This is the end of the line my friends. “The End”. I felt this was a fitting tape to use as the final passage of this project.

I made this tape for a special group of friends during the summer of 2015. It was created to commemorate the 10 year anniversary of a very special night in 2005 where we all got blacked out drunk and saw Thor perform at a small movie theater here in Boston. In a lot of ways, that night represented the pinnacle of our camaraderie, and as with many bonds of youth that burn too bright, you never anticipate the crash and fallout that inevitably follows these moments of god-like feelings.

At a running time of 30 minutes (15 minutes per side), this tape is a short, sharp, sonic journey through an era long passed. Every song has specific meaning in the context of our friendship, a soggy memory attached to each one. I’m confident the secret messages coded here on this tape can still be deciphered by all the original recipients to this current day.

I realize the human concept of “The End” is really just another mental trap we set for ourselves. I am the King of Nostalgia, hanging on to the past and refusing to let go. I set these traps for myself every day of my life. Maybe that is why I still have all these tapes piled up at my house along with all the other countless memento mori that I have acquired over the past 36 years. But the boundaries of “The End” and its finality reach only as far as we allow them to set. Life goes on. New things bloom and others pass. Memories live on, both good and bad. We all know this yet we still struggle to fully operate accordingly. Such is the human condition.

If there is one message I would like people to take away from this project is that there is absolutely no substitute for the analog world. Every moment we spend here in our digital torpor is a moment less we have in the tangible existence.

Get off your phone, get off your computer, and go make a fucking tape for your friends.

THE END.

There’s a storm coming, but you aren’t afraid. Your body is a fortress of flesh, and while it may leak water from the ceilings, the physical world cannot touch your spiritual temple. Corrupt souls surround us, poisoned by their pride and confined by their cowardice. But we feel content in knowing that this outcome is unavoidable, that we deserve whatever comes next be it good or bad. So we sip our drinks and calmly await the violent clouds approaching. Acceptance. Rest easy knowing the seeds of hope we planted deep in the earth are safe, preserving the promise of reconstruction once this all has passed.

Is that a light in the darkness I see? Or is it just the glittering steel of the Metal Gods emanating their power? Reminding us all that when we only see one set of footprints in the sand of strife behind us it is actually because Halford was carrying through these rough times all along. Reminding us that we shall never roam alone. Behold the disciples and their uplifting song! Blessed be!

Get in touch with your inner child. Play in the dirt and giggle at clowns. Throw a tantrum and scream at your parents. Revel in angst and jive in pop appeal. All the colors of the rainbow taste delicious as shit and if you are too fussy to appreciate a single flavor on our Earth’s eclectic platter you are only cheating yourself. Open your damn mind by any means necessary and you will realize the answers to all of life’s biggest questions are right in front of you.

I once saw a wooden sign in the clearance section at TJ Maxx that read: “The sadness we find in solitude can sometimes be the only solace which saves us from our suicide.” I considered buying it but I didn’t care for the font choice that was used so I had to pass. Still, I thought it was pretty profound stuff! Kind of a cool tongue twister too. Makes you think maybe we shouldn’t take ourselves so seriously. Maybe sometimes we really do need learn to LIVE.LAUGH.LOVE in order to keep ourselves from blowing our brains out. Carpe Diem!

If you’re like me, you are probably starting to feel the fatigue of all this global chaos. If the doom and gloom has got you feeling down, I got just the solution for you: Bend over and take this fistful of metal right up your sorry arse! Feel the power and the glory rush through your system like a boiling enema until it spikes your heart and explodes out of your ears like the guy on the cover of Doomsday News II. Flush your body of the negativity and behold the shining strength that remains within. Pull yourself up from your bootstraps and proceed to stomp the volatile excrement that has evacuated your system. You are a proud motherfucker and shall triumph over all!

You are rejuvenated, and you can thank me later.

Love cats? Hate Nazis? Well, here we have a pro-feline, anti-fascist mix tape chock full of classics from your favorite artists, celebrating the age-old tradition of recounting the WWII era and the many global complexities left in the aftermath of it all. Originally packaged with homemade vegan cookies that I consumed upon receiving the tape 8 years ago.

Banish the darkness in your heart with a case of lite beer and some fuckin grooves. Squeeze into your tightest pants and hump the couch while you blast this party, which careens from punk to dirty metal to sleazy AoR. Finishes of with some of the most uplifting shit.

Respect the RIFF! And tame the LAME! Tame ‘em! Take ‘em on headfirst with the skills that Rob will teach you on this tape and say NO! You will not control me! No! You will not take my soul! No! You will not win this game! Respect the RIFF. You are embedding this thought. The riff is the one who's in charge. The riff is the one who says YES! NO! NOW! HERE! Because it's universal, man. It is evolutional. It is anthropological. It is biological. It is animal. We...are...SLAVES TO THE RIFF!

Warning: This tape may cause schizophrenic tendencies and/or sudden urge to listen to various ripping bands and albums thereof. Proceed with caution.

While on the surface this may seem like a tape containing nauseating romantic schlock you would hear at a dentist office in the late 80s, it is in fact a banging mixtape jam packed with heavy hitters, full of fury and contempt. A sleeper cell of crusty classics contained within a repurposed thrift store cassette shell. The tracklisting is scrawled on stolen USPS property and slapped on the inner sleeve. Utilitarian, straight to the point and enjoyable from start to finish. A celebration of truly not giving a single fuck! A celebration of Caandaxe!

A day with nothing to do, so you go to a vacant lot to watch grass grow through cracks in the asphalt. You get that feeling of wondering about all the cool or uncool stuff that maybe went on or still goes on in this little-visited, crumbling ruin. People sleeping rough, or doing drugs, maybe teenagers partying. No one's here now, but it feels like just maybe life could be as cool and mysterious as the movies.

Bonjour and welcome to Part Deux of Flo’s Freaky French tape series. Feeling alone and insecure? Just kick back and let the warm analog sounds of this tape hug you snug like a cozy knit turtleneck sweater. Still feeling cold and exposed? You can put on this black beret, custom tailored for your oddly-shaped dome and hide that bald spot. Feeling peckish? Nosh on this croissant and fill that growing belly with more butter. Feeling dumb? This music will make you cultured as shit.

A weird, meandering trip to some strange places. You're excited to start out, but things get fouled up fast and by the end of Side A you're terribly confused to have ended up on popular radio circa 2009. Side B lets you know that the problem was that the handful of mushrooms you choked down 40 minutes ago was maybe a little too much, and now you're in a kind-of-pretty-kind-of-frightening woodland trip, like that freaky scene in The Bear and you're the baby bear.

John Waters, Divine, Lux Interior, and Phil Spector sitting at a table in a 24 hour diner doing uppers and downers in the tiny bathroom one by one. Speed, cocaine, opium and grass. They don’t order any food, they just guzzle bottomless cups of black coffee, chain-smoke cheap cigarettes and tell epic tales of the past. They’re speaking so loud they are almost screaming. A relentless flow of perverse one-liners and zingers. The beauty of these minds is blinding. Pure fucking poetry. Total fucking madness. Before you know it, two hours of your life have vanished and all you have is this tape to serve as a document from what feels like a dream, too surreal to have ever been a reality.

Since this will be the last post for a while, I wanted to end on a positive note. This is a tape that someone made for me in April of 2007. She has made me many tapes since, but I felt this was an apt tape to share today.

Another dark day here in the world calls for some proper tunes to match the misanthropic climate. Also, sometimes you just need a balls-to-the-wall, evil mixtape to make it through to tomorrow. So come shed some blood with us, drink from the chalice and feel the cold embrace of darkness!

Great for a nighttime drive through a crumbling suburban area. Contemplative moments interspersed with punishing dread, which will make you feel like a bad guy from Twin Peaks.

Like a movie with the soundtrack running in reverse. Never knowing where the story begins or ends. Play it forwards, play it backwards, it doesn’t deter the Kängnäve flow. It doesn’t change the fact that this tape will inevitably put a stupid smirk on your uncouth face. So tuck it back my friend, and dance like nobody’s watching.

Wimps and posers leave the hall. Go back to your faux-tastemakers’ playlists on Youtube. But for all you true people who are down to fuck: we welcome you to the freak party with open arms.

It’s a warm summer evening, you pop this tape in the boombox and set out for a night of wandering around the neighborhood with your mates. After several warm cans of Colt 45 and a toot of Adderall, you ascend a stone cliff overlooking a vacant lot. It is littered with trash. Smashed televisions and broken beer bottles glisten in the yellow hue illuminating from the street lights. Shattered trophies from nights of lore. You feel on top of the fucking world, so confident in all you do. So blind to see that this youthful arrogance will soon come crashing down on your head. Until then, kick it into high gear and don’t look back. Full speed ahead motherfucker we’re the MHP and we don’t care!