Let’s be frank for a moment.
Every decade has it’s musical SUCK.
Hell, every YEAR has it’s musical suck.
And 90s suck has some very, very special suck.
Suck you remember even fifteen years later. Perhaps because you own it on CD yourself and kinda liked it back then. Perhaps. Perhaps.

So, for today? Something from the time when I was in 6th grade.

Mr. Ed Jumps The Gun – Don’t Ha Ha [Heehaw!] | 1996 | (Nu)Rock
Emebdding was disabled, so it’s a pure link today: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahpK9PfNxIg

So, this is basically a horrible piece of music.
It’s a cover of another, not good to begin with, song.
The lyrics are stupid. The riffs are pretty cheap. The transition between the traditional chorus and the rapped parts is lacking. The addition of rapping itself is executed rather lackluster.
It sucks. It’s a bad song.

And we still loved the hell out of it. We were thirteen/fourteen and we loved it. And with a sense of dread, ten years later we realized that we still loved to hear that song at parties. And another five years later, now in 2011, I STILL love to listen to this song.

Oh, don’t get me wrong! Not for long. I don’t even think that it’s gotten better. It hasn’t. It aged spectacularly badly, when you compare it to the much better done and performed rap/rock combos that sprung up even during its own time.

But, fuck me if it isn’t still fun to hear that piece of drek at a party with good friends who live through those times as well.

It’s so hilariously bad… That it’s become fun. A guilty pleasure.

And still world’s above the vile darkness that is known as the “Rednex”, who also started their reign of terror around that time.
Think I’m joking? Head over to wikipedia and pull up the article on them: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rednex
IF you can read Swedish, get that version. But, just look at this gem:
“Rednex AB accuse Annika Ljungberg of “spreading economical damage, lies, ulcer and insomnia like a plague not only within the Rednex group but also other parts of Swedish show business and it is growing”.”

That all about a group of people dressing like comic-rednecks and producing really cheap quasi-techno cover versions while changing line-ups like normal people change clothes.

If someone wants to brand the 90s as “The decade of bad music”, this is where they should start. It’s just easy pickings. (Although we will all see the revival of the “really cheap quasi-techno cover” plague in the 00’s. If I hear another great 80s tune slaughtered and scavenged for rhythm, riffs, bass-lines, back-beats or lyrics and then surgically twisted and put above or below a stupid techno-beat I’ll pop a rage-vein.)

A House of Bones

[Suggested listening: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rsf2LoLk3SA]
{Warning: Content contains slight amounts of horror.}

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, there is an Ossarium. No, not Sedletz. The bone house I’m talking about is far more ancient. Far more sinister. It was build before any of the great mortal wars swept the area. Before the carpenter’s faith swept across the many tribes living and dying across Europe. It was built at night. Diligently, one bone after another, for several years.

The bones were only taken from virgins of both genders, who were native to the area. And who were all kept alive while their bones were being extracted in slow, meticulous rituals. They were only allowed to die after the last bone left their body. After the bones were cleaned, purified and put into place. The souls of the sacrifices were to bind the bones to the sacred place. To anchor them. To serve as fuel for the ritual that was being prepared.

It took many years. Decades. Over a century. Not all candidates were worthy. Not all had the will to remain alive during the grueling process. So the builders had to wait for a generation after putting another two or three pieces in place. Sometimes they had to skip one, when birth rates were too low ensure survival of the tribe. The tribe was being taken care of. It was prevented from leaving, it had to listen to screams of excruciating and exquisite pain whenever young people were taken by their protectors, but it was taken care of. There was never famine nor invasion. And anybody daring and ignorant enough to try and attack the tribe was fought back and hunted down by horrifying creatures with names that sounded like slabs of dead meat falling to the ground when pronounced.

For the humans, it was a place of revulsion, horror and terror. For its builders it was a sacred site. A temple to their traditions and their forefather.

And when it was done, the tribe ended. There was a ritual. A feast. Screaming. And afterwards there was only the House of Bones and a few ramshackle huts in the deep and twisted reaches of the thick Easter European forests.

Then, for a year and a day, there was silence.

Only then, after many years of hard, painstaking, bloody and ritual labour, the resident was laid to rest in this House of Bones. This Temple to the Form of Death. It was allowed to slumber in peace, for hundreds of years. Undisturbed. Surrounded by tormented souls, changed and twisted by pain and death, clad in their once mortal remains, formed into a shrine to its ancient inhabitant. The forest grew wildly around it. Yet never touched it. And even in the most dire of winters, the animals never disturbed the gnarled and weird fruits near the House of Bones.

In the towns and cities that sprang up around it in later years, there always were more than the usual share of murderers and killers and rapists and kidnappers. Something brushed against their dreams, fully by accident, and changed the way their minds worked forever. Driving them mad with the desire to form, to change, to twist and to modify. Lacking the supernatural power to do so was, to those poor, damned souls, like giving a starving man a loaf of freshly baked bread and delicious, spicy wine and then sowing his mouth closed. Their souls withered and died inside them. Leading them to an early death. But never before bringing harm and horror to their surroundings.

Then, much later, came the fateful day in the winter of 1944. Retreating and hunting armies burned swathes across their paths, destroying and twisting the landscape without a second thought but the desire to destroy their enemies and save their own lives. And during all this, the House of Bones was broken. A loud roar was heard all along the Eastern Front. Making hardened soldiers sick with fear and waking ancient creatures that haven’t felt the sun’s touch for many centuries, filling their dark souls with dread.

The next night, huddled figures, unafraid of the war and soldiers around them, raced to the location of that sacred site. And what they found drove them to fearful frenzy. It would take nights before some were captured, after some were lost to the sun’s fiery embrace by their own longing, before the truth was made known: The seals were broken. The bones smashed. The… Thing was gone.

Since this day, the House of Bones again lies undisturbed. Partly out of tradition, mostly out of fear. Because even in the withered hearts of ancient demons there is a spark of dread left smoldering. Dread of the thing that spawned them all, cursed them all, formed them all.

And a few of those ancient beasts know, that even while their kindred monsters are fighting a war against the coming of Gehenna, an ancient horror beyond any and all imagination is loose on the Earth. Hiding somewhere. Slowly growing stronger and stronger.

And now the very eldest of Clan Tzimisce are holding conference. Should their monstrous and uncultured brood be enough? Vampires who, for the most part, know nothing of this and are more concerned with railing against rules as if they were unruly children? Or should the hated Camarilla be nudged towards this. Given some proof for the existence of something truly antedeluvian? Because the elders know that behind the facade of public snubbing, there are factions inside the Camarilla’s higher chambers who are very much silently preparing for, and even sometimes waging, a war against the oldest of horrors.

And their scholars, compromising the hated Tremere, would undoubtedly find some evidence they cold use, should they “accidentally” stumble upon the remains of the House of Bones.

But would it be worth it?
Would they be focused enough on the obvious terror to miss some smaller, yet also critical, pieces of Clan lore?

Decisions. Decisions.
It’s time to change and form the world again.