‘The Election’ Published on GonzoToday

cropped-cropped-blogbanner13.jpgHere at Brad OH Inc., we’re happy to announce that our Single Serving StoryThe Election’ is now available for reading on GonzoToday.

A direct link can be found right here.

Further, the downloadable version of ‘The Election’ over at Smashwords is very fast approaching the 100 Downloads mark. That’s even more reason to celebrate! Click on the image below to access a free, downloadable copy of ‘The Election’ on Smashwords.

theelectioncoverWe want to take this occasion to thank everyone who’s downloaded it for your support—we truly appreciate it, and hope you enjoyed the read. For those of you who haven’t yet read ‘The Election’, now is as good a time as any. So click here, or on the image above, and check it out absolutely free in any e-reader format that suits you! Alternatively, you can view it (along with many other fantastic articles) in-browser over at our friends ‘GonzoToday‘ by clicking right here.

-Brad OH Inc.

‘Town of Truth’

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

Today we have another song/ poem from the intellectual property vaults of Brad OH Inc. For your enjoyment, we present the lost ‘Basic Human Indecency’ song: ‘Town of Truth’.

In the city with no lies

Things are not the same

Love is very rare there

There’s no such thing as blame

There are many ideas

And each one has a name

They name them for a dreamer

A man that’s not quite sane

In the city with no faith

There is no metaphor

They keep their eyes upon the ground

And guard dogs at their door

They know just where they came from

And where they’ll go forever more

Their science killed their magic

And life is such a bore

In the city with no soul

Each man is his own slave

He walks his path all by himself

Up to his lonely grave

Their medicine will cure a man

That he could never save

It can bypass the dreamer’s heart

Of which he only gave

But in the Town of truth

The eyes follow the mind

Dreams blossom to vision

Men smile and are kind

Yes the city may be ugly

But the town-folks they are blind…

-Brad OH Inc.

‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’ Update

cropped-cropped-blogbanner13.jpgHere at Brad OH Inc., we’re happy to announce that the beta-reads of our upcoming novel ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’ are coming to a close, and the book is moving into its final revision phases as we research publishers. This is a pretty exciting moment for everyone here at Brad OH Inc., as ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’ will be our first full length novel to seek publication.

To celebrate, we have a gift for all our dear readers—a sneak preview of ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’.

We Hope you enjoy it.Edgar's Worst Sunday Official CoverIn life, Edgar Vincent had always maintained one great passion—himself. A semi-successful composer, his rock star lifestyle suited him well, and his narcissistic outlook had always ensured he was a man with few regrets. Callous comments, thoughtless promiscuity, binge drinking, and excess sufficient to shame Caligula were standard Saturday night fare.

Sundays for Edgar had always been a painful haze of sickness and regret.

But when Edgar finds himself in the cloudy planes of the afterlife on one particularly bleak Sunday morning, he must put aside his ever-present hangover and try to figure out how he ever got to this point…and where he’s meant to be going now. But as Edgar traverses the spiritual realm, he comes to find that facing his death is hardly as difficult as facing himself.

However, heaven also presents Edgar with an unending smorgasbord of hedonistic entertainment, so he’s in no particular hurry to change his self-serving views. After all, considering that he’s already dead, what more could he possibly stand to lose?

Edgar’s Worst Sunday

A Novel by Brad OH Inc.

-Chapter 1: The Pearly Gate-

 For as long as he could remember, Sunday mornings for Edgar Vincent had been a painful haze of sickness and regret. On many such mornings he’d awoken, and pressing shaky forefingers against pounding temples to steady his vision, watched the world assemble itself into appalling mockeries of intentions he barely remembered having the night before.

From the delicate and well-rehearsed act of lightly removing a dainty arm which clung around him in its peaceful slumber, to gathering his scattered belongings from amid the less valued refuse of storm drains, Edgar had long since grown accustomed to Sunday’s special brand of cruelty.

Some had been spent poring over unending lists of indecipherable text messages and records of inappropriate outgoing calls as his brain turned over in the dry interior of his skull, planning an increasingly complex series of explanations and excuses.

Other Sundays had found him shielding his eyes as he stumbled down the radiant aisles of his local drugstore. Every time he found himself there, it seemed harder to find the essential combination of cover-ups to conceal the scars of his failed endeavours.

Once, he’d woken up comfortably in bed, only to find he had sorely tested the patience of its rightful owner the night before in explaining how certain he was that it was in fact his own. That morning had been a hasty retreat—frustrated especially when every attempted apology Edgar offered was rudely rebuffed by his unwilling host, who repeated only that he’d already heard enough bullshit from Edgar to last a lifetime.

Edgar’s friends liked to relate one story about an especially obscene Sunday morning involving his disturbing abuse of a freshly stolen ‘Slip-n-Slide’. However, Edgar had no recollection of this incident, and had long since settled on its falseness.

Yet still, none of that would ever compare to the day Edgar died.

An ongoing source of frustration for Edgar—in part because it had always acted as the herald to his greatest regrets—was the first ray of sun which crept surreptitiously through his blinds each Sunday morning, waking him from his dead sleep and calling him back into the realm of the accountable.

Today it was far worse. Even as the sun rose upon the scene of his demise, the glaring light penetrated his eyelids, searing into them and charring his very being. “Fuck off!” Edgar rolled over, but it was no good.

He felt the painful cracking as he forced his eyes open, his lashes slowly breaking apart to take in his surroundings and begin to decipher the sentence of this particular Sabbath. He had little enough to start with—his memory was a taint of flashing lights, loud voices, and the lingering sense of uncertainty that had always played the harbinger to poor decisions.

Glancing about, Edgar searched for the usual suspects, but found them sorely lacking. Where he instinctually expected dirty alleys and broken bottles, he found only pristine white, as if he’d somehow awoken in an unsullied arctic tundra—which would be a first even for him.

Dragging a rough hand across his face and burrowing the heels of his palm into each eye in turn, he slowly pushed himself up to one side as the pain in his head sloshed about like the unwanted remains in a discarded highball glass.

“Fucking hell,” Edgar mumbled, his deep voice breaking the otherwise perfect silence as he steadied himself, trying to wrestle up any certain account of the previous night’s decisions. “Bad,” he speculated, “…they were definitely very bad.”

Very few memories came—an indistinct image of a distant building, tall and ominous, yet its recollection filled Edgar with an unusual sense of longing. Beyond that were only vague flashes of bars and lights, bits of laughter and the thrill of alcohol passing over lips. These swirled about in their regular pantomime, sliding slowly in and out of the familiar haze which always preceded his blackouts. There was little more…just the building far off in front of him, and a strange sense of imbalance. Imbalance, then fear—terrible, paralyzing fear.

After that, his memories faded into nothing but a strange, calming sense of understanding. In the end, he was still left with no guess as to his present whereabouts.

Mustering his strength, Edgar inhaled deeply. The air was sweet, like half-remembered childhood nature-walks. All was still and peaceful, and the temperature seemed to match his body perfectly; a comforting bath embracing his tired body. He struggled uneasily to his feet.

Everything was white. White…and very bright. Wherever he looked, Edgar was blinded by the brilliant light. Squinting against its intrusion and grinding his dry lips, he found that his mouth tasted like stale cigarettes and whiskey. Only one flavour short of the trinity, he noted.

“Where am I?” Edgar wondered aloud as he forced himself into motion—with such a homogenous environment, one direction seemed as good as the rest. His only certainty was that he was ready to move on from wherever he was. “So much damn white!”

Straining his eyes against the unearthly glare, he managed to discern a vast outline in the distance, and continued on, feeling somewhat encouraged.

His hands were weak and clumsy as he reached down to straighten out his jeans—which he was surprised to find splendidly clean. Swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat, Edgar slowed his pace and passed his hands carefully over his body, instinctively falling into his familiar Sunday morning check: keys, wallet, phone, shoes, hair, teeth…all there. Better than he could have hoped.

With his sense of relief growing, he lifted a hand up to his eyes to fend off the glare, and determined to get on with his day.

The titanic object ahead was much closer already; far too close for the short time he’d been walking. It now encompassed the entirety of his vision: tall, impenetrable, and…golden.

What the…Edgar took a hesitant step forward, then another. The obstruction grew clearer with each trembling step, until with a splitting headache and gaping jaw, he found himself staring at an endless golden gate extending beyond sight in both directions.

With spires stretching upward before disappearing into the white like a plane losing itself in the clouds, the gate stood as the undeniable centerpiece to Edgar’s strange morning. Behind him, reality seemed to drop away into a disconcerting fog of light, and he shuddered at the thought of turning back now, feeling as if to do so would be to lose himself forever.

It took only a few more steps for Edgar to reach the gate, where he found the door—the only one visible along the entire stretch—waiting directly in front of him. For all the pomp and flair of the wall, the entryway was a simple latticework of gold and pearl, forming two double doors of standard size. Both stood wide open.

A tall man waited directly beside the entry with serene patience. Edgar hadn’t noticed him until that very moment, and was caught quite off-guard. The stranger’s silvery hair was cropped short, and his casual white clothing blended perfectly with the luminous haze which surrounded them. He eyed Edgar with a knowing expression.

Tensing, Edgar tried to shake off the mixed senses of dread and guilt which crept through him under the man’s pacified gaze. Only after an uncomfortably long wait did he accept that he would need to be the one to break the silence.

“Am I in…”

The man smiled, an old and understanding gesture, but only continued to watch Edgar reassuringly through his piercing grey eyes.

“…heaven?” Edgar finished, with only the faint hint of a blush appearing on his smooth-shaven cheeks.

“If you like.” The man’s voice was deep, yet not old. It was strong, but timeless—the creaking of a great oak in a passing storm.

“Then, I’m dead?” Edgar pushed, swearing a solemn oath that his friends would pay dearly if this proved to be some elaborate ruse.


“And this is the afterlife?”

“It is as you say.”

Rolling his dark brown eyes, Edgar suddenly realized the shortcoming of his previous effort at taking inventory. Reaching back once more, he was relieved to find his cigarettes in their customary place. The pack was full as he flipped the lid open and drew one out…which seemed odd after a night of what he could only surmise to be prodigious drinking.

“Heaven…Jesus Christ.” Flicking his lighter to life, he took a long drag.

The man maintained his composure despite Edgar’s blasphemy. No uncomfortable grimace, no hasty, embarrassed self-blessing. Not even a damned ironic chuckle. Something was very wrong; Edgar never failed to get a rise out of those who thought they knew better.

“So then, Pete, is it?” Edgar waited briefly for a response, but finding himself disappointed, continued. “I suppose you’re meant to read from my life-book? Tally my sins; decide if I can enter…all that?”

“The door is open to you.”

Stoic bastard, thought Edgar. “Now that’s just lazy. I’m pretty sure it’s your entire purpose to recount the story of my life, and frankly, that stands to be the most enjoyable part of this whole debacle.”

“You know your story better than I, Mr. Vincent.”

The smoke rushed from Edgar’s nostrils like the trail of a falling airliner, dancing about the strange man’s face. “Don’t call me that.”

“As you say,” the man replied, offering an apologetic nod.

“If this is really heaven, why the hell am I getting in? Priests have actually told me I’m going to hell…more than once! Do you even have a list? Cause I’ve got to say man, your standards seem pretty damn low.”

“My standards are not the issue,” the man answered, his tone never fluctuating.

“Oh fuck you!” Edgar was irate now. Debauchery he cherished. Disrespect he could stomach. Even open ridicule could be endured. “You call this heaven? Clouds and golden gates? Humourless old men with no relevant answers? This isn’t heaven, it’s just…it’s fucking…cliché!” he spat the last word like he’d just drank deeply from his own snakebite.

The man did not respond; his only answer a sympathetic smile.

Edgar finished his cigarette with one last pull and flicked the butt down into the fog at the man’s feet, where it died with a serpentine hiss. He finally decided—much to his chagrin—that he would be forced to relent. “Ok, I’ll cooperate. What am I meant to do?”

“You’ve already done all you were ever meant to Edgar. The rest is up to you.”

Such starry-eyed sincerity always left Edgar with an urge to spike the drink of whatever naive nitwit had the gall to hold onto such childish delusions. Rolling his eyes again, trying to be more noticeable this time, he reached back and grabbed his cigarette pack. Opening it up, he glanced down to find it still full. “Oh God…”

“No,” the man chimed in, and Edgar was certain he detected a flicker of amusement behind his calm repose.

“Well,” Edgar acquiesced, remembering a time tested truth—when the realities of Sunday were too harsh, a strategic retreat back to Saturday was only a few bottles away. “…does heaven at least have a bar?”

“If you wish.” The man nodded, and gracefully extended a long arm to gesture through the gate.

“Well, that’s a start,” Edgar admitted. “If you’ll excuse me Petey, I’ve got a toast to make to a beautiful son-of-a-bitch who died before his time.” With that, he passed heedlessly under the intricate pearl inlay of the gate, and walked with only a mild stagger off into the bright nothing beyond…

-Brad OH Inc.

‘A Song for Alec’

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampToday we have another song/ poem from the intellectual property vaults of Brad OH Inc. For your enjoyment, we present the lost ‘Basic Human Indecency’ song: ‘A Song for Alec’.

Old Alec McPhee
Was a man of the sea
He’d traveled all over the globe
But now his boots sat
In a house on a road
Where old Alec shouldered his load

He moved into the house
To care for his family
Who offered him no word of thanks
He worked for the army
To pay for his children
But poor men don’t rise through the ranks

Every day he worked hard
Every night he lay cold
His dreams and his future denied
Old Alec sat
In a chair at a table
And looked out his window and cried

Old Alec walked down
To the water one night
Kept walking as it reached his chest
He carried with him
The clothes on his back
Some memories and left all the rest

Walked into the water
Up past his neck
Through the water he pushed out so fast
Away from the land
Out into the water
Alec walked away from his past

A man that is living
Must live in the present
A man that has run carries shame
But a man that’s found dead
Will live on in memory
And not scar the worth of his name

Alec turned around
With the water at his nose
And knew he had made a mistake
Remembered his duty
To care for his children
And knew there was no choice to make

The sounds of his life
Were silence or screaming
His friends from the past never called
His kids barely knew him
His wife didn’t love him
Alec’s house was no home at all

His family was cruel
As if sent by the Gods
To punish him for all his sin
But they needed a man
To survive in this world
And damned if it wouldn’t be him

Old Alec walked dripping
Into his kitchen
And up to his wife for a hug
She shrugged him away
And tossed him a towel
And told him to stay on the rug

In his chair by the table
He looked out the window
As dreams of the past filled his head
He stared at the ocean
And knew he’d been foolish
For he was already long dead

A man he will live
For the Gods that he chases
And see them wherever he’ll roam
And he’ll chase the shadows
Make gifts into shackles
And a prison out of a home

Alec can you find
Alec does it seem
Alec won’t you learn
That you’re chasing dead dreams

Alec are you lost
Alec are you blind
Alec don’t you know
You’ve lost more than you’ll find…

-Brad OH Inc.

Yours Truly

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

I’ve missed you.

I know that may come as a surprise, given my apparent absence. But you’ll have to trust that I’ve held you close in my thoughts, no matter how distant I may have seemed at times.

And it certainly has been a while, I won’t deny it. I’ve been quite busy, although explaining the nature of my work might be a little too heavy at the moment. But you’ve been busy too. Yes, you certainly have. Things have changed around here, even more than I might have imagined.

Not all for the worse mind you. No, I’ve seen some things since my return that have brought a much needed smile to my face—and that’s a rare thing indeed these days, I confess. The decoration I’m a bit split on, but there’s a lot beyond that to appreciate. You’ve had some great ideas, no doubt about it, and there have been moments when you really lived up to your potential.

…It’s just that they’re so damn rare.

Part of it may be my fault, I know—I’ve been derelict in my duties. In truth, I’d been hoping my presence was no longer quite so imperative.

I see now that I was misled. You’ve had a rough go of it lately. It’s hard to say where it all started to go wrong, but it’s far gone now, and it’s time we faced the truth.

I’ll start by apologizing once more for my distance. You deserved some assurance that I still remembered my promise. More importantly, you clearly needed it.

If I’m being entirely honest—and I am, without fail—I actually thought I’d left you with enough to get by. I gave you my word, and I told you everything you needed to know. I tried to make it as simple as I could, but even the clearest instructions grow blurry with the passage of time. And it has been a long time, to say the least.

You must have known I’d be watching though. If not, you should have.

I watched as you forgot who your family was, and turned your back on all the things which really mattered. I saw when you began to use me as a source of justification rather than strength. That’s really what hurt me the most.

What we had was a beautiful thing; at least I thought it was. But you’ve let your passion ferment into a bitter brew, and the intoxication it caused within you has become a blight on everything we once had. We never used to be about the fancy things, but now it’s all you seem to remember about me.

When I first laid eyes on you, I couldn’t help but adore your every fault. All your naïve desires were a wonder to me, and I revelled in your successes and failures alike, as each one made you more and more…you. The way you could be so content in your own head, the way you appreciated everything around you. I lived vicariously through you in some ways, and I adored your passion for creation. I could see myself in that.

But you’re so angry now, so defensive. It seems like whenever my name comes up, you’re ready for a battle. The constant anger is shocking—it’s almost like you wanted to keep me away. Things are different I know, but you can handle it without the blood and teeth and bile. I know you can, because I know you.

Still, I don’t blame you for being bitter. You needed more from me, when I only wanted you to find your own way. You called my name, and I didn’t answer. I tell myself that you needed to learn for yourself, but I know that’s only half true.

I’m not sure what I intended by reaching out again. When I left, I was certain that things could never change between us. Now, I only wish they could once more. You’ve grown unwieldy in my absence, and managed to become something entirely detestable to me. But it works two ways, and I know in truth that the change was at least in part because of my absence.

So what to do now?

It comes down to needs, I suppose. Needs, and wants. I want things to go back to how they were, but I know it’s unlikely. What do you want from me? I can scarcely imagine. Some assurance? Some comfort? I can offer neither. The road is long and hard, and I cannot carry you for all of it.

Maybe the cause is the cure as well. If nothing else, I’d like you to speak of me without the rage, without the need to do battle in the vainglorious hope of proving to others what you doubt in yourself. If that’s too much, then I’d rather you not speak of me at all.

Forget about me.

That’s all I can ask now.

We had a good run together. Great even, at times. But it’s clear we’re beyond each other now. The longer you hold onto the past, the greater damage you do to your present, and I worry that your time is growing short.

So let me go. Just pretend I never existed. Forget my words and burn my letters. Tell yourself you never needed me. Scream from the mountains that you’d be better off without me, that you are beautiful and worthy and glorious just because you are.

…Because you are.

Please, don’t ever forget it. And more import still, please don’t prove me wrong.

Yours Truly…

-Brad OH Inc.

Album Review: Insane Clown Posse’s ‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Lost’

The Gentleman Juggalo LogoOn April 28th, 2015 Insane Clown Posse’s Violent J celebrated his 43rd birthday. This is no trivial accomplishment. With a childhood steeped in gang violence and accentuated by poverty, Violent J (aka: Joseph Bruce) may be lucky to have made it even beyond 20.

But something happened along the way which changed Violent J’s life forever. He formed a band. Along with his childhood friend Joey Ustler (aka: Shaggy 2 Dope), J built the Insane Clown Posse from the bones of defunct street gang Inner City Posse.

On October 18th, 1992, ICP released their debut full length album, ‘Carnival of Carnage’. The first in an album series known as the ‘Joker’s Cards’, ‘Carnival’ set ICP onto their lifelong musical odyssey. The Joker’s Cards are a series of thematic albums, each revealing some aspect of the listener’s inner-self—they display moral quandaries and psychic terrors like so many carnivalesque freak-shows.

Since then, ICP’s career has stood as a blazing contradiction to the ‘mainstream’ music industry. With the formation of their record label, ‘Psychopathic Records’, Joe and Joey have created an underground industry for themselves, bringing up countless other acts along the way.

With this sense of purpose, the lives of these two Detroit youth have morphed from nightmares to dreamscapes. Both describe their lives now as being filled with all the happiness and fulfillment they could have ever dreamed of. For more information about the genesis of the Insane Clown Posse, see the Brad OH Inc. article ‘Circular Journey’ (Link).

This all brings us back to April 28th—as this year, Violent J’s birthday also marked the release of the 3rd Joker’s Card of the second deck—‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Lost’.

indexClick image above to buy the album.

‘Lost’ is only one half of ‘The Missing Link’, with the other half—‘Found’—dropping later this year, on July 31st.

Like all Joker’s Cards, there is a very specific theme behind ‘The Missing Link’. As a whole, ‘The Missing Link’ refers to our internal link to belief—our connection to and faith in whatever keeps us on the right track.

Specifically, ‘Lost’ is about the experience of having no belief. Its dark tales tell of loss, death, and torment—the experience of any soul living in such a depraved world without any belief to buffer against the daily anxieties of such a life.

With tracks such as ‘Lost’, ‘Apocalypse’, and ‘Vomit’ painting hellish stories of misplaced anger and suffering, ‘Lost’ is accordingly one of the darkest albums the Clowns have ever released.

Without long-time producer Mike E. Clark at the helm, ICP have instead placed their faith in the talents of Psychopathic collaborators Mike P, Michael ‘Seven’ Summers, Brian Kuma, and one of the label’s up-and-coming stars, James ‘Young Wicked’ Garcia. This results in a daring change to the sound. While every album has certainly represented a significant shift in musical style—ICP have continued to explore their artistic range even after nearly 25 years together—this stands as one of the most radical departures for the group yet.

Marked by the heavy use of DJ scratching and industrial-style bass drops, the backing tracks are fast and heavy—contributing an often frantic pace to an album about the madness of lacking a sense of purpose. The disc plays at times more like a soundscape than an ordered collection of songs, with lyrics often sampled and repeated over and over—the usual raps slipping on many occasions into something closer to a Gregorian chant. In this way, the album is reminiscent of ICP protégé-band Twiztid’s stellar 2009 release- ‘W.I.C.K.E.D.’.

Garcia’s efforts deserve special credit here. Contributing many background vocals and several choruses including on the songs ‘How’ and ‘I See the Devil’, Garcia brings a fresh and welcome sound to the album—acting often as the distant voice of hope amidst the dark rumblings of ICP’s verses.

ICP’s delivery here is significant as well. While never competing amongst the most technically skilled rappers, the Clowns have always turned out crisp lyrics meshing well with their energetic beats. Not here. While frantic at times, the beats seldom flirt with anything close to ‘energy’—opting rather for a more frenetic, plodding, and often vulgar feel.

ICP’s raps follow suit perfectly. When not stuck in repetitive loops, the lyrics often come in disjointed bursts, as if being made up on the spot by a mind too occupied with more pressing concerns. This is especially noticeable in the song ‘Shock’, and fits well with the theme of being unable to control your own deranged impulses, despite how off-putting it can seem at first.

This attention to detail is consistent throughout the record.

While the intro can be somewhat brazen in its repetition, and even disturbingly overt in hammering the point home—it does much to illustrate the earnest message behind this brooding album: Find something to believe in, or risk being lost. Despite this theme however, the album does little to provide any idea of just what one should believe. If internet memes are to be believed, ICP are a couple of evangelical Christians, and thus the easy conclusion would be faith in the Christian God.

But you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet, and this is a perfect example. While the ultimate message of how to find your way will inevitably be addressed on ‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Found’, a recent interview in ‘The Detroit News’ did a good job showing the flexibility of Violent J’s views on the matter:

“Faith, for ICP, isn’t about any particular religion; Bruce admits he’s never read the Bible. It’s about finding something to believe in, whether that’s in one’s relationship with their spouse, their children or with art.” (Source).

But this isn’t to say that ‘Lost’ is entirely bereft of guidance. Several songs cover the issues of false beliefs—Money, Sex, Power, and other such temptations which distract people from finding a true sense of purpose. In ‘Vomit’, ICP tell the stories of two people who used sex and money respectively as their guiding principles, and end up lost in the depths of hell as a result.

Notably missing from the album is the familiar sense of humour so ubiquitous to other ICP releases. The lyrics and concepts are consistently bleak, with only brief glimpses of hope in songs such as ‘How’, which laments the confusion of trying to live a decent life amid such lurid distractions.

The album is moreover barren of any deep metaphor—which of course requires belief, as covered in depth in the former Brad OH Inc. articles on ‘The Metaphorical Imperative’ (Part 1 and Part 2). In an indirectly humourous twist, the song ‘Falling Apart’ accordingly eschews metaphor entirely. It tells the story of a man literally falling apart—fingers and limbs snapping off as he tries in vain to keep himself together. The song is punctuated by a surprisingly earnest chorus, in which Violent J channels his inner Rock Star to ask ‘What’s become of me/ I’m falling apart…’.

It pays off wonderfully.

The rest of the album plays out as a series of macabre stories and scenarios depicting the pitfalls of a life devoid of meaning. In stark contrast to most other ICP albums, the protagonist’s endeavours seldom end well, as evidenced in the song ‘Flamethrower’, where the Clown’s characters are ultimately killed. This subtly negative detail is similar to many songs from the group’s 2004 release, ‘Hell’s Pit’.

To me, one of the especially interesting things about this album is that it’s really not the album ICP probably ‘should’ have made at this point. Based on the huge surge of mainstream attention they garnered from songs like 2009’s ‘Miracles’, contrasted against the comparatively underwhelming reception they’ve received in the last few years, it would have made commercial sense to create a much more goofy album; ripe for public lampooning.

Instead, the Clowns opted to make a brazenly sincere album, focused on earnest meaning with a great sense of personal introspection. In theory, it’s the ‘wrong’ album to release just now, and that’s part of what makes it so damn interesting.

‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Lost’ is a daring album and bold new direction for ICP. Its heavy themes and plodding delivery often make for an uncomfortable listen, but that’s just the point. As is their wont, ICP have focused very intently on creating an LP that fits with their own artistic priorities rather than mass-appeal. This shouldn’t be surprising, as the band itself may be seen as the very ‘Link’ which raised Joe and Joey away from the fate of most children born to inner city poverty and set them on their purposeful path to happiness and fulfillment.

‘Lost’ is a dark, moody album. It’s not going to cheer anyone up, and this era in ICP’s career may be remembered as one of the least traditionally pleasant—challenging us with a barrage of negativity before moving on to the inevitably lighter tone of the ‘Found’ album. But ‘Lost’ does provide an important impetus for all of us to consider what really matters in our lives. It’s imperative that we take the time to recognize and cherish these things. Otherwise, our own Missing Link may never be ‘Found’.

The_missing_link_FOUND‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Found’ is out on July 31st, 2015.

A Note to the Reader: This is the first ever album review from Brad OH Inc. We hope you’ve enjoyed this new avenue, and encourage all of our fans to reply in the comments section with their thoughts on the review, or suggestions for other albums to review in the future.

-Brad OH Inc.

‘Circular Journey’

At Brad OH Inc. we can relate to a good underdog story. After all, you don’t become a corporation without climbing over your share.

Today, for your reading pleasure, we here at Brad OH Inc. present an older work for your consideration. This was a piece written for a psychology class, back when our personhood referred only to ourself. This work is a psycho-biographical study of Joseph Bruce, known as Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse (ICP). The piece is written as a study of the artistic process experienced by Violent J, as viewed through the lens of ‘Terror Management Theory’, a psychological perspective originating from the works of Ernest Becker.

More information about Terror management theory can be found at:


More information about the insane clown posse can be found at:

Insane Clown Posse

Or visit them at:

ICP- Facebook

As ever, the free e-reader version is available at the Smashwords.com link below. Thanks for visiting Brad OH Inc. and remember to share anything you like—after all, a good reader is judged not by what they read, but by how many of their friends read it too.

Circular Journey Cover

Circular Journey- Smashwords

-Brad OH Inc.