Playing Jesus

With cyclones in Georgia, snow in the part of Nepal that don't get snow, and Blackwater Security making deals up and down the coasts to protect (re: shoot) us from ourselves when the next judgment strikes, apocalpyse is here and now and it is up to us in generation prefiX (fuck this gen Y bullshit) to soundtrack our descent into the void of becoming. Good ol' Iowan boys Raccoo-oo-oon seem to have constructed a veritable doomsday tranmittor, 'cuz their new album, Behold Secret Kingdom, is equally terrifying and transcendant, like the feeling of one's spirit excising itself from its charred shell in the aftermath of Hiroshima (speaking of which, for those thinking about renting the post-apocalyptic Japanese fantasy flick Dragon's Head, you now have no need--movie sucks, now it's time to watch The Road Warrior). Anywho, I've been chewing on this album like curd for the past week, getting guitar strings stuck in between my front teeth and gobs of drums/noise jamming up my molars, and I gotta say: I like the feeling. Annoying song titles aside, these dodes seem to have truly obliterated the subject-object DMZ and become one with Nature. Turns out, the guitar is God's blowhorn. Maybe it's all the Novalis and Naturphilosophie I've been guzzling, but this album is hitting the right place (re: the g-spot) at the right time (re: the end of the world).
Raccoo-oo-oon-Antler Mask
Raccoo-oo-oon-Tail at Prospect Peak

Well, on that note, here's a bomber from the phrench prophet of doom himself, Olivier Messiaen. I'm personally partial to his organ works, as last year I would put these suckers on and stand naked on my balcony overlooking the town's post office, screaming "Ship this!" while saluting the flag with my dong.
Olivier Messiaen-Apparition de l'Église Éternelle