I had this fucker written in my head long before I’d so much as heard a note: they’re master rehashers, old men trying to reapply the dead skin they shed decades ago when shorter songs, slower tempos and straight-laced hooks moved into the vacant slot their balls left behind. And once I heard The Day That Never Comes I felt completely justified.

I more than expected the new Metallica album to suck. I knew it would.
And, of course, I was wrong.

The guys over at above-thefold captured this video of Rage Against The Machine doing an impromptu a capella performance of Bulls On Parade and Killing In The Name before a massive crowd outside the Republican National Convention in Minneapolis on Tuesday, after officials refused to allow them onstage to play.

Grabbing a bullhorn, Zack De la Rocha led the crowd through the sing-along, accompanied by Tom Morello making retarded guitar sounds with his mouth. The performances are understandably laughable, but the message resonated clearly: Rage Against The Machine are a bunch of goddamned hippies.

Just kidding. Once the “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me”s died down, Zack and Co. then joined the massive crowd in a peaceful march toward the Xcel Energy Centre, which triggered over 100 arrests.

Here’s a sizzling little clip from last night’s Daily Show. Stewart lays out a few classic examples of the GOP’s fair-weather fury and entirely flexible ideals when it comes to VP nom Sarah Palin, but he leaves most of the talking to the attack dogs themselves…

I’m not going to bullshit you. This is, in all likelihood, the most biased review you’ll ever read. I’m fine with that, and you should be too, because Electric Six are supreme champions of everything unholy and awesome about rock n’ roll. If you’re not on the train already, it’s time you got on board.

Together, this sextet of hearty cocksmen rewrite the periodic table of party rock. They cause photosynthesis at night. They are ridiculous refined, a wide-eyed, sex-charged disco-metal beast, voracious for that sacred cow.

They are Electric Six, and they just finished their fifth album. It’s called Flashy, and it’s a dynamite bacchanal of the highest order.

Christmas morning arrives. You stumble excitedly down the stairs in your jammies, and your leaping heart cracks three of your ribs, puncturing your lungs as you see that long, rectangular package under the tree. You ignore the blinding pain and lunge for the box, figuring you can get in a few songs before drowning in your own blood. But as you tear open the wrapping paper, the realization that you’ve been swindled in God’s name sets in. This looks like Guitar Hero, but it’s not Guitar Hero. It’s Guitar Praise.

Your final gurgling moments are spent clawing at your mother’s face, spewing a sputtering mess of blood and words that sounds like “blurrrgh… cheap… gurruuurgmother… fuuurrglefucker!” You fall. You will never get to play the one thing that may have saved your rotten, sinning soul.