Κωκυτός

So I think it's been well established by now that my older sister is a complete fucking bitch cow with whom I have nothing more to do. If you want to know more about her, scroll down and back a bit. I can't even be fucked to provide a link back to that narcissistic cunt-cork.

Anyway, this isn't about her. But back in 2003 or 2004 (I really can't remember and it's not pertinent anyway, so fuck it) she bought her husband two tickets to see Tool for his birthday. Pretty sure it was Tool. Yeah. Pretty sure it was Tool and not A Perfect Circle. Look, fuck you. I'm old and my memory is like a half erased chalkboard. The point is, my brother-in-law had tickets to go see Maynard James Keenan and I was asked to accompany him. Because my sister wouldn't go. Because she thought Tool was stupid.

She couldn't stand the song Schism, claiming it sounded like an ADD riddled child throwing a tantrum over a jigsaw puzzle. "Those are the stupidest, most pointless lyrics I've ever heard." she informed us in her usual too-loud, contemptuous tone. And then she proceeded to mock screech: "I know the pieces fit!" over and over whilst miming trying to force two invisible puzzle pieces together. She really thought she was clever. I saw the pained look on my brother-in-law's face and wondered for the 347,895th time why the fuck he'd married her. It's not like she was a great catch: dumpy, humorless, dull as burned toast, dressed like an Oompa Loompah's spinster aunt and about as deep and meaningful as a stale rice cake. But then, he was no great shakes either, resembling a Big Boy statue without the hair. But hey, at least he liked Tool.

Obviously, socio-sis couldn't be bothered to delve beyond the repeated refrain of Pieces Fitting. She homed in on what was most prominent and discarded the rest, just like she did with relationships. And so she wasn't aware of the rest of the lyrics, of which the following is but a small excerpt:

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting.
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing.
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.

Those are not disposable, brainless, throwaway bubblegum lyrics, sis. That's some multisyllabic mutherfucking poetry right there, bitch. Written by a man. A college educated man, no less. My sister prizes nothing more than education, and continues to collect degrees and certificates and Bachelors of Shit Nobody But Me Knows About to this day. The more education she gets, the better than everyone else she truly thinks she is. But she doesn't get Tool, and so she fails at life.

A primary purpose of Keenan's lyrics for Tool involves a desire to connect with the listeners on a personal level; to encourage them to look within themselves for self-identity, understanding and reflection. Tool does not include lyrics with any releases as Keenan believes most people "don't get it" and it is not a priority of the band that people do. However, after each release Keenan has eventually published his typed lyrics online via the semi-official fansite, with the exception of "Lateralus", which was published on the official Tool website. Despite Maynard's aversion to promoting the lyrical content of Tool's work to its audience, lyrical arrangements are often given special attention, such as in the lyrics to "Lateralus", wherein the number of syllables per line correspond to an arrangement of the Fibonacci numbers, and "Jambi", in which the metrical foot iamb is used. Keenan's lyrics on Ænima and Lateralus focused on philosophy and spirituality—specific subjects range from evolution and Jungian psychology in "Forty-Six & 2" and transcendence in "Lateralus".

^^ I cut and pasted that shit directly from Wikipedia. Because fuck you. It says what I wanted to say, so why should I bother plagiarizing it?

The first I ever heard of Tool was in 1996, when my best friend at the time made me a tape (a fucking cassette tape, yo! Goddamn I am old!). Side 1 was some album or another by some post-grunge group that was popular at the time. I don't even remember who the hell it was now, but it was the album I'd initially asked her for. Side 2 contained Tool's Ænima, for no other reason than that my friend didn't want to give me a tape with a whole empty side on it. She'd heard her brother listening to it and thought it sounded pretty cool, so on the tape it went. I think I listened to Side 1 once. I listened to Side 2 and everything in my life changed. I was an instantaneous Tool fan.

It was the song Forty Six & 2 that did it. I mean, the whole fucking album blew me away, but that song in particular was a goddamned baptism. I'd gravitated towards metal music at a young age, drawn by the nihilism and the great equalizer that is the looming specter of eventual death. How's that for profound? But no, really - I was a puny, sickly kid, picked on and ultra-sensitive, devastated to learn long before the age of ten that people weren't always who they presented themselves to be. I had no grasp of duplicity. I couldn't fathom manufactured enthusiasm. I detested being spoken down to. By the age of 9, I'd learned to loathe old ladies who bent down to tell me in syrupy tones how precious I was, how pretty and sweet. Get the fuck out my face with that shit, gramma. I'm not buying it. I had a vocabulary that got me in trouble - for instance, I once used the word mysterious in front of two friends in grammar school and was subsequently accused of being pretentious by same said two friends. Not that they used the word "pretentious." I think they said I was "trying to be all big" which, in grammar school-ese, translates to pretentious.

Wait, where the fuck was I going with this? Oh yeah... I was amazed that Keenan wrote with intelligence. He wrote about fears and failures and feelings. He had an extensive vocabulary and wasn't afraid to utilize it. For so fucking long, I'd thought I was the only one who had fully articulated inner dialogue running constantly through her head. To utter it aloud was to proclaim yourself an uber-dorky pariah. But Maynard was doing it and he was cool! Maynard taught me not to give a shit what anyone else thought, and speak however the fuck I wanted to, hence the pretentiousness of this wordy article.

There was no debating that the sounds produced by Tool were galvanizing. Powerful chords, bone-jarring bass, riffs as intricate as lace and as complicated as the Mandelbrot set. Keenan's vocals were (are) astonishing. Have you ever seen that cartoon depicting Visible Tom Waits? Hold on, here...

Yeah, there needs to be a Visible Maynard James Keenan.

Brain: Here Haunts the Anti-Zeitgeist, draped in the chains forged by organized religion and shame.

Tongue: Nahash, Ouroboros, the bringer of forbidden wisdom and the serpentine symbol of the eternal return.

Throat: Full Boar exhaust pipes, reverse angle cut, cast in pure chrome.

Heart: A seven chambered abbey, descending through the  color spectrum and leading at last to the ebony clock standing alone in the obsidian chamber with the dreaded scarlet paned window, where Darkness and Decay and the Red Death holds illimitable dominion over all.

Lungs: Nine Concentric Circles, from the blissful peace of Asphodel Meadows to the frozen torments of Cocytus. Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.

Listening to Tool is a lot like reading Dante's Inferno, or maybe having a really thorough colonoscopy: it forces you into places that you'd really rather not see - deep, dark, infected places filled with shit and pus and demons, places that sodomize you with acid memories and eviscerate you with regrets. Sure, it's easier to avoid those places; never look within, never learn from the past, never reflect on anything you've ever said or done. But if you finish the journey - force yourself through the misery and despair and ugliness - you'll find yourself free of Purgatorio and staring up at the starry sky in Paradiso. And if you're too fucking lazy to read the Divine Comedy, try this for a metaphor: an open wound will never heal if you ignore it. Rip that bitch sore wide open and look inside. Poke around in there. Find the source, drain the pus, cauterize it with salt and lighter fluid until you scream in agony. Healing is supposed to hurt like hell. You can only appreciate feeling well if you fully immerse yourself in the illness.

You know why my sister really hates Tool? Because the thought of looking inside of herself scares the shit out of her. Because it's so much easier to blame all of her problems and disappointments on others than to take responsibility for her own actions. Because she maybe knows that Keenan - with his deep seated hatred for pseudo-celebrities, his contempt for shallow narcissists with ostentatious agendas - would fucking hate her as much as I do, and would most likely call her out on it in front of her whipped husband and all of her "professional, cutting-edge" friends whom she simultaneously envies, longs to impress and be accepted by and yet scornfully disdains. Because she is a fucking tool. And she just doesn't get it.

According to Green's Dictionary of Slang, tool has several meanings. In the current context it would probably mean "a stupid, useless or socially inept person". The first citation for this dates from 1656.

PS - The concert I was supposed to attend with my brother in law ended up getting cancelled. Maynard was sick. Oh well...