AM
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December 12, 2008

Fuck Machines — Delayed!

Fans,

We got some bad news. Recording Fuck Machines was going along amazingly…until Girth decided to take part in the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase. He tore cartilage in the second-worst possible place, his wrist, the one he uses to play guitar.

Because of this, we have to accept that Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ will not get out in January. Girth has to wear a wrist splint for at least four weeks, possibly longer. He may even require surgery to heal.

Join us in praying Girth gets better, so everyone can grind along with Fuck Machines.

xoxo
Margo Atwater

Written by Margo Atwater on December 12, 2008 4:05 PM
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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 23, 2008

What’s Wrong with Being Sexy?

Well, we spent the past few days putting together demos for the Fuck Machines project. I submitted them to Dean Charleston yesterday; today, he called me in for a meeting. I asked if I should bring the band, and he hung up on me. I took that as a “no,” but I told the boys to stay on call in case I misinterpreted Charleston’s signal.

At the Mildew office, the receptionist led me to a large conference room overlooking Hollywood. The long table was lined with scowling men and women of all ages, creeds, and colors. At the other end of the table, barely visible in the hazy distance, sat Dean Charleston. Even from this distance, I could see that smug, white smile.

“Sit down, McDürchstein,” he said.

I sat.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 23, 2008 3:53 PM
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June 21, 2008

It’s Chinatown

Things got a little hairy this afternoon, in more ways than one. Perdida Cheyenne called me up and invited me to celebrate the Summer Solstice with her at the annual Chinese Food Festival in Chinatown. At first, I was reluctant, but then I remembered how hot she looked at the Poz Gala, so I agreed to meet her.

A few minutes after that, Colby called: “I have a fix on Harmonica.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s my code name for Perdida,” he explained.

“What?”

“She’s going to the Chinese Food Festival,” Colby said. “She’s meeting someone there, and I think it may be her murderer. We need to do some recon.”

“Today’s not a good day,” I said. “I’m really busy—”

“Fine,” Colby snapped. “I’ll go by myself.”

“No!” I yelped. “I’ll… What time should I meet you?”

June 18, 2008

Friends for So Many Years

“You’re not understanding me!” Lacey roared, throwing a drumstick at my head. I ducked, and it sailed over my head, missing me by inches, and clanked against the eggshell wall of the studio. “The cocksucking label sent me to make sure you assholes do things right.”

“What’s ‘right’?” I asked, carefully standing. “They think it’s wrong to keep the formula that’s worked for years?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Girth, but the formula hasn’t worked in years,” Lacey said.

“She’s right,” Carl said softly.

“Fuck you guys!” I shouted.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 18, 2008 6:12 PM
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June 14, 2008

Under My Skin

Perdida Cheyenne breezed into town last night after spending a week in Capetown for preproduction meetings on Crocodemon. She gave me a call, knowing full well that I pitched her Fuck Machines idea to the assholes at Mildew. She wanted to know how it went, but she happened to catch me at a bad time. I had to clean the whole Paint Shaker before the cats from Mildew came around. Riffs, Mikey, and Carl have been living there for months, and it’s turned into quite a sty as a result.

I shut off the vacuum and asked to call her back in half an hour. She told me she wouldn’t be around and told me, instead, to drop by her apartment and hang out when she got back. I couldn’t say no to that.

June 10, 2008

Pitching Fuck Machines

“…and in the end, it’s our heroine’s job to dismantle the unloved robot.”

Down on one knee, tears streaming down my cheeks, I leaped to my feet. Riffs tossed me an acoustic guitar, and I said, “And he sings a song that goes a little something…like this…”

As I strummed a haunting chord progression, Dean Charleston clapped slowly, almost sarcastically. “Bravo,” he sneered. “You’ve managed to waste my time yet again.”

“Are you kidding me?” I roared. “Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ is a moneymaker endorsed by no less a Hollywood hack than Perdida Cheyenne.”

Charleston raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I came up with the idea years ago, but I actually forgot about it until I ran into Perdida and she reminded me. She helped me flesh it out a bit, in more ways than one.”

“In more ways… I hope that’s a joke, McDürchstein,” Charleston snapped. “You’re a married man. And on that subject, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’? We’re gonna go ahead and drop your name from the title.”

“What?!”

“It’s simple: Star Sex sold 16,000 copies. Two Berries on a Twig sold 18,000. Delightlah! sold an impressive 175,000 records worldwide. Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge’ sold 93 copies, many of them in Finland, where you, shortly before that time, hosted a successful drive-time radio show and Piru Paska pitchman.” Charleston chuckled acidly and added, “Try saying that three times fast.”

I did as he asked without much effort.

Charleston scowled. “Impressive—more impressive than McDürchstein name recognition. We will not put it on the title. Ignoring the formidable brand-association problems, our market research suggests music fans want to see a cohesive band unit, working together. Abysmal Crucifix has always had a reputation for in-fighting and disastrous break-ups and reformations. They’re not planning to release Axl Rose Presents Chinese Democracy—it’s Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy. It no longer matters that Mr. Rose is the only original member of the band.”

I sighed. “This is a labor of love. My love.”

“Do you want me to cancel your labor of love?”

I looked down at the floor, shuffling my feet. “No, sir.”

“Well then,” Dean Charleston said sunnily, “we’re in business! Abysmal Crucifix’s Fuck Machines is a go! I expect you guys to start writing and recording as soon as possible. You still own the Paint Shaker, right?”

“I honestly don’t remember,” I muttered. “I think you bought it.”

“So be it,” Charleston said. “As long as it won’t be foreclosed in the near future. Good luck, gentlemen.”

We all shuffled out of his office.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 10, 2008 12:51 PM
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June 6, 2008

Chance Meeting

Last night, I got trashed. For some reason, I felt like total shit this morning. I guess after what happened at Mildew, I couldn’t help feeling like the end was near. Nobody will book us thanks to our last tour, we can’t get a new album off the ground… How can I survive if nobody wants to hear me express myself through music? For so long, I’ve identified myself as the musician/poet/novelist/actor/laxative pitchman—how can I change gears now?

I wanted to turn to Margo for help and guidance, but as soon as we finished the pitch, she packed her bags for a modeling session in Vancouver. I can’t help feeling we may be drifting apart. With her gone, I helped myself in the only way I knew how. This morning, after spending a few hours in Vendome replenishing the liquor supply, I made a stop at the Peet’s Coffee on Ventura for a nice americano pick-me-up.

As I waited in the line contemplating adding a snickerdoodle cookie or two to my order, a familiar voice called, “Girth?”

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 11:14 AM
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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.

Read More of "Finishing Crocodemon" »

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 23, 2008 10:09 PM
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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.