Discos metalicos mexicanos.

I just cued up Bloodbath's Nightmares Made Flesh via Windows Media Player and noticed that the cover art supplied by the internet doesn't match that of the digipak I own. I suppose it's because I purchased said album (which is a solid chunk of old-school death metal played by some of the finest death metal artists from Sweden, including- and give me a second to run charmap so I can cough up the proper umlauts- Peter Tägtren, Anders Nyström, and Dan Swanö, among others) in Mexico, where it was released under license by Scarecrow records. I noticed at the time that said label had released a fair amount of worldwide metal, which was excellent. I'd say that knowing that countries like Mexico have dedicated metal distributors is a refreshing and uplifting thought, but in light of my experience with heavy metal in Latin America, any such statement would be patronizing; hell, I've had an easier time finding fairly obsure stuff in standard-issue record stores in Venezuela and Mexico than I have in the States, and some of the shit I used to find in the used CD stores in Caracas was flat-out fuckin' absurd. One simply did not find used copies of A Blaze in the Northern Sky in popular record stores in the US in 1996.

Appending a tangent to a tangent (which is what this entire entry is, seeing as how I really don't know why I even started writing it), I was slightly disappointed that when I visited Mexico D.F. last year that I didn't meet any other headbangers. I reckon I should have spent less time loafing around my folks' apartment if I'd really wanted to socialize, which I didn't, except in hindsight. And, let's face it, one doesn't meet metalheads that often anywhere. (Well, at least anywhere I go- my brother said that the train station in Stockholm was crammed with 'em. Now that's cool.)

Speaking of the folks, they're coming into town Friday, and they're actually sticking around instead of heading up to Uncle Smitty's place. I'm glad I know 'em well enough to not feel any great need to constantly entertain them; as long as mi madre gets to do some shopping and drink some wine, and I keep my pops supplied with coffee and strolls around the neighborhood, all will be well. Man, I can't wait!

*I've been informed that the aforementioned metal-centric train station was not in Stockholm, but Gothenburg. Pardon my failing memory.