The Best Person in Mississippi is Jared Moran
Back in August we asked you to help us find the best unsigned bands in America. After listening to hundreds of submissions, we finally narrowed down our pick for the dumbest state in the union. An absolute waste of land.
Now let’s get one thing straight before we move on to the music (and we will, I swear): there are a lot of terrible, awful, no-good, very bad states. Florida, Arizona, New Jersey…but at least these states have provided us with some solid jams. But Mississippi? They’re not even goddamn trying.
The last time I was in Mississippi (in the state capital, Jackson) I was besieged by a preponderance of smiling buffoons. Smiling is fine when you have something to smile about–some idiot trips, you’re laughing at my hilarious jokes, you’re laying a belt to your child–but the cretinous fools wandering the unswept streets of Jackson simply plaster slovenly, wet grins across their faces as if everything is just jolly. What do you have to smile about? You live in fucking Mississippi. Fuck you.
I spent as much as I could of the rest of my stay indoors, avoiding the vapid inhabitants of America’s Thickest State (motto: “Whoooo-EEEEE!”).
After a particularly infuriating incident involving the abortion of competence this failed state deigns to call a “service industry,” I stomped off to the restroom not to evacuate my bowels but simply to try and find a brief second of fleeting repose in which I could privately wrap my brain around the cosmic stupidity on display.
The toilet is, surprise of surprises, unflushed, with a brown buoy bobbing in the fetid waters of Lake Killmeplease, ready for me to gag so it can let out a smug grin as if to babble “mission accomplished!” I cover my mouth and contemptuously flush. Who, in the 21st Century, still cannot flush a toilet after releasing such foul defecate? I’d be able to understand it if I were in a facility rehabilitating lobotomized barbarians raised in the wild by feral apes but no, I’m in Mississippi. Oh, wait…
I wipe a translucent film from the seat, finally savor the twinge of catharsis of an embittered pout and prepare to quietly weep in reverence for the sheer magnitude of brute stupidity I am forced to continuously endure with every breath I draw. Of course, the Sublime Gods of Fuck Christian couldn’t dare let me go a second without some pitiful misfortune and I hear the rusty hinge of the door squeak. Some blithering idiot has entered whistling, because dammit, a moment of quiet reflection might somehow let me forget something terrible is about to happen.
As if his beaked transmission wasn’t enough, this infecund bastard has the fortitude to attempt small talk.
“Cold enough for ya out there?” he lets out in a plaintive, sing-song voice.
“Leave me alone!” I cry. “I’m trying to concentrate!”
The concept of attempting to carry on a conversation as one or more parties ostensibly completes a bodily waste function sends me reeling. Pee time is me time! Spare me your brown moments!
My meditation cannibalized, I pull up my pants and rush out the door without washing my hands so as to avoid further accosting by the whistling freak and his stomach-turning fixation on locker room rapport (I thank my lucky stars an elderly scrotum didn’t suddenly make an appearance. Perhaps justice lives).
Some daft creep has the wherewithal to look me in the eyes and let out a halfhearted word of greetings as I power my way out of the building. I stomp in place and shout “What about Reinkaos?? What will your trite salutations do to erase that from my pathetic life??”
At this point a woman approaches me to ask if I’d like to leave the building of my own accord or with the assistance of security. I tell her, “Listen, lady, I don’t need some ham-fisted rent-a-cop grubbing up my freshly-laundered garments” as I wipe the froth from my shirt and make my way out of the building with dignity.
Drowning in an ocean of my own hate, I soon lose track of my surroundings and awake rolling in a mud puddle (I blame Jackson’s slothful sanitation crews) shouting “Baseball tees! Blast Beat Network! Illud Divinum Insanus (yes, still!)! I can’t take it anymore!”
My tumbling gains in speed, and I begin to levitate. My bile, all-encompassing, illuminates me, and I transform into a being of pure light. As I ascend above the Jackson skyline, I experience the worst vertigo of my life–one more thing to hate about Mississippi.
Look, my point (?) is this: Mississippi is dumb as hell. But one bright spot does exist, in the form of a man named Jared Moran. The prolific Moran is at the center of a number of bands, any one of which is better than whatever festering turds this state calls metal bands.
I actually first wrote about two of Moran’s bands, Yzordderrex and Uzumaki, while filling in for the GrindLord, though to rather muted reception. It’s really a shame, because I think the latter certainly fulfills what many of us in the Toilet love in metal.
Uzumaki’s third album, Knowledge of a Language One Has Never Learned, is a massive, Ævangelist-esque wall of twisting, coalescing riffs that in turn grind away like Insect Warfare, churn at an Incantation-esque crawl or skronk like Gorguts. If you’re not into it you’re not my friend, for realzies. Quoth our illustrious writing staff:
W. – “This whole thing is a sonic train-wreck, but I can’t seem to pry my ears away. Drum beats and notes collide in no discernible fashion, and I’m not even sure there’s a single riff to be found, but you’d better believe this is still interesting. I can’t say that about all of the other bands in Mississippi. Ultimately, this is an intriguing experiment in true chaos, and for that, it gets my vote. Now excuse me while I turn the speakers up and do a weird lurching jig like one of those Ganados from Resident Evil.”
Stockhausen – “If a middle finger could have feelings and huge arms, then the bird that Uzumaki is flipping you hates you and is constantly beating you about the head and neck. This brand of nasty, ragged death metal tosses around a few mangled grind influences, as if Pyrrhon got really hammered, listened to some Magrudergrind, and made a basement rehearsal demo. We may have to use a few loophole clauses to include Uzumaki, but I don’t care. They rule, and Mississippi does not.”
But wait! Moran’s myriad of multitudinous metal morasses (dammit) doesn’t end there. From the aforementioned Yzordderrex’s ritualistic drone-doom to Flittering‘s mess of Portal-like death metal to the crippling sludge of Mountain of Beard to Moran’s collaboration with his wife Jill in Vomitwolves (how romantic!). Prolific doesn’t begin to describe the guy. Below is a brief sampling of a few of his projects, and for more details I recommend you check out his Metal Archives page.
Mountain of Beard
Honorable Mention: North Sea Noise Collective – “Not metal at all, but these strange, pelagic drones are somehow hypnotizing. I feel like I’m being lulled into a false sense of security by that mysterious BLOOP. Whatever it is, I dig it. The oceanic aesthetic is pretty gnarly to boot.” -W.
The Toilet ov Hell is on an absurd quest to find the best unsigned band in each state of this glorious union. The purpose? To shine the spotlight on bands that deserve more exposure. Also, we’re going to determine once and for all the greatest state in the nation. Each state winner is decided by a collection of 25 judges. After we’ve announced the winner of each state, we’re gonna throw them all in a winner-take-all bracket and leave the votes up to you. Who will be the best unsigned band in the United States? Which state is superior? We can’t wait to find out.
Alabama — Phylum
Alaska — Terraform
Arizona – Take Over And Destroy
Arkansas – Torii
California – Destroy Judas
Colorado – The Sleer
Connecticut – Autumn’s Eyes
Delaware – Sloss
Florida – Capracide
Georgia – Lost Hours
Hawaii – Darkest Path
Idaho – Rotten Hand
Illinois – Deus Ex
Indiana – Thorr-Axe
Kansas – Bummer
Kentucky – Ad Infinitum
Louisiana – Withering Light
Maine – Sylvia
Maryland – Bereave
Massachusetts – Scaphism
Michigan – Blackgate
Minnesota – Noble Beast