Call me Russ L

Communion Reprints #1 – Mothertrucker/The Legion of Doom

Posted in Music by Russ L on 12 July, 2009

Many moons ago (although not spatially far away) there existed a music webzine called The Communion, which has long-since dissolved into the inter-ether and can no longer be seen.

It had its good and bad features (don’t get me started), but it’ll always have a place in my mind due to the simple fact that I wrote for it. Mostly I wrote crap, obviously, but a few things I that scribbled were possibly a bit less crap than the bulk of the others and I wouldn’t mind seeing them preserved (for my own amusement, mostly). I intend, then, to go about recovering a few things from The Way Back When Machine and sticking them up on here. This will have the dual effect of keeping them in existence and reminding y’all that I’m still alive during these days of lean posting frequency.

Here, then, we have a lil’ thing I wrote about the Mothertrucker / The Legion Of Doom gig (the opening band were terrified young’uns playing their first gig, and there didn’t seem to be any point going on about the fact) that took place at The Flapper on 17/4/5. It’s very silly indeed, but appealed to my own sense of humour and a few others seemed to like it too. The Birmingham Barfly’s website even nicked bits of it to publicise a subsequent TLOD gig and didn’t credit me, but then again they used to do a lot of that sort of thing to a lot of different people at the time.

Anyway (and yes, I know I got the Truckasaurus quote wrong), here it is:

* * *

It was April 2005. We all had our runnings just to get along. I’d agree to process a few state pensions for cash. I wasn’t proud of myself but we did what we had to back then. Some of us sold insurance. May God Have Mercy.

Tedium, that was the thing. With boring-arsed activities to fill the working days and a lack of anything whatsoever for the rest of the time, I needed a hit. Bands were the thing, back then. I made my way down to The Flapper & Firkin. A den of iniquity to be sure, but not as bad as some of the places where our vices might have been fulfilled. Thinking of the dank, filth-caked walls of the place remembered only as Theroyulgorge still makes me shiver.

“Tell ’em, Hawk.”
“WEEELLLL…”

Legion Of Doom showed no signs of red and black spiky shoulder pads, steroids, or no-selling. I dispute the legitimacy of their name. I couldn’t get on with the ginger lad’s haircut either. Other than that, though, they had it. They had it right there.

An out-of-towner called Iron Maiden walked into a redneck bar. Karma To Burn smiled, his gold teeth glinted in the dim light.

“You ain’t from round here, boy…”

Legion Of Doom captured him squealing like a pig for posterity, and replay the sweet sound for the edification of the massive.

Energy is the key. Motion and kinetic energy. They leap and charge as their music goes RAMALAMALAMALAMALAMA into your ears and leave you feeling weak at the knees.

Religious imagery is – naturally – paramount. The original biblical story is conclusively topped and beaten: this band is made up of FOUR wise men from the East (Midlands). As the three axemen stood in a triangle and manipulated each other’s frets (steady…), the holy triumvirate is gloriously recalled.

It struck me like a thunderbolt thrown by God Herself. Legion Of Doom will be one of the preachers who show us the new true light of rocking doom. Our road to salvation, our path out of this squalor – it will be revealed.

“We’d like you to know that Truckasaurus feels very badly about what’s happened…”

Mother Trucker were more doooooomlike than the previous instance on which I’d experienced their transmissions. They represent the sacred monolith to L.O.D.’s ranting preacherman. Huge, impassive, weighty, and crushing.

A young man called Kyuss met an older man named Black Sabbath. They fell in love. In a freak potato peeling accent they both lost their voices forever, but through this learned that the quieter side of their nature could also occasionally be used to express their love.

Mother Trucker captured the sound of their romance for posterity, and replayed it for the gratification of the posse.

No mere statue, though, they move. They roll forth, relentlessly. Nothing will stand in their path. Snare drums that attempt to resist will be mercilessly smashed.

I saw the new way. Heaven is the new wave of UK doom.

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