I’m not religious, so the only true spiritual uplift I encounter is when listening to music. Naturally, this level of zealotry extends beyond the records themselves. A self professed evangelist for whatever-it-is-I’m-currently-into, I’m also inclined to seek out other crusaders, to dial into their frequency.

I thought about writing a review for my favourite podcast, Disgraceland, but I fail to see how it will adequately convey the rush I experience when listening to Jake Brennan’s phenomenal conjuration. …


Of all the competencies I’ve developed, writing has come most naturally.

I’m great at writing from pieces of my own design. I’m terrible at interpreting the vision of others.

I don’t mean making something that already exists better. Rather, knowing how a person wishes to express themselves and translating that onto the page. It’s more complex than an accessible tone-of-voice document can affect.

Where I excel, is in copy editing. Copy editing is true collaboration. It is the embodiment of trust, an exchange of ideas, and a translation of thought into meaning. …


Let’s start with a little context. After all, it’s been 25 years.

Once Upon The Cross was released on April 14th, 1995. This interview was conducted between myself, and the Deicide frontman, Glen Benton, around March of the same year. I’d been able to get three or so listens of the advance tape in (yes I mean cassette!) before the call took place. Already well versed in the band’s first two abominations, it was more Benton’s temperament I was curious about.

He seemed a little frictious at first, contrary throughout, but it resolved in an enjoyable interview. Granted, he didn’t…


On its face, this seems a dumb article to write.

No one is better off for harbouring a belief that one of these records is superior to the other.

From my perspective, it always boils down to the rush. All that really matters is how a record makes me feel. There is no higher law than this.

What if it was possible to undertake a points based assessment of these records. What would that reveal?

Below is a list of categories I have defined as important. Each afforded a rating out of 10. …


The 1960s was synonymous with the hippie movement. Peace, love, and the celluloid soundtrack of Woodstock, Monterey and Altamont — the latter, another knife to the heart of the revolution; a scant four months beyond the depraved Manson-Family murders of 1969.

Emerging from the shadows of the decade were casualties of acid indulgence. Psychedelics were entertained liberally; blotter paper tabs paving a portal into unexplored dimensions of the mind, resulting in kaleidoscopic visions of altered reality.

Luminaries of the 60s psychedelic movement, Pink Floyd’s Syd Barrett, and Roky Erickson of the 13th Floor Elevators, are often cited as two of…


December 2019 marked the 13th anniversary of his death; summer in my part of the world.

People say it happens a lot during the holiday season. That may be true; I’m unclear as to the intended benefit that is being extended through that insight. I guess condolence manifests in a host of ways. It’s not like I knew what to say.

13 years is a long time. Long enough to learn that some pain is perpetual, even if it becomes more adequately compartmentalised, and less visceral.

I still remember receiving a message from his cousin. I’d been out, doing…


“It looked better in the brochure.”

Imagine that you’ve reached that point in your nine to five where you’re consumed by the anticipated rush of quitting. Plenty will feel it; some will consummate the urge.

Do you want another, by-the-books, please-give-me-a-nice-reference resignation? Or do you want to be feted by your peers, deified for your courage? Decision is obvious, I’d say.

And once you’ve crossed the rubicon, the likelihood of being asked why is almost absolute. Subsequently, your opportunity to burn a bridge has never been better staged.

I recommend submitting your resignation verbally.

Following the, “I’m resigning,” declaration, a…


Exhibit A — The Broken Record.

Imagine you’ve been employing an expression for longer than you can remember. Now, imagine you learn that the logic of that idiom is flawed; its premise is straight-up wrong. Granted, you won’t die of embarrassment — it’s not public speaking after all — but you’d probably find yourself landing somewhere between sheepish and mortified. You could persist with using said idiom, but to deny oneself the right to phrase effectively? No need for self flagellation — way too Marquis de Sade for such an innocent misstep.

While there are a host of questionable colloquialisms, the one that most grinds my…

Jason Healey

Over-thinker, conflator, philosophizer. Record collector/music enthusiast. Been writing about music for over twenty years. Only black humour is real.

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