"Bikers Welcome, Ladies Drink Free"

by Octopi Mills

Almost twenty years ago I recall a tale  dealing with a legend in certain circles; of Ministry's Al Jourgensen and his Buck Satan and the 666 Shooters country project, and it was told like a good story by some and became as a tall tale, and nothing seemed to ever manifest from these phantom cowboys. Thus the folkloric and mythic Buck Satan and his 666 Shooters were allowed to ride unwritten in the etheric tides of mind and thought within the audience's brains, untold and without a narrator...And now it is then unveiled and unmasked; that Buck Satan has rode into town and his new album is entitled, Bikers Welcome Ladies Drink Free...It has even said in the promo that the project was "blessed" by Buck Owens before his death and there is a wide list of known outlaws in the credits, which adds more glow to the score, or at least something of merit and of reverence, even to someone who is not the scholar of country music...

As the horses blaze off I see not fire from their hooves nor the great aura of  valid horsemanship; there are no sparks from their hooves as the first song rings out awkwardly to me, and I am left confounded at the second song, and something is not at ease in me by the third-as if these cowboys have lost their way, and I feel shame for feeling this at moments; for these long riders and the journey, and for not knowing them when they arrive at this very town of destination. It is almost like they were killed somewhere in this folkloric time before, and have arrived in some strange undeath that has made them the subject of subterfuge or of some damnable artifice. .The music only comes across as bad, country inspired cornbreadery. There is some comedy in the form  the subjects and themes, which thus far are of debauchery, drug and of drink,Though I am not laughing, nor do I find the return or credential authority of this Buck Satan fellow and his riders, and I denounce the whole thing as a hoax, and make oath not to sell drink, drug or board to these strangers, and nor will there be lodge for his horses, which are the great carriers of myth and undeath. Doors are now locked and are bolted, and I hide in my own home from the riders in fear of the passages of time, and how they make us old and into monsters, and I wait for it to pass.

Now take heed, readers, and remember the days of childhood and it's very end, like lost, phantasmal toys in a dreamland that can never be bridged or recaptured; and in it's place is evil fairy world  of  electric signs that glow-will of the wisps and lost chances; and in its place is the strange and alien stepfather figure, who for reasons unknown, has brought us here. And I could feel it simply in the cover art, and the intuitive hunch i have has been accurate for me, and I will not slander these men any further nor allow this voice full range. I will simply say it is a gigantic disappointment,  and i feel more so to the listener, or to the dreamer, and I will not waste further time in scorn or scathing, though I wish to close, and say "Horseman, pass by. Return, Buck Satan, to the ground and do not rise, for you are dead, man- why, you died almost or around twenty years ago!"