SOTD #712 – Hag Face
The very name should chill your bones. As your lips form the words, you should welcome the slight shudder that slips down your back. You should feel compelled to fear. You should embrace the fear. As you would with Satan, Voldemort, Napalm Death, or the Glow Cloud.
O great conjurers, o great terrors of the night, o ye who howl and screech at the moon to cast curses upon your enemies, o ye who mutilate guitars to desecrate the graves of men, I grovel before thee. My knees tremble to even describe your banshee squeals to the uninitiated.
O, Hag Face! Go easy on our souls! We have little to whet your savage appetites, but we can try. Some Melvins? Some Mudhoney? Some Babes in Toyland? Or all my Bauhaus CDs, that I have locked in chests and drawers like forbidden lore? Here, here, here. Eat them all. You are far blacker than even the gatekeepers of goth – for many have stared the Beast in the face and built their alters in His name, but you laugh in His face. Please don’t eat my face, by the way.
AHH! I said DON’T! That’s my ear! AHH OWW OWW AHHHH. Whenever I listen to the bloodbaths of “Fern Gully” or “Rip It”, your teeth sink into me, somewhere in my flesh. With the flailing wah-wah and drums pounding and your voices wailing, I cannot escape your grip. With “The Big Thaw” you entrance me. Dead inside, dead inside, dead inside. You invoke not a cosmic void, but one that yawns within you, within us, within anyone who has been spat upon or kicked around or otherwise robbed of hope. And that only makes your black magicks stronger.
All hail. All hail. All hail Hag Face.