Songs That Piss Me Off (On Albums I Like)

Here's the thing about anger that people don't often talk about; it takes energy. To truly hate something is to invest yourself in that hatred, actively choosing to spend your energy on that act. It's a lot to commit to, and as such I don't think of myself as an angry person. Part of that is a continuation of my old belief that I simply didn't have emotions, but it's also a manifestation of the fact that many things we hate are easy enough to avoid.

When it comes to music, avoiding the songs that piss us off is easy now. We don't live in the age of vinyl of cassette, so hitting the skip button or simply not loading the questionable song onto our devices makes a lot of this discussion irrelevant. That being said, those songs still exist, and they still mar albums we enjoy listening to, so perhaps it's worth giving a few words to explaining why they are little pock marks that otherwise serve as a blight on the beauty of a wonderful album.

Here are a few of those songs that fit the bill for me.

Tonic - Irish

In recent times, I have come to realize "Head On Straight" is my favorite Tonic album, and the one I reach for more than the other three combined. I love the songs, and the sound of the record, but I can honestly say I have not listened to "Irish" in nearly twenty years, and I have no intention of ever listening to it again. It is easily the worst Tonic song, even including the couple they made for soundtracks in their early years. Those have charm, "Irish" does not.

The problem with this song is threefold. Number one, it isn't a catchy song. Number two, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Number three, it is entirely about a heritage I do not share. That last one is a 'me' issue, I realize, but Irish history is not a subject that is going to hold much appeal for me. Heck, I barely give a damn about my own heritage. The other two points are the bigger issues. On an album that is souped-up and as heavy as Tonic would be, the shift to an acoustic folk song is jarring, and completely out of place. It doesn't sound like it belongs on the record, as there is nary a hint of it anywhere else. "Celtic Aggression" had similar undertones, but still sounded like it belonged among the "Lemon Parade" songs.

Worst of all is simply the fact it isn't memorable. The song is repetitive, droning, and without any of Tonic's usual sticky melodies. It drags on for five minutes doing the same thing again and again, as if the sands of the hourglass are desiccants drying up my will to live. That's a bit dramatic, but oh how the album would be better if it switched places with "Let Me Go", so I didn't have to remember to hit the skip button. This is the only time I can say I truly dislike a Tonic song, but oh how I dislike it.

Meat Loaf - California Isn't Big Enough

It took me a long time to come around on "Hang Cool Teddy Bear". The album is weird, unfocused, and a hodgepodge of songs cobbled together that do not in any way tell the 'story' the album supposedly has. I doubt any of the writers had a clue they were submitting songs for a possibly conceptual album. So what makes this song so objectionable? It comes in the form of one line from the chorus:

"I can barely fit my dick in my pants."

That's right, a sixty year old man was singing a song about the size of his unit, and the tightness of his pants. Aside from the easy solution in buying pants that fit properly, it was a line so ridiculous I found myself embarrassed to be listening to the song. In fact, I think it was the main reason the album took so long to grow on me. It falls into the same category as songs telling me about how hard people rock; if it's true, you don't have to say it. Furthermore, who in the heck wanted to think about Meat Loaf's junk, whether literal or in-character?

The song came to us from the mind behind The Darkness, which explains so much. A lot of people think Meat Loaf has always been an embarrassment, but this was the only time I actually agreed. But of course, when the time came to seek out a copy of the album, I made sure to get the version that included the song. I hate that I did, but I think I would hate if I didn't, so this song elicits nothing but hate, on many levels.

Weezer - Butterfly

Why do I hate this simply little acoustic number that ends "Pinkerton"? That's a... delicate thing to talk about. When I was cataloging the various ways that the album is a toxic bit of misogyny, it dawned on me for the first time that "Butterfly" might be the worst song of them all, because of how it hides what I hear as a dirty secret. "Butterfly" can be read as a rape allegory. Yes, really.

Despite sounding like a song about lost love, the lyrics give a very different impression when you think about what certain words mean. The imagery is of pinning butterflies to a board, to display their bright colors after they have died and been caught. That's nice, but think about what it means to pin down an object of affection. That's bad enough, but then Rivers says "I did what my body told me to/I didn't mean to do you harm". Um... excuse me?

Those two bits of information give me the impression of forcible assault, or at the very least a lack of concern for consent. Whether we're taking the generous interpretation or not, the song creeps me out. Rivers' fetishizing and woman-blaming throughout the record are indeed bad, but I can generally look at them as a function of a time in which we were more tolerant of that kind of functional disrespect (and yes, writing a song listing names of women you slept with is disrespectful). "Butterfly" can't be written off so easily. That bit of toxicity is so egregious it should have been seen as being too far even then, much like how so many of the sex comedies of the 80s and 90s were actually making light of various forms of abuse and assault.

I don't think any song has ever made me feel worse about myself than "Butterfly" did, both because it took me so long to see all of the toxicity in "Pinkerton" that could have been slowly poisoning my attitude over the years, but also because I still find myself listening to it every so often. Even knowing how dangerous "Pinkerton" is, and being aware not to take anything away from it, I can't help but feel it's part of me and my history.

Fuck you, Weezer.

My (Musical) Love Means Something, Dammit

I often joke that love is a 'four-letter word'. It's a line I'm particularly fond of as an explanation for why I'm not sure I have ever felt the emotion, if I am even capable of it. Love is something words cannot quite capture, but still we try to convey the power of the emotion to others, even if it is just to convince ourselves we aren't crazy for feeling it. For as long as humans have existed, art has been made to show the effects of love to people who cannot reach into our hearts, souls, and minds to see someone or something the way we do.

We can define love as "a profound and caring affection", which is to say that love is different than 'like', which is a surface-level enjoyment that also has its place. Love is something special, something deeper, something that cannot be given to everyone without being cheapened beyond recognition.

One of my core beliefs is that we all have a finite amount of love we are capable of. That amount will differ based on the nature of our souls, but it's impossible to truly love everyone or everything and mean it in each case. Love is reserved for the truly special, the ones we would feel incomplete without. Love is not for those things that flash in our vision, give us a quick smile, and then fade away like a wisp of a smoke-show burned up and burned out on a breezy day.

When it comes to music, love is easier to quantify. We can make lists of bands and albums we claim to love, and we can tally up the numbers in ways we aren't able to do with personal relationships. This is helpful to catalog our feelings and organize our thoughts, but it's also a cause for concern. If our number is not just lower than most, but dramatically so, it can raise questions about what is wrong with us and why we don't connect to as much of the human experience as others.

That is certainly my experience with all of this. Every December, I see people making lists of their fifty (or even one hundred) favorite albums of the year. I also see them sitting in front of their collections of thousands upon thousands of albums. I look at them and I truly cannot comprehend feeling strongly enough about that much music to talk glowingly about it, let alone own physical copies. Most years, I'm lucky to be able to cobble together a full top-ten list without starting to think the last entry or two aren't going to last in my memory long enough to deserve the attention.

Are these people merely musically promiscuous? Or do they have standards so low raising the bar would require digging it out of the dirt?

My observation is that few people have ever given much thought to the subject of love. When I was studying philosophy, what struck me most was the realization we were spending so much time and energy trying to rationalize and explain the way we think life should be that we missed the fact most people are merely reactive. To take ethics as an example, we might sit down and weigh out the pros and cons of a few major decisions we have to make in our lifetime, but the day-to-day sorting of right and wrong is done through instinct. The theory I developed for myself was one with a technical term, but essentially boiled down to the majority of our concept of 'morality' being a highbrow attempt to rationalize our emotions. Politics works this way now, doesn't it?

That is to say love is something people claim because they felt something in their chest for a moment, without checking to see if it was heartburn. When you see people you know jump from one relationship to another, leaving behind a string of exes so numerous they could fill up a rosary used to pray to the gods of love, perhaps they are overestimating the level of attachment they had to all of their paramours. I can see this, since I am an outsider.

With music, the same thing happens. I have had many conversations (ok, arguments) with certain people over their nauseating level of fawning for nearly everything. These are people who will rate nearly everything they hear at least an eight out of ten. They are people who praise everything to such a degree their voice becomes worthless. If you've never given any indication you have standards, why would anyone listen to anything you have to say?

So yes, I proclaim love for far less music than most people you could be listening to. I consider that a good thing, though, because it means when I praise something I truly mean it, and I have given it thought. Just because a record is moderately enjoyable for a few minutes is not enough, love only comes when it is able to etch itself in either my mind or my heart.

So what in music do I love?

My first love was the music of Meat Loaf and Jim Steinman, as I have noted countless times over the years. Whether they were working together or separately, they embodied a love of melodrama few musicians outside of the theater have ever been capable of. For someone young who lived in his own head, and who even then knew he would only be able to imagine the scenarios Steinman was writing about, turning up the dial of absurdity was necessary for me to be able to see it in my own vision. My imagination fails me these days, but they screamed so loud the echoes are still audible when I am otherwise drowning in silence.

My deepest love is for Dilana, as I have also noted countless times over the years. My formative years were spent vacillating between being told by family not to bother looking for love and hearing my name mentioned so infrequently I wasn't entirely sure I existed. It was not a joke when I questioned if I had emotions at all, as I did not understand what was going on in my own head the way I do today. Dilana changed that with a voice that echoed so deeply it showed me the depths of my soul. Her ability to pour pain and love into every song was so strong it broke through the walls I put up to protect myself. She is more than music to me, she is a dear friend who reminds me there is a sweet flesh underneath my bitter rind.

I can also attest to love for Lzzy Hale. She has been honest about going through a journey of self-discovery that is told through her music, and I have been attempting much the same for myself. There is the physiological response to her voice, the electricity that runs down my nerves when I hear her belting out a gritty note, but it goes beyond that. There is a psychological component in feeling connected to someone else struggling to figure out how they integrate into the world, someone who is secure enough to tell dirty jokes while being utterly insecure about themselves. There is a kinship there that lets me think the knots of my mental wiring can be untangled someday, because someone else with the same component parts has managed the feat.

I love VK Lynne for being a conscience, for daring me to think about the music I listen to, and for letting me feel like the world of music has not passed me by. She embodies the archetype of bleeding your soul into your art, using her words and melodies to peel back the layers of her psyche. As the current of my own inspiration has slowed to a trickle, digging into her stories has allowed me to continue exploring aspects of philosophy and psychology that reveal nuances of my thinking I was only subconsciously aware of. She challenges me, and while I may not always rise to meet it, having an artist that feeds into the gift of what music can be is essential to keep my vision from losing focus, from blurring so much I can no longer see the point.

Love might end with that short list. Ronnie James Dio is dearly important to me as a voice, and a manifestation of my darker side, but his penchant for swords and dragons storytelling is a foreign language to me. John Popper and Blues Traveler opened my eyes to the cynicism within me, and he has written several songs that help me to tell my story, but that feels more like how the two points of a diameter are on the same circle despite being as far from each other as possible. Jakob Dylan and The Wallflowers are cherished for giving me the gift of my own poetry, but we are clearly the products of different generations.

The other true love I have right now comes in the form of my favorite album of all time, "Futures" by Jimmy Eat World. If love is that indescribable physical reaction we have to someone or something that draws us to be with them, I have that with the album. There are pieces of my psyche that are either missing or damaged, and that record is the salve that fills in the gaps. Finding the light when the sky is darkest is something we can't always do, but "Futures" guides the way. You can't pull yourself up by the bootstraps, nor can you dig your way out of your own grave. You need help to seed the black clouds to drop rain that washes away your doubts and fears. That is what "Futures" does for me, and it's why I can say I love the record.

I don't know about you, but I don't have the energy to spread love like dandelion seeds on the wind. This is enough for me. I don't need to point to thousands of albums or hundreds of bands to prove myself to anyone. Love is about how these people and things make us feel. I can say I've given this deep and contemplative thought, and I mean everything I say.

How many others can say the same?

Singles Roundup: Halestorm, Foo Fighters, Year Of The Goat, & Killswitch Engage

We've got a couple of big names, and one surprise, to discuss this week.

Halestorm - Rain Your Blood On Me

The first two singles told us this Halestorm record was going to be a different beast, and number three goes further in that direction. This is perhaps their most experimental song yet, throwing aside many of the conventions of a song to be released as a single. The focal point of the song is Lzzy's towering vocal that bellows the title, yet it is sung in a way that isn't aiming to be 'hooky' in a traditional way. She wails to release her emotions, as an almost blues riff that floats over the band's relative silence.

That gets punctuated by bursts of energy, where Lzzy spits out the lyrics at a rapid pace. The song is a start-and-stop that is a punctuated equilibrium, much like how our lives are not a smooth and continuous evolution toward our better selves. The rougher production feeds into this, with Joe's guitar fuzzy enough to tell us these are not songs going for the kill, but rather looking to expose the frayed energy of a mind trying to put itself back together.

It's a fascinating look into the journey, and a song that asks as many questions as it answers.

Foo Fighters - Today's Song

I feel so damn old when I hear mentions of this or that from my youth hitting thirtieth anniversaries. Foo Fighters have now reached that age, which is amazing to think about when you remember Kurt Cobain didn't reach that milestone in life. We've had Foo Fighters longer than we had Kurt. Wow.

At this stage, I'm not sure what to make of Dave Grohl. The last decade of Foo Fighters has been an odd stretch where it doesn't feel to me like he knows what he wants the band to be anymore. On the last record, he finally settled on recreating their early days. I didn't think it worked, and I don't think it works on this song either. The production tries to be the haze of the 90s, but it's a recreation rather than an honest expression. The song itself sounds old and tired, without the charm that turned them into one of the biggest bands in the world.

If this is who they are today, they're lucky they have the past to fall back on.

Year Of the Goat - Alucarda

Album number three is paramount when the first two didn't agree. Year Of The Goat's first album was a charming piece of vintage/occult rock. I loved that one, but the second album lacked a certain something. That means I'm not sure what to think of the upcoming third album, especially now that this song is out. Our first taste points us in a direction that hearkens back to the first album, where there's a feeling to their sound that to me gives the wink-and-nod impression they know this is all a bit cheesy. That's something I find necessary in this kind of music. Writing literally about black magic and demons is not only played out, but it's so disingenuous I struggle to find reasons why anyone wants to hear that stuff.

This song is perfectly Year Of The Goat. It sounds timeless without being a pastiche, sinister while still having fun. If this is an indication, they may have just righted the ship.

Killswitch Engage - Blood Upon The Water

Coming on the heels of a new album, it's an interesting decision to get an additional single so soon. While it was done for a charity, the timing will give the impression it was a song that didn't make it onto the record. That by itself would be fine, except for the fact the record was both not super long to begin with, and also dotted with some mediocre and forgettable tracks. This song is actually better than a few from the proper album, which actually works against the band. Rather than getting me excited about more songs in the future, it reminds me that "This Consequence" was a bit of a disappointment. Hearing this song, with its familiar sound and solid hook, is evidence the album could have been better by choosing a different track list. I don't think that's the impression the band wants to give, but in all honesty that's what I come away from it with.

Time Isn't A Flat Circle, Love Isn't A Pie Chart

How much of an artists catalog do we have to love in order to justify ourselves as a 'fan'?

It sounds like a silly question, but if you've spent any time around the music scene, you know all too well the gate-keepers out there who dictate the when, where, and how of being a fan. Open your mouth, and you will inevitably be told that 'real fans' like everything an artist does, or they own everything even if they don't like it all, or they will always prefer the 'classic' era to everything else. And so on and so forth.

Things get so ridiculous that people will sometimes even tell us that being a fan of music means you must listen to music a certain way. I have been told more than once that 'real' music fans listen to the drums, then the guitars, and they leave the lyrics for last.

That is complete and utter bullshit, of course, but it's the kind of bullshit that arises when you dare to disagree with people who are so pathetic they feel the need to control everyone else. We've all heard about those schmucks who go up to people wearing a band t-shirt and ask them to name more than one song, haven't we?

What makes this all the more frustrating is that we are treating art differently than we are the people who make it. When we fall in love with a person, we don't love everything about them. We love people in spite of their flaws and foibles, and the annoyances that come along with the fact no two people are ever exactly the same. We seem unable or unwilling to be as generous to art and artists, which is a phenomenon I can't quite explain.

To get back to the point; What percentage makes us a fan?

Am I a fan of Black Sabbath if I love the three albums they made with Ronnie James Dio so dearly, but I don't care in the slightest about the years with Ozzy or Tony Martin? I know there are people who look at it the other way around, who will say you can be a fan and love only Ozzy's era. It doesn't make much sense to divide things up where only one era matters and the rest don't, right?

Many fans of Van Halen will take the position that they are two different bands, and Sammy Hagar's era can be completely dismissed, even though the band was just as popular then. The truth about all of this is that people are making it up as they go along, trying to write a set of rules to justify whatever they already think. No one wants to be seen as contradicting themselves, so we find ourselves tied up in knots in an effort to have both ends of the string pointing in the same direction.

Here's the truth; a fan is anyone who finds enjoyment in someone's music. It doesn't matter if you have every song they've ever recorded, the handful of albums you like best, or just a greatest hits compilation. Music is not a competition, and you are not a 'better' fan for knowing more of the minutia than someone else. People who look at it that way are not just missing the point, they are actively working against their own interest. If you love an artist, and you want them to have even more fans and acclaim, ridiculing and putting down people who don't meet your strict definition of a fan is only going to push them away.

All of this was prompted as I was listening to Pink recently. As I have said many times, there are certain voices that elicit a physical reaction when I hear them. Pink is one of them, but unlike most of the others on that small list, my relationship with her music is not as deep or involved. I can't remember the last time I listened to one of her albums in full, and I have not been overly enamored by her recent work as the entirety of the pop music scene has drifted away from me.

However, there is a compilation of songs I absolutely adore. When I listen to songs such as "Just Like A Pill" or "Long Way To Happy", it feels like I love Pink as much as any artist. Thinking about life, we realize love is not a constant. It ebbs and flows, sometimes disappearing completely, always making us question our sanity for chasing it down. Some love is deep, some love is intense, and some love is imagined. They all leave the same impression on us.

I look at music proselytizers the same way as the religious sort; Why are they so insecure about their own beliefs that they need to convert everyone else to agree with them? Much like how the relationship with God is supposed to be personal and not a performance of public spectacle, our relationship with music is felt entirely within ourselves. We might find ourselves in a community sharing our thoughts and feelings, and bonding over what we share, but at the end of the day we only know the emotional stir within ourselves.

Music is very much like existentialism that way, and it's why I'm comfortable saying I'm a fan of Pink in whatever shape or form that happens to take. I would say anyone who wants to judge can save their breath, but I have a feeling they're stupid enough to need to be reminded to breathe anyway.

Album Review: Blind Equation - "A Funeral in Purgatory"

Today, we’re going to talk about the band Blind Equation and their new album “A Funeral in Purgatory.”  Well, we’re going to use their new album as a vehicle to actually talk about keeping an open mind and being willing to engage in new experiences, which feels increasingly important in a world that seeks to algorithmically keep us in our comfort zones, away from contrarian thinking.  So, really, we’re probably not going to talk a lot about Blind Equation, with all requisite apologies to them.

I am forty-two years old. (For those of you who didn’t click away immediately as soon as I said that, thanks for staying.)  I’ve been doing this, whatever this editorial exercise is that I’m engaging in, dare I pretentiously call it music journalism, for some seventeen years now.  It doesn’t feel too presumptuous or conceited to suggest that I could be regarded as an expert in my field.  I have a pretty good handle on a wide array of musical styles and genres, and I also have a fair grip on what I like, and what I look for, in new music.

It is inevitable that eventually there’s a sense of redundancy.  I’ll hear a new record, and I’m closed off to it, simply because it sounds like a couple hundred records I’ve heard before.  The thrill of unearthing a gem remains, but as I hear more and more gems, I can’t help but wonder what the value of novelty is, or what’s the intrinsic importance of good timing?  At least three times this year alone, I’ve listened to an album where I thought to myself “if I had heard this record before I ever heard Soilwork, would I like this album more?”  

(I promise we’re getting to Blind Equation.  Hang in there just a moment more.)

That gets into a thousand existential questions about music and fandom and memory which we don’t have enough time to dissect here, but it’s safe to say that the concept is a constant struggle in the life of a music journalist (there’s that term again.)  And yet, because I know what I like, and because I know what I look for, it’s hard to find the time in a busy life to organically stumble across something new.  Time is our most valuable commodity - would I rather spend it with things I know I like, or potentially squander it on a risk?

When I saw the press release for Blind Equation, their listed genre was ‘cybergrind.’ And for the first time in a long time, I said to myself “I don’t even know what that is.”  The very brevity of the name suggested to me that it wasn’t simply some bullshit made up to sound more exclusive or important, like the alleged distinction between ‘doom’ and ‘funeral doom’ (spoiler, there’s no difference.)  So, I took a flyer on ‘cybergrind.’

“A Funeral in Purgatory” has some hallmarks of other musical touchstones that I have experience with.  It is in some part industrial, chiptune and hardcore, though it is none of those things singularly.  It is not completely far afield from Tayne’s album earlier this year, “Love,” which I quite enjoy, though try to imagine if Tayne’s album had been written and arranged by Al Jourgensen.  

There’s a song on this record called “Flashback,” featuring backing vocals from the artist Strawberry Hospital (great name.)  At its base, this is a death metal song with some thrash leanings, but it also has hyper-pop (a term I just made up,) backing vocals and also sounds a little like you might be questing to find the Master Sword?  It’s a trip, man, there’s a lot of layers to this song, and the production is loud as hell.  It’s a cacophonous maelstrom of sounds and aural textures.  It’s the kind of thing Steve Albini (RIP) would have adored.

Skip along to “This Eternal Curse,” and it’s kind of like the Browning, but…not?  More synth, more artistry, more discordant sounds mashed together to make new combinations, and all with an easy dance beat that’s hard to ignore.

And nestled within all this chaos is “Still,” a hauntingly beautiful little three minutes of music that sounds out of place, except that the eclectic nature of the record means nothing sounds out of place.  I dare myself to make less sense.

It feels cheap and pedantic to try and encapsulate Blind Equation by comparing them to other, more familiar bands, but it’s the only tool I have to try and communicate effectively something foreign to me.  “A Funeral in Purgatory” is part Ministry, part Browning, part Combichrist, part Ghostemane, part sixteen-bit era “Final Fantasy” soundtrack, and a dash of…hell, I don’t know…dance pop?

Is “A Funeral in Purgatory” a good cybergrind album?  Damned if I know.  But it struck my interest.  Parts of it are good to my sensibilities, but I’m not even sure if I’m evaluating those parts properly.  It’s opened a door for me that I didn’t know existed, given me a new subject I can talk about at the water cooler (much to the horror of my colleagues.)  Would I call myself a cybergrind fan now, following this experience?  Probably not.  But could I see myself as a cybergrind fan in the future?  Sure, absolutely.  There’s something tucked away here in this music that’s worthwhile, that has merit and value.

Which is all a long way of saying this - stay curious.  Ask questions.  As we get older and busier, it’s natural to start to constrict our curiosity - we barely have time to enjoy the things we know we like, who has time for more? - but that ends in stagnation, and that’s just not a healthy place to be.  You haven’t heard it all before.  You haven’t seen it all before.  There’s this great Bill Nye quote that I think of frequently: “Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don’t.”

So, go find the new Blind Equation album.  Sit down and let it play.  Approach it with an open mind.  You might not like it in the end, and that’s okay, too.  What’s important is that you took the time and tried to expand your horizon.

Album Review: Ashes Of Ares - New Messiahs

Iced Earth disappeared into the great nothingness when Jon Shaeffer was arrested as part of the January 6th insurrection. He had always been a fringe political lunatic, but descending into literally trying to overthrow the government of the country he professes to love meant that even if he weren't in jail, there was no audience left for Iced Earth outside of bars and restaurants owned by Kid Rock.

I say that because Iced Earth is in better shape than Ashes Of Ares.

Seriously. I have been massively critical of this project since it first emerged, and they have given me reason to think I will run out of adjectives to describe just how awful the experience of listening to their records can be. Let's put it this way; one of the songs the press materials has been touting is an Elton John cover (Not even one of the hits - some poor saps who never listened to "The Captain & The Kid" might think the only decent song on the album was written by these guys). That's how much confidence they have in their own songwriting abilities. Worse than that, Matt Barlow's voice is completely shot, so we get a performance of the song that sounds worse than if Elton had recorded the song during a drug-fueled orgy. At least having a mouth full of... whatever would explain why the vocals are this bad.

Barlow has no range or clarity left, so all he can do is bellow his way through these songs with 'grit' that sounds more like throat damage to my ears. I was never the biggest fan of his during his glory days, but I at least could hear why others were so enamored with him. That's not true any longer, as now he resembles a bad Zak Stevens (of Savatage fame) impressionist. It's uncomfortable to listen to him strain this much, especially as the songs themselves are written around his limitations, and he still can't make anything of them.

Beyond my concerns about Barlow, the record isn't a good metal album anyway. The songs pound away with a mix of death and thrash riffs that aren't particularly notable, and are played with a tone that feels like it belongs on one of the more poorly produced albums of the 80s. This record doesn't sound like it exists in the same world that has seen massive improvements in the ease and quality of making recordings. I have said this before, but it's not a joke to claim that albums put out on genuine labels should not sound worse than what we can produce with a laptop and some free plug-ins. There's no excuse for this record to sound this bad.

I've never wanted to be famous, because attention makes me uncomfortable, but it has to be nice to know that fame means you will always have somebody willing to support you no matter how much you're struggling with your art. This band can only exist because Barlow is still remembered fondly from his time with Iced Earth. I can think of no other reason why Ashes Of Ares keeps getting to release albums on a label.

I could say more, but I don't want to pile on. The warning to stay away from this album is the important part. I took the bullet on this one to save you from accidentally giving it a shot.

Man, I'm glad I never became an Iced Earth fan. Everything that band ever touched has turned to shit.

Album Review: Palecurse - Dark Room

"History doesn't repeat, but it does rhyme."

That's a common way of expressing that seldom do we run across anything truly new and unique, and that we should learn from the past. That is obviously not true, as we see ourselves making the same mistakes time and time again. It gives us plenty of reason to doubt the philosophical description of humans as being 'rational animals'. Rationality may just be a recessive gene like being left-handed. Hmm... does that mean the ambidextrous like me are prone to being semi-sane? I digress.

A few years ago, I was rather taken by the band Dream State. They put out the "Remedy" EP and the "Primrose Path" album, mixing modern alternative rock and post-hardcore in a way that was anthemic, cathartic, and a hell of a lot of fun. Most of that came down to their vocalist, CJ, who could shred her throat while also delivering huge hooks. It wasn't emo, but it was hugely emotional as an outlet for our mental struggles.

I say that because Palecurse reminds me so much of that sound. The geography might be different, but Palecurse is mining the same world of angst and frustration, pouring it out through songs we can shout together. Likewise, the key to Palecurse is Brittany's vocals, which push the edge between singing and screaming, all the while staying melodic with a welcoming tone. This isn't screaming at us, it's screaming about us. We all have the urge sometimes, but our own voices might not be strong enough to push that much air. She is doing it for us, giving us a form of musical therapy we desperately need.

The record opens up with a string of bangers. "Fever", "Duplicity", and "On My Knees" are all songs with crunchy guitars and sing-along hooks that will cause a mosh pit and a gang chorus at the same time. Riding the edge between being aggressive and memorable is a difficult one, and songs like these show Palecurse doing it with ease. I've been recommended a lot of bands that try to do this by algorithms, and few are as good. With Spiritbox being one of the biggest metal bands out there right now, I can say easily Palecurse have a better ear for songwriting, no question about it.

At a tight thirty-four minutes, "Dark Room" is an album for binge-listening, short enough that you want to dive back in and get another dose before moving on. Like a therapy session, you need enough time to work through your issues, but no so much time that you find you can fill your entire day pulling on the threads of your discontent. You don't want to unravel the entirety of your soul, and a band like Palecurse doesn't want to hit us with so much we get overwhelmed. They find the right balance, leaving us satisfied but still wanting more.

Records that embody this spirit of actualization and self-discovery have been a staple of my year-end lists for a while now. Dream State made it one year, Yours Truly topped the list another. Palecurse has taken up that mantle, giving us a record that embodies the attitude that scars are as much badges of survival as they are reminders of pain.

These are the kinds of records we need more of.

Albums I Regret Buying

"Regrets, I've had a few. Then again, too few to mention," Frank Sinatra made famous. Regret is one of those universal feelings we cannot escape, and which we can apply to nearly every aspect of life. Some of us live in regret, both for the things we have done and the things we have not. Perhaps the most infuriating situation is to find yourself regretting the decisions you have made, and yet believing that making the other choice would have been no better. Ah, regret.

Musically, regret comes in the form of wondering how we did not see or know the people we would later be, acquiring albums that spoke to us in the moment only to fade to the point of being unrecognizable. It is an unfortunate fact that we don't know ourselves nearly as well as we like to think, and finding titles on the shelf we haven't pulled out in decades is a solid reminder of that.

So do I regret spending $3.99 on a copy of The Backstreet Boys greatest hits? Actually, not for a damn second. I probably should, but nostalgic pop is absolutely a thing, and I heard those songs so much they seeped their way into my brain.

Here are a few I do regret buying, for a few different reasons.

Queens Of The Stone Age - Songs For The Deaf

When this album came out, I bought into them the way so many others did. The hit singles were great, and it was something new and different to my ears. I didn't know what desert rock or stoner rock were, but I knew that a band that wrote "No One Knows" should be good for something more. As it turns out, that wasn't exactly true. The album is a solid affair, and I can still get some enjoyment out of it, but the reason I regret buying it has more to do with options. As I held it in my hands for the first time, I was debating between it and Fall Out Boy's "From Under The Cork Tree". I made the wrong choice. It was later rectified, but I missed out on time with an album that resonates far more with me today than Queens Of The Stone Age ever did. I took a chance on predicting the future, and I got burned... slightly.

Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run (30th Anniversary Box Set)

The talk around 'classic' albums can be toxic to our mindsets, as it brainwashes us into believing things before we ever give them thought. When it comes to Bruce Springsteen, the adulation "Born To Run" receives is massive. I could not escape hearing about it again and again, and eventually I got worn down and told myself I needed to have the album. After all, "Thunder Road" and the title track are both fantastic. When I saw the box set edition with a documentary about the making of the album, and a full live show on DVD, it seemed like the perfect way to engross myself in The Boss.

Nope. As it turns out, my fascination was short-lived, and soon thereafter I realized the Springsteen I actually care about is "Darkness On The Edge Of Town". And of course, the similar box set for that record sells for far more these days. Oh well. The point is that I didn't trust my own wariness about Springsteen, and I would up with something that doesn't fit on the shelf, and that I haven't pulled out in several years.

Tool - Lateralus

I don't know if I wanted to be cool, or if I was in a phase where I was seeking out the heaviest things that were still acceptable to me, but I was very much into Tool when this album came out. "Schism" and "The Grudge" were unlike anything I had ever heard before, and back then I thought it was clever they wrote a song based on the Fibonacci Sequence. I know better now, and I have spent the years since being bored by Tool time and again. Their focus on math over melody has not just bored me, but also infuriated me, and convinced me that many times knowing too much about music ruins everything about making the art. I will still enjoy "Schism" if it comes on, but I haven't tried to listen to the whole of the album in so, so long.

The Wonder Years - The Hum Goes On Forever

This was my Album Of The Year winner in 2022, so why do I regret buying it? No, it isn't that the album has faded in my esteem in the time since then. I still consider it a great record, but at the same time it is a terrible one to actually own. The packaging is the cheapest and flimsiest slice of cardboard imaginable, formed with no spine and at a size that doesn't fit on the shelf with all the other CDs. Additionally, it comes with only a fold-out picture, and not lyrics and liner notes. The whole thing feels barely better than burning a CD of your own, and not at all worth the money spent on it. Despite liking the record, I do wish I hadn't bothered getting myself a physical copy.

Metallica - St Anger

Here is the biggest embarrassment of them all, and I know exactly why I bought this album. I was new to metal as it was coming out, so I could profess ignorance of the subject. In a way, I didn't know any better. Metallica was the biggest metal band in the world, and they had a new record, so someone getting into metal would obviously be drawn to it. That's one side of it, but another is that I was also a nascent guitar player at the time, and as the singles preceded the album, I found that they were songs I could actually play. That was a bad sign, but I also didn't know that at the time. The incredibly simple 0-1-2 riff of the title track made me feel as if I knew what the hell I was doing on the instrument, when all it really did was show how little Metallica had put into making the record. 

Nothing makes you feel stupid like buying a terrible album, eh?

Heroes Aren't Real, But We Need Them

As a culture, we are obsessed with the concept of heroes. It seems like you can't turn on a tv without a superhero movie either playing somewhere, or a commercial for the next one filling the ad break. Theaters are filled with the latest exploits of groups of progressively lamer and more forgettable 'heroes' saving us from imagined perils specifically engineered so only the people wearing those specific ridiculous costumes could stop hell on earth from starting. It's all a bit much after you've seen in a few times, isn't it?

We extend this notion into our lives, often calling an actor, an author, or a musician we like a 'hero' of ours, even when such terms shouldn't apply in the slightest. If we are not engaged in the same activity, exactly what we are looking up to is a bit difficult to put our finger on. There is a chasm between liking what someone does and considering them a personal inspiration. I'm afraid we have lost all sense of what words mean, and apply them so liberally they have become nothing more than artificial decorations we throw on people, like the fool's gold and costume jewelry you can get out of a claw machine at a bowling alley. (I'm always rather annoyed when I see a headline about a 'star' of this or that who was merely a supporting player, or how I once received a press release about a 'legendary' band who had one hit single and only two albums to their name. Ugh.)

The other aspect of having a personal 'hero' is the fact we don't truly know these people beyond their works, so we may not like the people themselves who gave rise to the art we so admire. You've probably heard it mentioned as common wisdom to "never meet your heroes", and that's precisely why. How many Harry Potter fans dedicated so much of their youth to the books and movies created by someone who now reveals themselves to be consumed by hate for people who simply want to live their lives in peace? For all we know, there are so many more people we supposedly admire who fall into similar traps.

That is to say that I don't buy into the idea of having personal heroes. It is both natural and acceptable to have inspirations, to admire the artistic work of people whose creative voice has matched our own and/or taught us things about ourselves, but putting them on a pedestal as something more is a dangerous tactic.

Now that I have given up on my own artistic ventures, I can see this more clearly than ever before. As an author, I never had anyone who guided my way. I backed my way into writing, so I had not looked at any particular style or writer as a model for what I wanted to do. My voice evolved as my own, simply because I was not reading a lot of other work looking for bits and pieces I could bring into what I was doing. It helped that my ideas were few and far between, so even if I had something in mind I wanted to try, it would fade away or morph into something of my own devising by the time I was ready to write it.

As a musician, things were different. There is one writer who meant more to me than any other, whose work was always in the back of my mind as I wrote my own songs, who I would have been tempted to elevate to a higher status. That person, unsurprising to anyone who has read almost anything I have written over the years, is Jim Steinman.

His music was the first that spoke to me and pulled me into the world of fandom, and it is his that still resonates with me more than any other all these years later. I have said on many occasions I feel that I can trace a good portion of my personality to his sarcasm and futile melodrama. Like in his songs, my own thoughts are centered on the idea of dreams and hopes that never quite come true, and the raging at the gods that comes from asking why I seem fated to suffer without knowing what any of the pleasures of life will ever feel like.

Those thoughts might drive my thinking, but they don't necessarily come through in my writing. I took the over-the-top nature of Steinman's writing, and put a more poetic spin on it. This might have been to couch those thoughts and feelings enough that no one else quite got to the point of what I was trying to say, or it might have been that I felt I needed to say things with pretty turns of phrase to cover up that what I had to say wasn't interesting or important enough to listen to. If you're going to say nothing, at least say it in a way people will remember. I think Steinman would like that line.

As I wrote more and more songs, I would start to let my guard down, and more puns and snarky wordplay would start to creep into the lyrics. I was particularly fond of one song that played off the phrase 'manifest destiny' as a way of talking about issues regarding fate. Steinman had directly referenced The Three Stooges, so I felt well within my rights to be a bit of a jerk in that case. I wrote about jealousy being a 'green-eyed monster' that stands in 'the limelight', which still brings a wry smile to my face.

My most direct homage was writing a song titled "I Can See You When I Close My Eyes (But Not A Second Before)", which is a title that not only played into his penchant for contradictions, but into the idea that what we want may only be possible in our own minds. It fits the theme when Steinman wrote about how "we see what we want to see" when "It's All Coming Back To Me". An intentional nod, although my version of the song was far less horny. Likewise, my version of the ending of "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" was not soaked in as many souring hormones. While he wrote "I'm praying for the end of time, so I can end my time with you", I phrased mine as the more demure "I love you to death, but after that we'll see".

All of this is to say that while Steinman is undoubtedly a musical inspiration of mine (despite me never learning to play piano), and his influence is felt in my work, I do not consider him to be a 'hero' of mine. His life was kept private enough I don't feel as if I have ever known enough about him to make any judgment about whether or not I would like him, and a few stories that have been told in certain circles paint an unflattering picture. This seems to be a case of it being better to see someone as we want to see them, as is useful to see them, rather than as they actually were.

That's not a bad thing, by the way. In existential philosophy, the world is as we experience it. Our truth is filtered through our senses, and the way reality is interpreted by our minds and emotions. When someone enters our life and is able to be the mortar filling some of the cracks in our souls, we don't need to look any further than that. They have served an important purpose, and it would be foolish on our part to give up on that because of a need to dig where the dirt needs not be disturbed.

Hero worship is unhealthy not because we shouldn't look up to people who have brought good into our lives, but because it leads us to thinking some people aren't as flawed as the rest of us. It's important to remember that everyone who helps us get through to the next existential crisis has likely faced the same demons and had people of their own to help them through. We are merely a knot on a line that stretches as far back into the past as human lineage does. We are not alone, nor are we unique, despite how much either can feel true at times.

What makes these people feel like heroes to us is that they are always there for us, while the actual people in our lives are not. Mere presence can seem heroic when faced with the realities of fractured attention and everyone else dealing with as much as we are. We turn to art because it can mirror our emotions, it can calm our nerves, and it can tell us things that are hard to put into words.

Some of us are used to being disappointed by the people in our lives. Sometimes it's family that not only acts as if you're dead to them, but can't even remember that they're the ones who severed the ties. Sometimes it's friends who will take weeks to respond to your honesty, which creates a cognitive dissonance between their claims and actions. Sometimes it's people who completely disappear from your life with no warning or explanation, even after you told them about your issues with people having done that before.

There are not always many people we can count on to be there for us when we need someone to listen, someone to remind us that feeling in the shadows means there has to be a light somewhere, someone who remembers the good things about us when we can't see them for ourselves. These last couple of years have been revealing in this respect, which has made me more insular, more withdrawn. That has pushed me closer to music, but only the music that has always been with me.

Jim Steinman's music has been the one constant in my life. For these thirty-plus years, I could always pull a CD (ok, I started with cassettes, I'm old enough to say) off the shelf when everything felt too much. Steinman's music felt like hearing a kindred spirit, the only person I knew who saw the world in many of the same ways I did. Now that I realize my mind probably isn't exactly normal, it makes all the sense in the world that I would hold dear to the one voice that sounded like my own.

I often have feelings of being rather alone in my experience of this world. Those songs give me reason to think maybe I'm not irredeemably broken.

As Steinman wrote, "When you really-really need it the most, that's when rock and roll dreams come through."

What's more heroic than that?

What Happens When "The Bat Strikes Back"

Art can be a difficult thing to wrap our heads around, because we bring our own conceptions and biases to the proceedings. The art doesn't exist merely as the art, it must be filtered through the way we look at it, which creates layers of issues that have nothing to do with whether or not the music we're listening to is good or not, and yet we find ourselves making decisions based on the flaws of psychology. It is only natural, but that doesn't mean it holds up to logical scrutiny. Humans have been called 'rational creatures', but that was a bit of projection we have seldom been able to live up to.

When music is made explicitly as a pastiche/homage/tribute, do we give it enough credit? That's the question I'm contemplating today, as I was thinking about the album "The Bat Strikes Back" put out by Dean Torkington fifteen years ago. Torkington was the self-proclaimed #1 Meat Loaf tribute artist at the time, and used that 'fame' to write and release an album of original songs.

Original songs... by a tribute artist... a recipe for disaster, no?

'No' is the correct answer. As a tribute to Meat Loaf, Torkington was slightly miscast. He had the right tone, but his voice was more reminiscent of the period in the 80s when Meat's voice was damaged and had not yet recovered. Whether intentional or not, the album he wrote fit into that same period. These were songs that knew they could not reach the Steinman-esque level of bombast, so they focused on replicating Meat's more rock-oriented direction in the fallow days of the 80s. Those are albums that even Meat's fans often have trouble with, me included, but it leaves more room to impress us.

And impress it does. Torkington has the right vibe to channel Meat's defiant 'I don't need Jim Steinman (even though I do)' attitude, and the songs work because they are copying people who were badly copying Steinman's approach. That is something that could be done, and here it was done well.

The opening title track is the most Meat Loaf-ian song of the bunch, and is as much a follow up to "Bat Out Of Hell" as Steinman was able to come up with for "Dead Ringer". It isn't epic to the Nth degree, but it serves the purpose. More interesting is when they veer off the beaten path, as they do with "Last Survivor", which is an odd ballad that ends with a harmonica solo that brings to mind Elton John circa "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues". That may not be a coincidence, since Torkington later shifted to being an Elton John tribute act. There is something here beyond merely copying the past, even if the ties are to thick its hard to see past them.

That brings us back to the main point; when an artist is not even trying to be themselves, what are we to make of them? We take for granted that a musician has a personality of their own, and their performances are trying to reveal that to us, whether they have written the songs or not. Singers aren't actors stepping into established roles, they are performers trying to make a connection with the audience. Tribute singers are not that, they are trained to replicate what people already know for the explicit purpose of filling a role the name in question no longer does.

When "The Bat Strikes Back" came out, no one was clamoring for new Meat Loaf music. He had failed to generate a third act in the mainstream, and the world no longer needed what his music had to offer. You could argue that Meat never understood what made his own music work, and I would probably agree with you. (One of these days, I will write about all the music Meat made without Steinman, and why much of it never stood a chance.) Torkington does understand that, or at least does understand what Meat should have been doing in the 80s.

"Midnight At The Lost & Found" and "Blind Before I Stop" are terrible albums. Meat sounds bad, and the songs aren't good. They were mistakes that had to be made just to keep his name out there, even if they did lead people to think Meat was more of a joke than they already did. If "The Bat Strikes Back" had been the album Meat put out at that time, I don't think he would have turned his career around sooner nor had any extra hits, but he wouldn't have fallen so far in the public's estimation. His career would not have been pock-marked with as many potholes as it wound up being.

Again, this leads us to consider just what to make of "The Bat Strikes Back". Dean Torkington made an album that was better than two of Meat Loaf's worst, but it's not 'his' album, is it? Honestly, I don't know how to answer that question, even after writing this much.

What I ultimately settle on is that albums like this aren't made as artistic statements, so thinking in those terms is banging my head against a brick wall. This is fan-service, a bit in the same mold as fan-fiction, and if we think in those terms this was a rousing success.

It just isn't, and could never be, what we would want it to be.