Ohgr - Ohgr

  by Jeff Thiessen

published: 28 / 7 / 2009

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Article

In 1969 Lake Erie caught on fire. There was so much toxic garbage in the lake, the body of water literally actively burned for a sustained period of time. I had always wished I could have seen that, and I never thought too much about it till recently. If you actually sit down and think about the nature of the event, it’s depressing as hell. Even if you’re the dumbest person in the entire world, you’re probably aware that liquid and fire are virtual opposites, and one cannot coexist in the presence of the other. It’s one of the first things we learn, and, in all truthfulness, the coexistence of both on that fateful day in 69’ is an absolute abomination. I hate using words like that because of the religious connotations, but there is no other description that adequately describes how truly revolting that actually is. I wrote above it’s depressing. It’s quite sad on several levels, mainly that man’s extra waste can be so monumental; it can even mutate basic laws of science. It’s also terrifying, because lakes are used as a source of drinking water, and if people are drinking from the same place that overturns one of the Mother Nature’s core principles, they shouldn’t be surprised when you grow tentacles out of their cocks. And finally, to me it’s most disturbing, because I’ve always viewed large bodies of water as some of the most tranquil, beautiful places on Earth. Even when we dump shit in oceans or lakes, to us the splendour remains completely untainted. It always serves as an extremely humbling reminder to me just how much awe this world is capable of. So why the fuck would I want to see something that is such a personified, brutal example of just how much bile modern man is capable of, especially when it comes to the one thing I resort to when I want a reminder of the magnificence we’re all a part of, yet blurred out of our brains in the mind-numbing metropolis nearly all of us inhabit. It’s quite simple really. I have come to terms with who I am, and that’s someone who has always invested all my energy in the parts of this world that are both ugly and gorgeous, which really says more about me then anything about the sadistic and short-sighted nature of mankind in relation to the planet he calls home. I’m probably like this, because I’m not too sure I like who I am anymore. It feels weird typing those words, because I’ve always been borderline insanely self-assured in nearly every aspect of my life, but there’s an inherent contradiction present. I applaud the simple, straight-forward nature of anything that has the balls to be heartfelt and earnest, the actual product places a distant second to that criterion. 'Funhouse', 'The Basement Tapes', 'Closer'....these are some of my favourite albums, and I’ve never been shy in extolling their virtues, which in my opinion, are brutally uncomplicated yet emerging from the creator’s very core. I don’t find people riddled with complexities particularly interesting, as I have found most of that convolution is simply a product of over-active paranoia and self-doubt. I definitely don’t dig bizarrely intricate movies, which is probably why I will never be a fan of David Lynch, or think Donnie Darko is anything other than a completely idiotic attempt at an articulate mindfuck. I’ve always thought that if the saddest people in the world were given one wish that would be granted, they wouldn’t take a logical step to move them towards a happy place, because the place they inhabit is so disconnected from anything content or pleasant, they just wouldn’t know where to even start. My guess is, they’d ask for someone to take away their dreams, because that’s the only thing that takes them away from simple catatonia, and that stern but frequent reminder of the true range of existence, would have to be the most difficult aspect to endure, night after night. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing these people were part of something pure, something almost otherworldly at one point,and the abrupt loss of that, coupled with their reluctance to acknowledge the swift, purposeful speed of Death’s Carriers prior to their loss, didn’t just tear their world to shreds. It sucked the life out of all the atoms, any shred contained in proof of life still remaining in the survivor’s life. In their eyes, the sky will never stop bleeding. I’m not like this. I don’t consider myself a depressed person in the least, but when I think of my life fifteen years ago, and I remember running through the sprinklers in my backyard as being one of the most euphoric, content times of my life, then compare it to all the lost hopes and dreams I am acutely aware of every single day...well let’s just say sometimes I wonder if linear is always a forward concept. My favourite aspects of my world are ones that have some contradictions, but are easily traceable, if that makes any sense. So really what I’m trying to say here is, maybe I like repellent, metallic music because I envy the gut-wrenching grind that just wants to burn everything down for the extent of the album: not because it’s part of some grand theory or anything like that, but just because they really don’t know any other way to view the world. For as long as I can remember, I have wrestled with aeons of inner struggles, never in the hopes of morphing into something different, but instead because I’m always trying to expose myself to new and different people/influences that challenge how I see everything. It’s this perpetual quest to validate my core beliefs/break down everything I thought I understood, that do make living in my shoes an eternal paradox, as every day seems more distorted then the day before it. All of this is a rationalization why I cannot stop listening to Ohgr’s newest solo album, 'Devils in My Details'. This is one of the most fundamentally disordered records I have ever heard, and there is nothing redeeming found in even a shard contained within the music. I’m not sure I have ever heard a piece of music emulate so accurately as to how I feel day by day, and none of this is bluster. I’m confused. I find that confusion comforting in a way, because if I woke up one day and saw everything with stony-eyed clarity, I’d look around for cult insignias, because that’s the only way I would ever be able to believe a total comprehension of not only my world, but the surrounding one, would be an actual possibility. It’s not, not for any of us, but my embrace of all things cut-and-dry in this world is my kool-aid. I’m not saying these people who put forth such distilled, all-consuming essences are actually that viciously stripped-down in their own personal realities, but they certainly have filtered out a lot of those elements, and I guess that’s my escapism, no matter what comes out on the other end, be it pretty or revolting. 'Devils in My Details' is gross at first. It’s a bit under-produced, the mix is definitely in the red, and at times everything seems fuzzy. Not only that, but a lot of the shit is just plain outright confusing. Ohgr samples chicken squawking ('Feeling Chicken'), has a bunch of weird Bill Mosely rants, starts putting forth what would have most likely been the best track on the album ('D.Angel'), and then abruptly cuts it off at the 1:23 mark. 'Devils in My Details' has no rhythm or momentum to it whatsoever, and it’s nearly impossible to listen to it and feel any need to actually meet the man behind this music. He relies on absolutely nothing consistently throughout the record, and you know, considering a lot of the most well-respected albums of our time have certain patterns permeating throughout the music, this results in a lot of the music sounding muddled, mystified, at itself. It never really knows where it’s going next. But it never limps ahead; it barrels full blast to the next completely ridiculous moment. I would never put this album in a top 10, or 20, or 100, because musically it’s completely absurd, and the goal here isn’t to push this record on you (unless you roam about with the same sort of personal chaos that I am always trying to get rid of/grasping on to), but sometimes you hear or watch something that is so stubbornly perverse, so obtuse on nearly every level, you have got to figure out yourself a little before you start to get why you dig the object in question, and chances are, when you do figure it out, you’ll hate yourself for liking something so whacked out, and then you’re back at square one again. This is why I consider 'Devils in My Details' art in its purest form. Art isn’t meant to be studied, or dissected by legions of experts or probing students. At its best it has the power to be the most potent mirror our world has to offer, which means to truly understand a piece of art, well that also means we now truly understand something about ourselves. Art is also an individual thing. I could really give a shit about 'Troutmask Replica', or the Sistine Chapel, because in terms of relating to them, and finding a connection between that creation and my existence, they’re persona non-grata. Art isn’t subjective; it’s a relationship, and that relationship can only exist if that person sees a lot of themselves in something created by someone else, which ultimately can be a sad thing, and that goes back to what I said in the second paragraph. I’m not really sure who I am, but I know something inside me churns away relentlessly when I play 'Devils in My Details'. I could fight it. I could toss it aside and go back to any of my classics I have played to death over the years, and truth be told, I’d probably experience an aura of comfort if I did revert back to those go-to records. The only thing is, life is too short to try and repeal the irreversible. Many people spend their whole lives fighting, against expectations, prejudices, surroundings, cultural norms, family strife. I mean the list is endless, and to some degree, there is just no getting around some of those, but when it comes to a chance encounter with something you’re not sure you agree with, but it sure as hell agrees with you, that’s when you stop warring and wrap your arms around the thing. The moment you don’t embrace this outside element, and allow it to become an inside one, is most likely the day you have stopped living, and begin to die. I play 'Devils in My Details' loud, and I mean very loud. This is no exception though, as I have had more noise-pollution conversations with landlords than actual rent payments, but I just don’t see any way around it with 'Devils in My Details'. I remember one day I was driving with a friend playing a Germs albums pretty much full blast, and she asked me to turn it down. When I asked why, she responded “Because I can’t hear myself think, that’s why”. I think I just scowled for the remainder of the drive (I absolutely hate it when passengers make musical requests, whether it be snide comments to change the CD, or radically alter volume), but recently when I was cranking 'Devils in My Details' it occurred to me that the exact reason she insisted I delegate the music to an audible hum, is precisely the reason I adore loud music so much. When you’re three sheets to the wind, or playing abrasive tunes at 11/10, you really don’t have thoughts clanking around your head, and it was only yesterday that I realized all that drinking and loud music wasn’t an amplification of my life. It was a break from it. This is not the case with 'Devils in My Details', at least I don’t think so. When this music is playing, I don’t think of it as an escape route. I’m simply too aware of my existence and what it consists of to ever be able to put it on and drift away. This is also the reason I don’t think I should combine 'Devils in My Details' with boozing, I think it would be just too self-confrontational, and not in a pleasant, cathartic way. All of this might not mean much to the outside observer. For example, if you’re a Skinny Puppy fan, and are wondering what Ohgr’s newest solo effort sounds like, I probably haven’t really helped you out very much, if at all. I’ll throw you a bone, and tell you there is a lot of clicking, and whirring, and grating, and a lot of stopping before the starting has ever really gotten started, not to mention the under-realized chorus’ that seem to appear in the most inappropriate places. Some of the songs are too short, others too long, and several are obviously not needed at all. It’s mixed in an obnoxious way that to truly hear all the random aspect of 'Devils in My Details' you do have to go the loud-as-fuck route. There are a ton of musical traditions that are severed then attached again at a later, totally unpredictable moment, albeit only partially. Some moments are completely cloaked in mystery, others are so abrasive you will probably cry blood. The lyrics are sometimes drunken beatnik seething, but at times there will be a line or two that might make you rethink everything you thought you knew. It rarely makes a concerted effort to actually be a part of something much bigger then its own frail subsistence, but sometimes we’re left with the inescapable fact that at the end of the day, 'Devils in My Details' is all we’re truly left with. But don’t take my word for it. I’m just one guy with a pair of headphones.

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