My Ruin – Whisky
A-Go-Go - 8/25/01
My
Ruin is the single best metal band in Los Angeles and, more likely than
not, the whole accursed cheese producing state of California. I fear
that may be saying too much too soon, but I have witnessed the competition,
the gaggle of ego starved, money hungry male drones; the legions whose
songs plead nothing more than, “Play Me Kay Rock. Please. Please.
Me on KROQ.” When everything starts sounding the same, when homogenization
is heir to the throne, when bands seem incapable of the daring and drive
to go beyond what the music industry can throw in a box and sell to “rebellious”
teenagers (when “rebellious” is a code word for “ignorant”), a band like
My Ruin stands out like the sorest, most blood-swelled of thumbs on a planet
full of tiny limp dangling fingers. They rise stentorian above the
packs of would-be Static-Limp-Korn-Shanks.
 You
see, I was at the My Ruin show at the Whisky on the 25th of August.
They headlined a show of seven bands, and, apologies to the other bands
who played (Professional Murder Music & Co.); only My Ruin was worthy
of note. My Ruin is lead by vocalist Tairrie B. who has a long history
in the L.A. music scene. What strikes me most about seeing My Ruin
on this occasion is the audience. There are many young women in attendance,
girls in essence, many of whom look up at the stage, at Tairrie, with a
sort of glowing reverence. You see, there are very few female role
models for girls, especially female role models who can speak their own
minds and not the “Oops I did it again” minds of the entertainment industry
puppeteers. When girls turn to the movies for role models all they
get are conflicting messages about sex and guilt over sex. What they
find are clinically engineered and male-casting director approved versions
of femininity. This makes Tairrie B. and what she has to say the
most consistently relevant voice in metal music today. Yes, it’s
true, most of My Ruin’s lyrics are about Tairrie (superficially), but more
specifically her lyrics are about herself in the context of a prejudgemental,
codified and (yeah, let’s face it) sexist society. Don’t think society
is sexist? Then I refer you to the still unratified Equal Rights
Amendment first proposed in 1923 and wanting nothing more than for "men
and women [to] have equal rights throughout the United States and every
place subject to its jurisdiction." The inaction of our government
in passing the ERA makes me shudder. Oh, if all this “woman talk”
is turning off any male readers, then you could obviously use a good listen
to My Ruin. They may inspire you to do more than swill beer, ogle
tits and talk about all the pussy out there into which you’d like to clumsily
insert your only outward sign of fleshy pathetic manhood. Let’s end
this digression and speak briefly about the concert.
 My
Ruin thrust forth a total of seven new songs since the last time I had
seen them making the show highly worthwhile. A couple of the new
tunes rocked with deeper, catchier rhythms than anything previously recorded
by the band. Guitarist, Mick Murphy, is blossoming and I can’t wait
for him to pluck those fruits to be borne and lay them down in the studio.
I guarantee the next album will be a jewel in My Ruin’s crown of thorns.
For the record, I viewed
this show 100% sober. That may not sound like a big deal to most
of you, but most rock critics barely remember the shows they’re writing
about due to all the g.d. alcohol, pot, coke, crack, H, meth and assorted
pills and hallucinogens being scarfed down in the hopes that enhancing
one’s biochemical make up will bring about one modicum of enjoyment from
insipid lackluster and uninspired bands. I needed none of the above
drugs (save for the crack) to get a full helping of enjoyment out of My
Ruin. And I only smoked the crack because at five bucks a rock it
was a much more economical high when compared to the Whisky's $4 per Budweiser.
Footnote: My apologies
to the readers who found this review of My Ruin to be a tad overly laudatory,
but I’m being honest. |
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