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About paranoiawilldestroy

  • Rank
    It should be so easy
  • Birthday 10/20/1982

Personal Information

  • Biography
  • Location
  • Interests
    I just want to be
  • Occupation
  • Gender
  • Favourite Bands
    Too many and varied to mention. Understand that music is about taste, not prestige.

    However on those that listen only to one genre of music to differentiate yourself from the crowd... look forward to your mid-life crisis.
  • Favourite Films
    Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
    Fight Club
    A Life Aquatic
    City of God
    Little Nicky
    Lord of The Rings
    The Hobbit when it comes out. It will be a favourite oh yes yes
  • Favourite TV Shows
    I love the news... can't get enough of that shit.
  • Favourite Books
    Best Fantasy Authors:
    Robin Hobb
    Michael Moorcock
    Early Tad Williams
    Tolkien (obviously)
    Stephen Donaldson
    Poor old Scott Lynch... keep it together man I'm rooting for you. But hurry up and write the third part of that trilogy cos it's awesome.

    John Connolly
    Stieg Larsson (A very important book to my mind... R.I.P.)
    Carlos Ruiz Zafon
    Susannah Clarke
    Lian Hearn
  • Muse Releases Owned
    Gotta version of Origin Of Symmetry from Avalanche in Glasgow... came out three days early, had a clear silver box with a key to open it. Sold the rest of all my other CD's to buy Christmas presents one year but have since redeveloped my collection (legally, mostly) through the wonderful power of the Internet. Needless to say, Muse feature heavily.
  • Muse Concerts Attended / Attending
    Glasgow Barrowlands gig (2001 I think)
    Three times at the SECC.
    Once in Dublin with Kasabian supporting.

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  1. Think I've cracked recording a bit better. This started out as a training excercise, but I ended up quite liking it... I've also included a Muse cover. The Long Road Back Before, before, my peculiar before, Squandering sound advice, so cavalier, Brittle yet aloof, each rebuke a chore, I suppose I was enslaved by my fear, I critiqued myself, desperate, unsure, My vanity expunged, a perception, Erased, shattered, and very insecure, Where once I crowed I was an exception, Except, those things I thought, I thought I knew, They stayed with me, after the madness passed, After I floundered, drowned… Could they be true? Reborn, shriven and completely aghast, Reality? My past, my potential, The truth I judge to be providential. dream a little dream ella version.wav plug in baby.wav
  2. So... a few (20) years back. I was a tone deaf, truly awful singer, with a mental health condition that caused delusions of grandeur. Tough break, I suppose. One of the triggers for the onset of this condition was Origin of Symmetry. I was already a big Muse fan, then one fateful night I dropped over 30 pills. Never quite came back. For over a year I struggled, then eventually popped. I was listening to Origin, and my state of mind was not good. I began to believe that Muse (specifically Matt Bellamy) had written Origin to encourage peeps to sing. I felt that the album was aimed at people who couldn't sing, but were... plagued by the knowledge that art was being undermined by capitalist forces. Matt was searching for people like him (blah, blah, yeah I know, I was nuts), in that he wanted people who felt like he did when he discovered he could sing... To make the same imaginative leap that he did. It is worth pointing out that I was into writing, then as now and have a relationship with music, as a listener. Music has buoyed me through some dark times, because music for me is like a support network. Anything ever felt by anyone at any point has an echo in some recording, somewhere. Then, as now, I'm fascinated by this feature. I considered that if Matt had discovered his vocal abilities later in life than (normal), it must be possible for me to sing. Sadly, the condition of my narcotic addled mind launched me into a manic belief that I could immediately sing. That I rocked. I had no musical training. So fast forward 10 years from this point. I've gone to mental hospital. Come out. Been correctly told I couldn't sing. I eventually go to uni, to study Sociology and History, and learn about social construction. I also learn about a culture of beautiful singers during the enslavement of Africa, and that the idea of intrinsic talent is highly problematic, from the perspective of social construction. There is a wealth of phenomena world-wide that supports that social construction theory is at least partly accurate (and potentially absolutely. I also in my infinite wisdom chose to come off my tablets. 10 years later, I'm well again and wiser for that experience. I also became interested in practicing my singing again, with little regard for the opinions of my friends and family in this. Fact is, in an industrial society (I reasoned) we may have forgotten that singing as an art form is a skill, not a talent. This is how I'm sounding now: If I'm right, I think Matt Bellamy did undergo a tumultous time, centered around him trying to convince his loved ones that he could sing, that it was possible for him to develop his voice, when he had shown no real gift for it before then. I wonder how quickly a child prodigy on instruments might intuitively make the progress which took me a good 7 years... Although I've probably peaked without getting actual lessons, and I'm obviously nowhere near the level of a professional, never mind his level. I suppose the good thing about my experience is that I came through it, and realised that I didn't need to lead my life letting other people make my choices (which conversely stopped me making all the wrong ones). I'm now working on a book, and hope to finish the bloody thing this year. need your love so bad.wav imagine.wav
  3. Alright dudes? Showbiz, the album, was a detailed study of an individual response to capitalist structure in a microcosm. Namely, that working class people are anathema to the creative soul. Your family will try to redirect you, schools will teach you to prefer to sit like a battery chicken in a call centre. And you're only ever as tall as your best friends. I've read studies about why working class people gravitate towards working class jobs. Sunburn was about family, for example. Someone was burning Bellamy's horizons, because he wanted to please. If you have an imagination, you begin, quite naturally to question if your social situation is wrong. This is the root of metal illness in the modern age... what else is anxiety except the product of a frustrated question, constantly spiralling out of control? I have a wee story to tell. It involves an imagination fuelled by copious drug use (psychosis) and an interpretation of Origin of Symmetry and Absolution that occured to me whilst deep within that psychosis. Clearly, the boundaries between what was real and what was imagined were blurred at at point in my life... Though I still think the interpretation stumbled across a truth. Bellamy went (possibly) through a similar experience to me, at some point in his life and equipped with manic self confidence unlocked his singing voice. Basically, equipped with mania he poured himself into the aforementioned endeavour... and through rigorous practice beasted that shit. I would suggest that anyone can sing, but someone with a trained musical ear, bloody stubborn mindedness and a powerful imagination would find that leap almost instinctive, if they could break away from the negation from their working class environment. i.e. I have no musical ear. Didn't even study music at school. Years after my breakdown I tried to come off my tablets. Didn't do much good for my psyche but... it got me interested in singing again. Coupled with my degree in Sociology (which revolves around the concept of social construction) and the interpretation that it was possible (evidenced by Origin and Absolution) I started experimenting. The above link is the result. Five years it took me and while I'm a long way away from pro I've still improved a fair bit. Language is the very basis of thought. Try picturing something in your head without using words. Any success? Returning to this idea of language, you now speak a different language from everyone else, if you have the bravery to follow. This (I would suggest) makes you potentially powerful, certainly if you break from the scriptures of the system that broke you in the first place. I reckon Supermassive Black Hole is a tongue-in-cheek look at that original decision to seek out Showbiz. Bellamy can see that he is getting more distant from his original self, because of the effect of being in Showbiz for so long. And that, I would argue, is the reason for the decline in the quality of recent albums. I see that power that he had dwindling aand I wonder, does he too? Resistance always starts from below. Did you know that the USA came very close to nukeing Vietnam? It did. Only popular dissent due to the civil rights movements of the 60s dissuaded the then administration of the USA from that reather horrible course of action. There are documents detailing the decison NOT to nuke Vietnam. I would suggest that the role of the truly imaginative in art is to nurture other imaginative artists so that more questions are asked. Not to pump cash into record executives' wallets. Music is a vast record of every emotion ever felt. That is its power. Bellamy has the capacity to inspire a whole new generation of artists, but he is squandering that promise I think, by broadening the appeal of the Muse brand. I'm not saying this a conscious decision, just a matter of taking the wrong advice (for self-serving record industry pricks). Go underground again Muse, please... Inspire us.
  4. Hurled insults sting like a thousand gashing stings Broken upon a rock Craggy, uncaring and lisping Like the rasp of your tongue. Jagged chasm I hurl myself down Listing and unwanted And find myself still wanting. There is no-mans-land Only the rattle of a thousand clacking ammunitions Defecating around my ears Bringing no peace. Where the green land waits Far beyond a thousand wishes and clasping fingers Left broken upon a rock And wanting life. Nothing left Nothing and knowing that my synapses collapse Hope is too far A glittering, and intensely satisfying, Star. Close enough and where do my aches and barraging moans belong…. Never is too far. A mirror image belongs in the clouds and my children do not know me.
  5. Fibrous and winding; scouring the blackened belonging To the kindred knot, splitting and conjoining. The beam hammers on, harrowed and entirely certain. Potentially. Fat rustles, the beam grows Capillary function or balance? Who cares now? The beam bursts, manifold light envelops then fades From birth to the grave. No torch this. I’m not playing... Not anymore. It’s too late The kitten’s teeth have been crushed Gnawing on Rhianna’s tiny face She’s been broken like a doll and Escape is pointless Because value has no value And the tunnel grows darker. The beam hammers down, lancing through the steady rush Like cars trundling past Like houses in a line Like factories belching Desecrating While the keyboard fails And I’m taxed by my own desire... You wonder why you’re obsessed... You’re mad. Eyes rolling. Teeth frothing acid. Broken from beyond and into the fire. But strong. Admittedly much... much stronger than me. Once the salve to my soul Sweetened mercury, quick-silver to those that play Alien to me - I hear them asking questions Always Bringing back the questions And all that is left now is to ask... A tee-shirt I did not see Detroit emblazoned across its sex Unified And marketable. While laws are passed 1982 Thatcher/ Reagan Beats. Beats. Beats. Turn it off. Standby. Break ranks. Hollywood and glimmering needles. Showbiz - a blessing in a curse. Find yourself first. Medically you’re mad. Sensitive. And loving, caring... the problem itself. Bursting. Broken by a world... Damn thing. Damned broken world. To bring succor is not discipline And the true master is first of oneself. This is freedom. Be kind to yourself yes. But there is no need to weather sentinel. Abilify. It works man...
  6. The land of the fey - Lays bare black, broken bones. Tumultuous passions released, The faerie scent - never fades. The land of the fey - An avalanche of emotion and glimmering skin, Dreams and harrowing visions, Breaking the bonds of my physical, muscular kin. Whereupon I lie down And freeze buried beneath the mountain, Glacial hatred seeps and spreads in filament Hardening, crackling and gossamer thin. The land of the fey – Grants touch, is a force unspent. Of course, the modern, the scientific, the platitude and the reason Lacks praxis and understanding. I belong here With a hangman’s noose and black, broken bones Rotting, creeping, cracking Beneath the bare caress of presumptuous hands. Love Love Love Never pipes in the ears of my grim sentinels. Intangible, the land of the fey. It cannot touch their senses. They have no silence. No guidance. No struggle. As I grow to swollen rage. The land of the fey – Is stronger; its pull a fine spider’s line. This garden breathes deeper, undulates tame comparisons As the navigator is impaled on the broken horn. The unicorn treads on... free I am lost Always lost Because the land of the fey - Shows me things others can’t. They won’t. Because a smile buys And an eye of glass melts before it hardens or reflects. Until death, my land of the fey – I belong and always have. Visions of the life that came before – it never was. I am the fey – I am and I am lost. Caught dying and I do – not – care. I simply breathe. And this has always been. See my black, broken bones. Revealed by the land of the fey.
  7. A sudden gleam, a shimmering light, Reflects off dull Perspex to invade my sight, Briefly inspiring - a swiftly performed and totally insignificant search, Yet another fruitless distraction aboard my trundling perch. Something… maybe a wrist watch… that might be refracting, somewhere - Maybe a window pane… or… God knows… I don’t care. I turn my gaze back to the road upon which I roam, And self-diagnose myself with the too-oft-prescribed-journey-back-home-blues. I barely avoid a groan And reach for my phone. I languish aboard this bus, With its broken chatter and ceaseless buzz. When upon the pane I suddenly see Conjoined debauchery - a monstrous scene Two flies… copulating One laying some eggs… the other… fertilising. Glued in strange union Spiralling like puppets across their vertical ballroom Sharing, I assume, a memorable occasion Based on my own infrequent experiences of consummation. And quite against my strict resolution I raise my hand to crush these living, breathing? organisms. Do not revile this energy which we give in a frenzy to each other Our lives are short compared to yours But our days never blank Fixated are we Of course I don’t do it But the instinctive gesture gives me pause. As I lower my hand back to my side. To muse upon my predilection for annihilation. All life on this planet We are all connected All Bright lights shining in the dark It was the sex in public, I quickly felt sure, Deep, so deep… to my quivering core Simultaneous realisation – of carnage so easily spread… I quickly became sensitive to the broken delusions running wild through my head. The eggs I carry may grow inside me To what purpose I cannot know It is enough Of social customs, habitually the origin Of lynchings and beatings and general destruction I only, barely, stayed my hand from the sad decimation Of the two innocent beings happily copulating. And my eggs might hatch on fertile ground And we shall fly anew Driven by instinct your science tells But the same energy flowing through me is in you And thought of the sequence of events which led me to this bus, My mother and father meeting and then building a trust, And of my mother thirty-long-years ago giving painful birth, To their son who cannot help but love.
  8. She hummed a melody as she walked away, Shearing black granite with a blade of vivid jade, And a will of bright diamond to dispel my red hate, She eternally reminds me of the sun’s shining rays. For when Apollo departs the skies The moon shines bright. It never dies… Showing wild wolves the ways across wandering heights, Until the glow of a fresh dawn heralds rosy daylight. And if those rays should never arrive? The world would blacken The bees would be still And all that is kind would cease. I don’t know If it is her laugh I would miss Her beating heart The promise of a kiss Her smile so madly and deeply… Her joy. So I think to myself Why do I raise my voice at all, ever, to this woman I love? The sun would darken my gaze If I stared long enough, She is my yin, my snow-white soft dove. I am lucky. If all the people I knew, would take a leaf from her page I never would have been so sorry, A reprobate in my youth, believe it or not, Candied words can’t reap the tills I have sown. I am lucky. All that I ask, for now till I pass, Is to be by her side, On the day that she mouths the words, “I do”, As my bride! My love now awoken Her masterpiece, And eternally grateful Am I.
  9. Saccharine light blossoms, rose-tinted rays, Spill out upon the languid waters of the river, A shimmering, mystical, swiftly-shifting mirror, Where the vibrant kingfisher swoops across the dawning day. In the eaves of over-hanging trees, two lovers are entwined, Slumbering within the partnered pillow of their embrace, They stir as the sun lays soft caresses on each face, And smile at the quick emotion reflected and in their eyes enshrined. As the gentle waters meander through wooded glades, The kingfisher’s wings dart and shimmer so bright, Its feathers flashing like embers in the light, And the sun reaches its zenith and slowly fades. The lovers, a shared secret upon their smiling lips, Watch the sun’s descent as the river catches fire, Snuggling yet closer to fulfil their desire, Their desire to live within this moment as they share a kiss.
  10. Having a bit of a hard time with my parents the now... Was wondering if anyone can relate? The buggers keep on trying to force me into an image of themselves, despite my growing belief that my creative aspect gives me more of a sense of the right to my own choices than they have ever had of theirs. I speak of the curse of the working class, namely to down on people who might have the capacity to escape retiring before their seventy by virtue of their intrinsic gifts. Symptoms of this malaise include: being an arsehole to people who need you, refusing to accept responsibility for past events even though it is clear the person who needs you is dying inside and having an irrational but widely-accepted philosophical view of the world around you. Maybe I should have posted this in the Black Dog forum. Anyhoo, here's my synopsis of how I'm feeling right now: Naked heat from the flame washes across my face, Its flicker weaves glamour upon my captive gaze. My eyeballs pucker up like shrunken grapes, Rotting and putrescent in their sockets. I am trapped and fluttering in its hypnotic embrace. Undulations from the blaze spit forth hot ash, A roaring inferno that catches sparks in the black, The velvet aspect that garbs my marble frame, Spilling forth eternally from the font within. I am a howling child of the moon – I bring the dark. The dark that robs the sun of its rays, Giving me shelter against the anathema of day, My eternal cocoon against light’s endless waves, Which would blast and scorch my essence. The dark, the gentle dark. Yet the insatiable flame sucks me to its lips, Hungry coils of heat that peel back my skin, I silently accept all of my sin, Until all that is left is smoke left to drift.
  11. Here's a thought... The NME interview is a red herring and 2nd Law might be Muse's lyrical resumption of the communication they were attempting to put out to aspiring musicians whom might feel about music in the same way as Muse themselves presumably do (i.e. "Love") If so, I've been waiting a long time for this album... That's why I fell in love with Muse in the first place and why I'm not currently pushing paper around in a freaking office.
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