Album Review: PAIN - "I Am"

Asking an existential question – at what point does the ‘side project’ band supersede the original band?  For PAIN seems to have become more important to the catalog and indeed, legacy, of frontman Peter Tägtgren than Hypocrisy.  For his own part, Tägtgren seems to take turns between the faces of his music. To wit, Hypocrisy released records in 2013 and 2021; PAIN took its turn in 2016 and now in 2024.  

All of that is said to make no point other than that Tägtgren takes both projects seriously and with equal dedication.  To pass off either one as subservient, regardless of fan reaction, sales numbers or press, is a mistake and undersells the talent of a man who can compose in two very different styles as the mood suits him.

PAIN comes back to the fore this spring with “I Am,” a declarative album that, in short, hits many of the trademarks of PAIN, but never quite delivers the multi-faceted bombastic experience of its predecessor, “Coming Home.”

That’s not to say that “I Am” lacks entirely for laudable moments.  “Party in My Head” uses a synth intro and sparse verses to set the stage for a big chorus that fits perfectly within the pantheon of PAIN’s greatest hits.  The title track utilizes the same tricks, but tempers the tempo and moderates the chorus with a lovingly-borrowed-from-NIN synth track that makes the song as grandiose as Tägtgren is capable of writing.  If his initial idea for PAIN was to combine synth rock and heavy metal, these are the two songs that most exemplify that dream on “I Am.”

Speaking of the composition, Tägtgren has always been a straight-ahead lyricist when it comes to PAIN, utilizing no metaphor and even less subtlety to express whatever the subject of his song is.  When Tägtgren yells “suck my balls” leading into the chorus of “Not For Sale,” there’s little room for interpretation there.  Coincidentally, this whole theorem of lyricism lends itself to a continuing trend in PAIN songs – they are gleefully shouted as from the mouth of an exasperated, godlike figure, who barely has enough attention to bother about the concerns of mere mortals.  It’s a no-nonsense approach that occasionally treads the lines of both cringe and tedium, but Tägtgren knows the boundaries well and manages to keep his style fresh.

The issue with “I Am” is that the album never really pushes the envelope the way PAIN has in the past.  The production is thick as can be (two-C thicc, as the kids say,) blasting the listener with a density of sound that is often imitated but never quite duplicated, but there never seems to be a reason why other than that’s what’s expected from PAIN.  

In the end, too many of the album’s cuts sound like variations on a theme, rather than continually novel uses for industrial might.  “Coming Home” was a tour de force because Tägtgren crammed a lot into a small package – the twangy, hammering blast of “Designed to Piss You Off,” the sardonic thump of “Call Me” the yearning of the title track, the insistent march of “Final Crusade.”  Too much of “I Am” feels like a narrow valley of pop rock dressed in fantastic, spike-laden armor.

It's hard to call an album like this ‘hollow,’ because of the sheer cannonball of sound that is ejected at the listener at ramming speed.  Still, there’s something missing here; a sense of adventure perhaps, or the daring to see what else is beyond the bounds.  It is worth mentioning that “I Am” was better the second time through than the first, but don’t be shocked if “Coming Home” finds its way back into your playlist instead.

EP Review: Alestorm - "Voyage of the Dead Marauder"

It is the pinnacle of satire when the artist performing it composes a piece of art that surpasses the original genre being parodied.  The most famous recent example of this is Joss Whedon’s “Cabin in the Woods,” where the movie not only successfully poked fun at all the tropes of the slasher film genre, but was simultaneously the best slasher film to be released in years.

Through this lens is how one could view “Voyage of the Dead Marauder,” the lead single on the new EP of the same name from Alestorm, the forever vitriolic and acerbic pirate metal band from Scotland. 

Intentionally or accidentally, Alestorm has always existed at something of cross purposes to power metal – always the kids at the back of the classroom, wearing sunglasses and napping during the lecture, and interpreting the lessons in their own idiomatic fashion, to the delight of their classmates but the stern disapproval of their teacher.  

And yet, here comes this title track, backed by the sanguine vocals of Patty Gurdy, and it might well be the best power metal song written by anyone not named Powerwolf in the past five years!  It hits all the right hallmarks – the soaring chorus, the singalong vocals, the powerful and melodic riffs that harmonize with the accessible rhythm underneath.  It all coalesces into Alestorm showing everyone how its done after years of thumbing their nose at the surrounding crowd. As a side note, Patty Gurdy was the best possible choice for the accompanying vocals.  If it had been Floor Jansen, or Simone Simons or whomever else, it would have been too much.  Gurdy’s voice is natural and believable, more apt for this kind of swaggering tavern shanty than the other singers’ inherent pitch perfection.

That’s not all the EP has to offer, though.  We careen into consecutive songs about Uzbekistan and pirates from Saskatchewan, both of which are enjoyable successes.  Alestorm’s chosen musical style only leaves them a certain number of avenues they can take without plunging into repetition, so the songs have to exist as functions of their themes and lyrics.  To that end, Alestorm makes this EP work by crafting fun and goofy tunes about unusual corners of the world, different than the ones they’ve written before.

And then, “Cock,” keeping alive the tradition of Alestorm writing one deplorable, gleefully and hilariously vulgar song per recording.  This does not disappoint.

At the inception of their career, Alestorm was too frenetic, too frothing and wild-eyed to really capitalize on their potential.  The intervening fifteen-plus years have seen the band mature nicely into their talent and become real storytellers while still balancing against the natural fun and lunacy of their music.  “Voyage of the Dead Marauder,” is, to this point, the apex of this combination.

25 Years of Hellbilly Deluxe

Recently I had occasion to see Rob Zombie in concert, and he was talking about the 25th anniversary of his album “Hellbilly Deluxe” and it got me to thinking: what is it about that album? It still resonates after so many years without fading.  Certainly it’s surrounded by contemporary albums of similar or even greater success (some of the works of Marilyn Manson come to mind.) Rammstein, Korn, a few others that were contemporaries of Rob Zombie at that time all had their moment or moments.  But it’s interesting that most of them have faded, or been forgotten, and even Rob to some degree isn’t at the apex that he used to be.  It should be noted for context, it’s easy to forget that at the time of the release of “Hellbilly Deluxe,” there was a brief moment for the next two or three years where Rob Zombie was on an even playing field with names like Metallica.  Now, Metallica was at the nadir of their mainstream popularity at that moment. Even so, Rob Zombie was in the same sentence as the mighty Met, and a large part of that was due to the release of “Hellbilly Deluxe,” which, of course was possessed of such superior singles as “Superbeast” and the omnipresent “Dragula” and “Living Dead Girl.”

There’s a certain gray area within “Hellbilly Deluxe” that obfuscates, albeit unintentionally, the transmutation of White Zombie into Rob Zombie.  After all, the transition into Rob Zombie as a solo artist seemed then, and seems now perhaps, like a lateral move whose motives even 25 years on remain somewhat unclear.

Well, the differences between “Hellbilly Deluxe,” and say, the hearty crust punk of “La Sexorcisto” are apparent, but much less evident to the undiscerning music fan would be the subtle variances between “Hellbilly Deluxe” and “Astrocreep 2000.” It’s entirely possible that there is little to no difference between those latter two albums, excepting the fact that there’s a different name on the cover, and that Zombie’s solo effort certainly stays more true to a single theme

Nevertheless, the fact remains that when one thinks of Rob Zombie, with the exception of the superlative single “More Human Than Human” and maybe, maybe for learned fans “Thunderkiss 65,” all of Rob Zombie‘s most memorable moments come from “Hellbilly Deluxe.“

Fine, I will allow that there is a case that “Feel So Numb” belongs on the list of Rob‘s most memorable musical moments, but even that fails to gain the popularity of even White Zombie’s pinnacle hits.  (And boy, “Feel So Numb” has a great video, but man, it is a product of the precise moment when it made.)

With that said, then, what is it about hillbilly deluxe that makes us remember it as a separate paragon of the Zombie catalog?  What establishes it as being just as vital and unique as it was then?  Contemporaries that we’ve already mentioned notwithstanding, no one had ever really heard an album like this in 1998 and yet it seems to be the apex of what it was that Rob was building from his early days slugging it out in dirty punk clubs in New York City.   Even with that, so much of the metal from the late ‘90s hasn’t aged particularly well (looking at you, Fred Durst,) and has to some degree become the subject of satire, while “Hellbilly Deluxe” sounds just as nouveau now, and remains in a class entirely unto itself.

One of the things that Rob Zombie has always been so adroit at is the ability to make his music discernible by more than its riff.  “More Human Than Human” is the classic example of this, a radio-ready metal banger known for its beat, but that momentum carries forward into all of the greatest moments of the album we’re talking about.  And with the exception of “Superbeast,” known so well for the screaming held notes that fly over the top of the proceedings from jump, that really remains the case for all of Rob‘s first solo effort especially when you get into the lesser known tracks like “Demonoid Phenomenon” or “Meet the Creeper.” Yes, it’s true, the riffs are part and parcel to the beat in many ways,  but it’s not the rift that creates the idiomatic chug, the rift merely emboldens it.

And there were, as we mentioned, plenty of artists who were experimenting with the same basic principle at the same time, and this was even before djent became a popular and much debated topic. But what makes “Hellbilly Deluxe” stand out from all those albums around it, and I think what makes it withstand the test of time is not just the majesty of unusual sampling and indecipherably absurd lyrics about demons and wizards and possession, is that there’s a sense of joy here.  Whether or not you agree that this is Rob Zombie‘s best musical album (even I personally don’t believe it. I prefer “Astrocreep 2000” as a top to bottom effort,) it’s undeniable that what we see showcased here is Rob Zombie exhibiting alpha Rob Zombie.  That’s really how we got here, if we’re being honest.  Rob’s spirit lends the album a character that none of those contemporary albums had, and that even Rob Zombie would never be able to replicate fully.  Nothing else from that time has that same sense of pure bliss coming from the mind of the creator.

And it seems insane to suggest that it could be something as indefinable as that which gilds this album around its edges, and prevents it from rusting, rotting, or decaying with the passage of a quarter century.  Yet I can find no other tangible explanation for why “Hellbilly Deluxe” should feel this way. 

With all that said, perhaps I’ve taken all of this time and valuable column space to say nothing.  Reading this back, it feels like there’s not really a central theme to my argument other than I enjoy this album, and a lot of other people do as well, and maybe that’s the purpose of this essay if I dare call it one.  “Hellbilly Deluxe,” with whatever formaldehyde seems to pump through its veins preventing its dissipation into the background void of music from days gone by, is simply a fun album that has few if any peers and is the pristine example of a sound that many others try to imitate, but nobody ever really found.  Certainly it makes one pine, however cynically, for the days when Rob’s music career was at the forefront of his mind. In the meantime, if you haven’t listened to “Hellbilly Deluxe” recently, go back and listen to it again you’ll be surprised how good it still sounds.

Album Review: Powerwolf - "Interludium"

Fair warning, we’re going to spend a good chunk of this review not talking about the album in question.  I’m also going to apologize in advance for inserting myself into the proceedings, which I apologize for every time I do it, and you’d think I’d know better by now.  

I want to take you back to February, on a blustery night, to a theater nestled into the blinding neon heart of Times Square.  Powerwolf, so long now stalwarts of the metal scene worldwide, had finally, FINALLY arrived in the United States to play their first ever show.

The atmosphere was palpably electric.  Never had I felt like this, or sensed the same pure anticipation from the sold-out throngs around me.  Powerwolf’s arrival, so long sought by legions of dedicated American fans, was to be an all-caps EVENT, heretofore unforeseen on these shores.

Normally, when the lights dim at a show is when the crowd cheers the loudest, when the fever pitch reaches the peak of its roiling crescendo, as the pent-up potential energy is allowed its very first sensuous tease of the kinetic.  And while the welcoming cheer was vociferous, on this night it was the roar of appreciation and adulation from the crowd after “Faster Than The Flame” had been recited that was the single most memorable moment of the night.

I am a veteran of several hundred concerts.  I have listened to thousands of albums.  In just a couple short months, I will be forty years old.  While I greatly enjoy the overwhelming majority of shows I go to, because the spectacle of live music is a drug with which I am forever entwined, I am rarely wowed.  

I left the euphoria of that first Powerwolf show firm in the belief that I had seen one of the great shows of my life.  Not just the band, or the music, but the crowd and the whole experience.

And all of that brings us here, to the theoretical reason for those shows in the first place, “Interludium,” the band’s new-ish album that combines six new tracks with four b-sides and rarities, capped by a French language version of “Beast of Gevaudan” which, for reasons I can’t discern, works better than the original.

Anyway, the pre-album press here is correct: there are a lot of strong moments among the six new tracks, but the reasons to be here are the two prominent singles.  “Sainted By the Storm” is an instant Powerwolf classic, pulling elements from Powerwolf’s established catalogue with the jaunty bombast of the best days of Turisas, and just the smallest splash of Alestorm singalong.  It’s simply magnificent, eschewing some of the pure power of the typical Powerwolf riff to give us all an easily accessible tune that bangs around in the ears and refuses to let go.

(It is worth noting that “Altars On Fire,” later on the record, sounds kinda like a poor man’s version of this very same song.)

Conversely, “My Will Be Done” is instantly recognizable in the Powerwolf mold – a galloping riff, some double kick drum, and the peerless vocals of Attila Dorn.  There’s something resembling a breakdown in the middle which is a new, but not unwelcome step for Powerwolf.  Add this cut to the pantheon of great and memorable songs in the band’s idiom.

Also mention worthy are “Wolves of War” and “Wolfborn,” both of which work as permutations of the tried and true formula of the artist.  They are not quite as enthralling as the two singles mentioned above, but that’s not an insult – those two are sublime, these are merely good.  “Wolfborn” in particular has high potential as an anthemic crowd favorite should the band ever return to the United States (hint, hint.)

While there haven’t been any dud Powerwolf records, I personally hadn’t fallen in love with one since “Blessed and Possessed” some eight years ago, so it’s nice to be suckered in again by “Interludium.”  Is it possible that I’m biased by the catharsis of the concert experience?  Sure, but either way, there’s a lot here to like.

Album Review: Necropanther - "Betrayal"

It’s taken a disproportionate amount of time to pen this review, in no small part because it’s been difficult to pin down what the real thoughts and reflections are about the album.  It was well within intent to have this done and dusted before the album’s release on March 3rd, and yet here we are, still without completely cogent ideas, but with enough to go on.

So, we’re just gonna start talking, and hopefully amidst the rambling sentiments there will be some themes that give a decent picture of what Necropanther’s “Betrayal” both is and isn’t.

For starters, this is thrash in the new millennium, borrowing heavily from death metal, both distant and recent, yet keeping the core of simple, accessible riffs that became the hallmark of thrash forty years ago.  

Stripping away the vocals from Necropanther, it’s easy to see a spiritual successor to the bright-but-brief phenomenon that was Power Trip.  Let’s drill down for a second into what is surely the album’s best song, “If You Can Count,” which ohbytheway, is representative of the climactic speech delivered by Cyrus in the most memorable scene in “The Warriors,” upon which the whole album is loosely based (and also upon the Greek myth that the film is in turn based on.)  Guitarist/vocalist Paul Anop noted that “Betrayal” is the first time he’s really allowed himself to stretch into solos, and the effect transforms Necropanther into something more than just another new age thrash/death band.  The solo he unleashes toward the end of the song is more rock than metal, more Van Halen than Slayer, and however brief it may be, in stands in stark juxtaposition to the rest of the song.  It serves as the perfect bridge into the twin guitar outro, which is again notable for its brevity.

Skipping ahead to “Revenants,” we encounter much of the same pattern.  Does anyone remember the 2010 album by As They Sleep, called “Dynasty”?  That was a middling record, but it was punctuated by one sublime, transcendent single, “Bedlam at the Nile.”  It took the better part of a week to figure out where the song construction of “Revenants” was familiar from, and finally there it was.  This new track by Necropanther inverts the formula, going with the grindy bit first, followed by the galloping riff, and then grinds back out, but the dance steps are similar.

As “Betrayal” proceeds it dips more and more into the death metal patterns of recent years, sounding at many points similar to Vaelmyst’s recent “Secrypts of the Egochasm.” We mention this only because the combination of these albums, and their combined utilization of melodic riffs and solos flayed out over the nailbed of frenetic drums, lends hope that perhaps the next wave of great American thrash/death is nigh.  Some years ago, it was believed that Lazarus AD might be the flagbearer for that march, and then Power Trip in their turn, but for reasons either confounding or heartbreaking, the wave crashed against the rocks and receded.  Hope springs eternal here.

“Betrayal” bears the hallmarks, intentional or accidental, of some other albums from relative yesteryear, like the aforementioned Lazarus AD’s “The Onslaught,” and even the barest hint of Prototype’s progressive metal “Catalyst.”  

And so it’s easy to recommend “Betrayal” as a satisfying and accomplished listen for all fans of either death or thrash, no matter the personal preferred stripe….and yet.

For all its accomplishment, both in technical merit and in so low a concept as simple enjoyability, there is a certain je ne sais quoi that holds the production back.  It’s almost as though the album is equal to the sum of its parts, no more and no less.  It is difficult to find the ‘ah-ha!’ moment that makes truly brilliant albums shine.

That said, and this in no way clears the muddied waters of this humble review, this review was published when it was simply so that it could be run reasonably near the album’s release.  Listening to “Betrayal” hasn’t stopped, and every subsequent pass yields some new find, some minor discovery, or at least paints the pictures in different relief.

There is no conclusion because there is not yet a firm conclusion.

Album Review: Destrage - "SO MUCH. too much."

It’s time to put my money where my mouth is.  Not so long ago as part of one of our long, rambling and occasionally poignant conversations, Chris and I, as we so often to, turned the lens to the faults that we perceive among the music editorial community.  Namely, we were analyzing the tendency of journalists to forgive all faults of favorite artists, and hand out high grades with what feels to us like specious examination.  I referred to it at the time, to turn the euphemism, as ‘playing for the name on the front of the jersey.’

Now, as if I haven’t already to this point, I’m going to commit a cardinal sin of journalism and make the story about me, at least for this next little bit.  (This, by the way, is a sin I seem to commit with increasing frequency.  Apologies for that.)

Destrage, hailing from Milan, Italy, is one of, if not straight up who I believe to be the best band working today.  Their combination of musical prowess and creativity and way-past-the-margins writing is unparalleled in the world of heavy music right now (Turisas could easily have held this title for longer if they’d bothered to make any new music in the last NINE YEARS.  I’m not bitter, I promise.)

And so we come to “SO MUCH. too much,” the latest album from the metal inventors.  The last two Destrage albums were both my selections for Album of the Year, and the third, “Are You Kidding Me? No.” was a hair’s breadth behind at number 2 (trailing only Red Eleven’s “Round II” by the thinnest of margins, and if you ask me on a given day, I might have them flipped.)  So in a year where there’s been a lot of albums I like, but few that I love, I was ready for Destrage to save the year and sweep everyone off the table, on this, their first record since parting ways with Metal Blade and moving to 3DOT Recordings.

And there’s a lot here to like.  There’s piles of stuff on “SO MUCH. too much.” that is laudable and praise-worthy.

And yet.

If I’m being honest, this album is not quite up to the part of their previous efforts.  Let’s take a walk through the bad stuff first, since I need that as background context for when we launch into the good stuff.

What Destrage has always excelled at, over and above everyone else in the business these days, is that no matter how far into madness the band ventures, and same as ever, there are deep forays into the musical abyss, there’s always been a rope tied around their waist that anchors them to digestible and accessible moments that fans can rally behind.  Normally this comes in the form of vaulted, majestic sing-along choruses with simple structures and gigantic hooks that are easy to sink into.

And I think that’s the piece that’s missing here, or more appropriately, the piece that’s missing with the band’s usual consistency.  Taking even the first single, “Everything Sucks and I Think I’m a Big Part of It,” wanders into a bunch of scattershot paths, but never circles back to collect the pieces and tie them together before jumping off the next cliff.  The otherwise sublime “Venice Has Sunk,” would have been an all-time classic if it had come back to Earth just a little.  Frustrating.

And yet, there are still plenty of reasons why this record stands out from the pack and is a worthy entry.  First and foremost, let’s highlight “Private Party,” dropped into the center of the album and featuring a guest appearance from confirmed crazy person Devin Townsend.  Destrage has at various times in their career (“Not Everything is Said” and “Before, After and All Around” come to mind, as well as “Rage, My Alibi,” if for content and not music,) colored their sound with something five percent akin to the best moment of Alice in Chains, and “Private Party” uses a similar vocal harmony to use that affect, but turned on its experimental metal ear.  The song is, in many ways, Destrage’s “Dance Macabre,” the song that fits the idiom and is infectious to listen to, but sits way out on the boundary.

We talked about “Venice Has Sunk” briefly, but let us take a second just to highlight the truly inspired musicianship and songcraft.  While the cut lacks the big chorus, the sheer talent of the band shows through in every moment.  “An Imposter” was a better KMFDM song than KMFDM wrote on their album this year, and starter “A Commercial Break That Lasts Forever,” reminds us all just how capable of Destrage can be when dropping the hammer.  The airy, melodic vocals juxtapose nicely against the violent backdrop to create a sound only Destrage has mastered.

And then, to cap off, we get a cover of the largely forgotten but accomplished Stone Temple Pilots cut “Vasoline,” and if the litmus test of a cover song is if a band can put their own spin on a classic, then Destrage succeeds here with flying colors.

Still, the album feels a little thin.  Once you get past “Private Party,” there’s “An Imposter,” which is good but not great, and the aforementioned cover, but the remaining songs on the back half of the record don’t reach or grasp with the customary strength we’ve come to expect from Destrage.

What we’re faced with here is an album that doesn’t quite slake the thirst for new Destrage material for those of us who were anticipating this record, but only because it falls a step below the impossibly high bar the band has set for themselves.  Relative to much of what else has come out this year, “SO MUCH. too much.” stands on a platform all its own.  But I have to be honest – is this a contender for the list of top albums to come out this year?  Sure.  But is it going to take home the crown?  Nope.

Album Review: Rxptrs - "Living Without Death's Permission"

It’s been a while since the British metal scene produced a band that felt poised to make real marks on the worldwide metal scene.  The One Hundred certainly had a moment, but then that all fell apart.  Evile and Orange Goblin have both been standard bearers in their turn, but both are coming up on two decades of service (and more.)  So it is with some excitement that Bristol natives Rxptrs come on the scene with their album “Living Without Death’s Permission.”

Much like so many recent metal luminaries, Rxptrs succeeds as a product of genre bending, and a comfortable sense of when the music needs to reach outside the margins to create the proper aural image.  It’s a skill that comes with no small amount of bravery, as fans of the respective genres often balk at a crossover and being something less ‘pure.’

Which is, of course, bullshit.  But there it is.  To illustrate the kind of blending we’re talking about, consider the song “The Death Rattle,” which calls to mind just a little big of the swing of fellow Commonwealth members The Living End, who in turn were inspired by The Stray Cats.  The same song also is reminiscent of a little-known Annihilator track called “Speed,” which in its turn sounded like a cast-off Van Halen track.  So already, we’ve tied Rxptrs, consciously or unconsciously, to four different bands from four different splinter groups.  And that’s before we bring up the song’s multi-tracked, gang-chorused outro.

In more contemporary terms, Rxptrs lives at the intersection, however improbable, or BRKN Love, Dead Poet Society, and Beartooth, employing in equal measure the rock sensibility of the first, the hardcore emotion of the second, and the big riffs and metal songcraft of the third.  There’s also a passing vocal resemblance to one-and-done New Jersey punk band I.D.K, (not to be confused with the rap artist of the same name,) but that’s hardly a contemporary reference (though their album “Til Death Do Us Part” is available on Spotify, somewhat to my genuine shock.)

Before we get into the laudable parts of “Living Without Death’s Permission,” there will be detractors who will decry the clean vocals and emotional appeal of the choruses that seed throughout the album, but that, much like the rejection of genre definition mentioned above, is simply where metal is right now.  And it honestly should have been expected simply by looking at the calendar – we are coming into a generation of musicians who could have come of age while listening to “The Black Parade” and similar records, so we should expect no less from the artists who were thus inspired.  The choices for metal ‘purists’ (there’s that term again,) are to either embrace the creativity and direction of the artists, or live in a bunker huddled up close to their favorite music of old.

Anyway.

There is little question that “Living Without Death’s Permission” is a front-loaded album.  “Burning Pages” screams from the starting gate with a machine-gun lyric and a crusher of a breakdown.  The acceleration continues through the single “Rock Bottom is a Stepping Stone,” which is an honest headbanger just as a function of displaying a powerful downbeat.

“Dead Awake “Pretty as the Drugs We Take,)” is where the comparison to BRKN Love feels most apt, as listeners of both artists will be reminded of the Canadian band’s “Toxic Twin.”  The song diverge as Rxptrs launch into a hardcore breakdown that serves as just another example of the genre switching which propels their album.

Within the first minute of “Demons in My Headphones,” there’s a section leading into the first chorus that’s a pull from metal, with staccato lyrics and a muted riff that chugs with adrenaline.  The only regret of that one ten-second portion is that it only happens once on the song, and really, on the record.  That brief snippet of songwriting is something Rxptrs should isolate and explore, because it just plain works.

After the aforementioned “The Death Rattle,” there’s three more songs, “Cold Ground,” “The Frail” (which is a popular single,) and “Let Me Die How I Want,” which we mention in a group only because this is where some of the originality of the album starts to fade.  There’s nothing wrong with these songs per se, but they fall into more established tropes of hardcore power ballads, so this trinity at the end is take-them-or-leave-them depending on personal taste.

Let’s not lose focus, though.  “Living Without Death’s Permission” throws seven haymakers right off the start of the album, and on a ten-song record, that’s a hell of a percentage of punches landed.  Whether Rxptrs represents the start of a new British wave of metal is too early to be determined, but they are an enjoyable bellwether for where their respective genres sit in conjunction to one another, and where that combination is going.

Album Review: Dampf - "The Arrival"

 

It’s a little embarrassing that this is as good as it is.

Not because of anything to do with the talent of musical acumen of Martin Erikson better known by his stage name E-Type (and who has taken on the moniker A-Tron here,) who has had a successful career in his chosen genre, but just because it doesn’t feel right that a man who has never spent much time composing heavy music can roll in and achieve something many artists never approach.  And just to add context, to read the press surrounding the album, it was composed practically on a dare.

There will be those who will dismiss Dampf outright, because of E-Type’s admission that he wanted to explore the possibility of combining pop melodies with dark music.  As soon as the word ‘pop’ enters the conversations, close-minded purists will shut their ears and turn their backs.  Markedly to their detriment in this case.

Several years ago, we had occasion to speak with Spider from Powerman 5000, who addressed this very issue – we’re paraphrasing, but the upshot of the conversation that was Spider had been summarily accused of forsaking much of his supposed roots in an attempt to write metal pop songs.  To which he confessed that he was, and that it was in fact damn hard to do so.  The challenge of trying to write melodies that will appeal to a broad base, particularly in more aggressive styles, is not one to be taken lightly.

We told you that story to tell you this one: Erikson, and by extension Dampf, has succeeded in this unlikeliest of attempts, and in the process composed a record, “The Arrival,” that makes an alloy of many of the best parts of Rob Zombie, Emigrate/Rammstein and Turisas.

Dampf is not without its own more established metal chops, as “The Arrival” is colored in the margins by the appearance of Tommy Johansson, guitarist from Sabaton, and…one of the bassists from Bathory…though it neglects to mention which one (and honestly, does it matter?) but in any event lends the proceedings a certain authenticity.  The steadying presence of Johansson is evident in the timely, chugging riffs of many of the album’s songs, from the break of the opening “Winterland” down through single “Who Am I.”  As much as we have taken Sabaton over the coals on this site, the contribution here works, as it never ventures close to the preening grandstanding of Sabaton’s monotonous drama.  

While all of the songs offer a little something, there are a few where the synthesis of elements truly stands out, beginning with the under-the-radar track “The Other Side.”  The burst out of the gate is ever-so-slightly reminiscent of Rob Zombie’s “The Great American Nightmare,” and while Dampf never sends both feet down that road, it’s a refreshing call back to a style of sludgy metal that is underutilized in the modern milieu.  Meanwhile, the whole thing cascades into an oversized sing-along chorus, which accentuates the juxtaposition of the big riff and the big vocal.

Now, if there’s fault to be found here, it’s one that all supergroups tend to fall into, particularly on a debut record – that the musicians are feeling each other out, and often writing and recording on a limited and conflicting schedule, so on and so forth.  To that end, once “The Arrival” find its formula, it tends to largely re-arrange similar pieces into seven or eight more songs.  Which is not necessarily a bad thing, and that’s where the ‘pop’ comes in.

All of these cuts, plus or minus a couple, are highly enjoyable and easy to listen to, which is rarely something we get to say in metal as a whole.  “The Arrival” is a pleasant ride, even as beats and guitars are blasting past you as loud as your sound system can handle (and take it as advice – this is best listened to very loud, just to soak in the fun of it all.)

Then, almost at the end, we get “From the E-ternity,” and for almost four minutes, we get a real, transcendent taste of what the amalgam of electro-dance and heavy metal might look like.  Nine Inch Nails and CueStack and Static-X and dozens of others have bitten at the fringes, but rarely if ever with as much pop sensibility.  On an album that shines brightly, this is the brightest star.

Don’t be scared away by the dance history of the man at the center of the project.  Moreover, don’t limit your in some kind of misguided personal stand against popular music.  Spend some time with Dampf’s “The Arrival.”  It’s a fun record.

Album Review: GWAR - "The New Dark Ages"

Is it weird to suggest that GWAR is going back to their roots?  

It doesn’t seem strange to say when measured against the nearly forty-year career of the world’s favorite and longest-running shock rock band, but it does seem out of place when reflected against the mirror of GWAR, who have never been anything but GWAR.

Perhaps the greatest adjustment to the band’s aural idiom over the years was the transformation from a punk band into a metal band, which was initially the product of Cory Smoot (may he rest in peace.)  Musically, the band has never looked back from that flux point circa 2001, and it’s within reason to suggest that GWAR from that moment forward had become more than just an elaborate, can’t-miss stage show.

But what lay truly at the root of GWAR’s legacy is their ability to tell stories, whether that be an utterly ridiculous interpretation of the terribly mundane, or an utterly ridiculous, space-faring story of unfathomable silliness.  GWAR has perpetually been comfortable in both phases, and that’s been the backbone of all their success.  Lesser bands like Lordi have attempted to copy some aspects of GWAR’s implacable stage show, but without the context of the theater of the absurd, it all boils down to a bunch of grown men jumping around in molded foam and plastic.  

“The New Dark Ages” is GWAR’s best storytelling album in more than a decade, easily the most accomplished in this field since “Lust in Space,” and likely going all the way back to 2004’s “War Party.”  Thematically, we see GWAR again as anti-heroes, fighting off insidious forces from deep within the earth that seek to destroy humanity, etc.  

What made the narrative, for lack of a better term, on “War Party” work so well is that events on the real-life planet earth had come to a head in such a way that GWAR was able to easily craft an angry, expressive album.  Through the lens of GWAR’s comedic nonsense, it was easy to decipher the not-at-all-subtle message the band was trying to get across; that they were mad at a world gone crazy with an inexhaustible thirst for conflict, in all forms.

“The New Dark Ages,” by contrast, clearly emotes with obvious exhaustion.  Their first album in five years, and first since the global pandemic, sounds tired.  “Unto the Breach,” which given the band’s usual epic themes would stand to be a rousing metal mosher, is a chugging burn, sounding strained and strung out at even its most spry moments.  It’s as though not just the characters but the artists themselves are weary from picking up their weapons.

Continuing with the theme of throwing up one’s hands and throwing in the towel, “Unto the Breach” is followed by “Completely Fucked,” which actually is the album’s best cut.  It’s the sharpest song on the album, the place where GWAR seems to recover some of their stride and crafts a memorable and infectious riff that will carry the day in concerts for years to come.

Overall though, if it sounds like this review has been preparing to soften the blow, that’s because it is.  “The New Dark Ages” succeeds greatly in constructing a poignant message, but the music also, frankly, sounds tired.  This is as stripped-down and thin a GWAR production as there’s been in recent memory, in some regards taking them all the way back to the early days of low-budget punk.  “Venom of the Platypus” is a fun punk rawker for what it is, but that’s also all it is.

Pushing aside the frailties of the production, there’s nothing musically inspiring here.  Except for those mentioned above, the riffs are all common stock for punk or metal or hardcore, and they just sort of amble about while vocalist Blothar gathers us around the campfire for another depressing story.  Even singles like “Berserker Mode” are instantly forgettable, living in that worst-case scenario of purgatory where the songs are neither memorably good or memorably bad  “The New Dark Ages” possesses little snap, little fanfare, and lacks much of the tongue-in-cheek humor that has always made GWAR’s ongoing telling of the apocalypse seem like such fun.  It is also a startlingly long record, even without the eleven-minute throwaway outro of “Deus Ex Monstrum.”

It’s not hard to imagine why GWAR might be fed up with the whole bit at this point.  It’s fair to reason that nearly every person of comprehending age is world-weary for a variety of reasons, from the menial to the disappointing to the societally critical.  We’ve all been through a lot and even GWAR, at day’s end, is human.  So it makes sense that in 2017 GWAR was willing to rant and rage and sing “Fuck This Place,” and now in 2022, that fire has been quelled.

So in some part this even begs a bigger question: when all of us are looking for artists to pull us up out of the hole and give us some hope, who do the artists turn to for the same?  “The New Dark Ages” doesn’t offer us an answer.

Album Review: Misfire - Sympathy for the Ignorant

Every few years, there comes a band who says with confidence that they will take up the flag of thrash and carry it proudly into a new generation.  Since the turn of the millennium, multiple acts have wrested control away from their contemporaries and walked miles with the standard flying high – Warbringer, Lazarus A.D, Black Tide (okay, not all flying high,) and most recently Power Trip, just to name a few.  All of them have contributed to the thrash zeitgeist, but all have had to give up their grip on the genre for a variety of (often heart-breaking) reasons.

The flag seldom lay still for long, though.  Enter into the conversation, Misfire, a three-piece outfit based in Chicago who seems on their face to have ‘understood the assignment,’ as the kids are so fond of saying these days.

If there’s something that seems familiar about Misfire, your ears don’t deceive you – two-thirds of Misfire is made up of a band who used to vie for control of thrash, Diamond Plate.  Diamond Plate, for those who don’t recall, were part of a wave of bands that sought to usher in a youth movement in the American thrash scene and left us with two albums, the raw but respectable “Generation Why?” and the excellent, deep-grooved “Pulse,” before fading away into the recesses of memory.  In the aftermath, nine years after “Pulse” left us asking for a little more, we have the debut of Misfire, and the name of the band can’t help but strike of a little irony.

The record, “Sympathy for the Ignorant,” succeeds in that there is no feeling-out here – too often in thrash, we are presented with an artist who hasn’t quite worked out their sound yet, or who has embraced the formula of thrash without a complete understanding of why the constants in the pattern are what they are.  Conversely, from the opening strains of album starter “Fractured,” we see Misfire give us all the tricks and conventions we’re used to while displaying mastery of the form.  There is a catchy riff off the top, which introduces the tone while still leaving enough empty space for the impact of each musical phrase to mean something.  As the bass starts to reed through, the lead evolves, until eventually the engines are ignited, and now we’re off to the races.

The tone is important here.  Thrash has long been built on the proverbial buzzsaw of guitar, and while Misfire respects that, there’s more ingredients in the brew than a simple recitation of the old days when Kirk Hammett’s guitar sounded like it was made out of ground glass and aluminum foil.  Skip down to the middle of the album and “No Offense,” and while Misfire’s tone hasn’t changed, damned if this song doesn’t sound like it would have been at home on “Vulgar Display of Power.”  

That adaptability is the secret of “Sympathy for the Ignorant,” and evidence enough that Misfire has spent a lifetime studying, learning and applying lessons from the masters.  The average listener on the street might not be able to discern between thrash and groove metal, certainly not as Misfire portrays them here, but metal sommeliers will appreciate the manner in which Misfire has made a versatile blend.

While the album is easy to recommend for both thrash veterans who need a fix or the new generation of would-be thrash fans, there are some points worthy of discussion.  “Sympathy for the Ignorant” carries some dead weight.  For every mosh-ready ripper like “Red Flag” or breakdown-bearing bludgeon like “Death Trap,” there is a “He Said She Said,” an aimless banger that isn’t bad, but carries no real menace or sense of the moment.  It’s a common issue in thrash records, not at all limited to Misfire, where maintaining the speed and gravitas of the album through every track is a nigh-impossible task.  All the greats have suffered from it.

Additionally, “Sympathy for the Ignorant” doesn’t showcase the singular personality of many of the great thrash records that have come before.  Misfire doesn’t present the inherent dread of Slayer, the boisterous threat of Pantera, or even the inherent recklessness of a band like Pro-Pain; they are caught between these three things, without accentuating one of their own.  There is plenty of room for optimism, though – Diamond Plate’s debut was much the same and their sophomore effort fixed all of that.

The takeaway here is this: Misfire aims to be the next band to take up the flag for thrash and spearhead the genre for a new generation of fans.  That’s laudable in and of itself, and “Sympathy for the Ignorant,” while not perfect, is a truly worthy successor to the bands that have borne the weight this far.

Album Review: Fear Factory - "Aggression Continuum"

 

We’re going to begin today’s discussion of the new Fear Factory album “Aggression Continuum” by first invoking the time-honored tenets of ‘Real Talk’ and its patron saint, R. Kelly.

<Real Talk> Not only was I fully prepared to dislike this album, but I am man enough to admit that I rather wanted to.  I hold dear the classic albums of Fear Factory’s heady heyday; “Obsolete” has some of the best crowd anthems ever composed and “Demanufacture” is a timeless classic, a pinnacle achievement of the genre, nigh perfect from beginning to end.  There are other moments scattered in small gatherings throughout the band’s tenure, up to and including the unforgivably infectious bassline of “Default Judgement,” a deep album cut from “Archetype” that gets caught in my head on random occasions to this very day.

All of this is balanced against the acrimony that has plagued the band since roughly the turn of the millennium, so twisted and dramatic that it would make suitable fodder for a compelling telenovela.  We won’t go into the gory details here; they can be read at length with a simple query of a search engine – but we will attempt to tidily sum it up by suggesting that once and future guitarist Dino Cazares appears to be possessed of some…irredeemable character flaws.

It is these same flaws that drove me to be predisposed against “Aggression Continuum,” not out of a particular loyalty to erstwhile vocalist Burton C. Bell, but out of the respected memory of what had, classically, been Fear Factory.  Much as when Tony Iommi continued calling his band Black Sabbath despite his being the only original member, or when Tom Araya and Kerry King insisted on being called Slayer despite the absence of Jeff Hanneman and Dave Lombardo, to call this band Fear Factory, with only Dino remaining, seems disingenuous. </Real Talk>

….

Damn it.  “Aggression Continuum” is good.  Really good.  Easily the band’s best record since “Archetype” (which did not feature Dino,) and aspires even to the lofty strata of a classic like “Obsolete.”

Dino, for whatever faults he may possess as a personality, is a truly talented guitarist and instinctive riff-crafter.  His ability to pull burnished steel out of the molten furnace of industrial metal has always been what separated Fear Factory from so many of their contemporaries, even luminaries like Ministry.  Fear Factory’s riffs have perpetually lent just enough of a kernel of accessibility to the proceedings that it prevented the musical narrative from getting lost in the noise of the accompanying smashing and banging.  So it is the case here.

Don’t be mistaken, there’s still plenty smashing and banging.  The title track is one of any number of interchangeable Fear Factory songs that could have fit on any album between “Transgression” and now.  For all their laudable talent, the band does have a penchant for penning a handful of songs on each effort that are simply tasteless because they hold no particular shape; they are just five minute recitals of blast beats and screaming.  C’est la vie.

And yet, “Aggression Continuum” shines because much as in their best work, Fear Factory uses well-paced choruses and melodic, electronic overtones to lift their songwriting to a different plane.  Such is the case with the album’s excellent opener “Recode,” which sets the stage with a bite-sized riff that is outpaced by the hypersonic electronic sample (at their best, Fear Factory’s electronics have always sounded like an adrenaline-junkie DJ is having a conniption fit, and here it is just so,) and a melodic bridge that helps give the song depth and versatility.

Let’s skip ahead to “Manufactured Hope.”  There are bright moments in the intervening tracks, but this is where “Aggression Continuum” really comes alive.  It is rare that a band can throw everything in their arsenal at the wall and make a real, authentic song of it, but that’s what happens here.  The song blisters by at warp speed, transitioning at a blink between opening, verse, bridge, chorus, interlude, over and over again, in less time than it takes the reader to ingest this sentence.  At times harsh, brittle, hopeful, angry and a hundred other descriptors, the song is the album’s best offering, even if it is to some degree physically exhausting to listen to.  On an enjoyable album brimming with good moments, “Manufactured Hope” is the single ‘WOW.’

And now the flood gates are open.  The album never releases the attention of the listener again, moving seamlessly into the rhythmically hammering riff of “Cognitive Dissonance,” which features as good a mosh pit-riling breakdown as Dino has written in several album cycles, but also comes equipped with a melodic chorus by Bell that resets the song both sonically and emotionally.

This flows into the excellently executed and rock-infused “Monolith,” which then sets the table for the galloping “End of Line,” which closes the album with Fear Factory’s typical dramatic and borderline orchestral flourish.

On some level, “Aggression Continuum” is just another Fear Factory record about dystopian strife and fending off some horrid, automaton-heavy technocracy.  As the Ramones said, second verse, same as the first.  But that’s what makes it great!  This is an aural homecoming of sorts for the band, as what’s old is new again, and tricks we haven’t seen them employ in more than fifteen years are heartily embraced and folded into something new.  The album is a must for all FF fans, and a great entry point for the curious.  It stands as a resurrection (reference intended,) of the halcyon days of a great group.  The bittersweet part is that this is a de facto swan song, as the band, as constructed on this album, will likely never produce content again.  Fear Factory, as an entity, will simply become an epithet for Dino Cazares.  There’s no great injustice in that – he did it to himself – but we may well be worse off for it.

Album Review: Rob Zombie - The Lunar Injection Kool Aid Eclipse Conspiracy

Any attempt to decipher the motivations of twenty-first century Rob Zombie may well be a fool’s errand.  Admitting this is hardly revolutionary; this has largely been the case since ever since his film career, once burgeoning with great promise, intersected and subsequently became inextricably tied to his music career, circa 2003.  It is difficult to see what inspires him more as an artist, and above that, more difficult to ascertain what he’s trying to prove.

The unfortunate upshot of all these branches growing increasingly tangled is the distinct reality that Zombie has become a jack of all trades and a master of none.  He has yet to produce an album that speaks to the legacy-defining accomplishment of either “Hellbilly Deluxe” or its follow up “The Sinister Urge.”  However, there seems to be some belief in camp Zombie that the more verbose and nonsensical an album’s title is, the greater the chance it will rekindle past glory.  Thus, “The Lunar Injection Kool Aid Eclipse Conspiracy.”

The album departs with great promise.  After the customary scene-setting open, the first jet out of the hanger is “The Triumph of King Freak (A Crypt of Preservation and Superstition.)”  This track romps and rattles with the throaty rumble that so capably identified all the greatest moments of Zombie’s musical history, be they White or Rob.  This kind of thundering, chaotic distortion fest that abandons craft in favor of impact is the hallmark of Zombie that was often duplicated but never replicated.

And then….nothing.

The album first of all, is too long.  It is bloated with throwaway narrative tracks – six of them to be precise.  This adds roughly five minutes to the total proceedings, which isn’t much in the grand scheme, but obliterates any sense of flow or pacing.  Far too often, the listener is asked to stop their immersion to take in some ambient Pro Tools track or piece of esoteric dialogue. 

In keeping with strange trends that don’t matter singularly but point to a perturbing trend overall, Zombie again chooses to write a song that does not feature common English language words in prominent sections of the chorus.  His most famous of these was the single “Ging Gang Gong De Do Gong De Laga Raga,” and now he occupies the same space with “The Ballad of Sleazy Rider,” which showcases an even more nonsensical chorus than the title would suggest.  At best Zombie is, for some inexplicable reason, trying to inject scat singing into metal, and at worst has become too complacent in his writing to bother putting together compositions with actual verbiage.

For all that, the worst sin, and perhaps the most damning thing that’s ever been said about a Rob Zombie project of any kind, is that it’s boring.  There is no urgency, no hunger to the proceedings of “The Lunar Injection.”  It seems sacrilege to even suggest, but this sounds for all the world like the album of an artist who is comfortable sitting on his laurels.  The prominent single “Crow Killer Blues,” meanders without real direction or purpose.  Even the irrepressible talent of guitarist John 5 seems throttled back – there is some evidence of his versatility in spots, but it is worth nothing that unlike Zombie’s previous album, John does not seem to merit a writing credit this time. 

Zombie is, as far as his musical career is concerned, a prisoner of success.  White Zombie changed the way we think about the presentation of popular metal, and theorized, whether through intention or accident, that metal could be beat-based rather than guitar-based.  Rob Zombie, as a solo artist, forever raised the bar for the presentation of the music, both in the production and in the live setting.  It’s been a long time since either permutation of Zombie has produced an album that resonates with any frequency remotely close to those hallmarks.  Looping back to the top, the question is being begged – why is Rob persisting, and what is the intent?  Only he knows the answer.

Album Review: Cave of Swimmers - "Aurora"

 

The best bands are often the ones most difficult to describe.  It’s an inherent problem and an ever-present dichotomy of music fandom; we crave creativity and praise innovation, but then in the discovery, are feebly incapable of finding the proper words to describe the revelation to our friends.  So, we cop out – “dude, you just have to hear it.”

Such is the case with Cave of Swimmers’ newest effort, “Aurora.”  Not only is this is an album that re-invents the band in a new light, but serves to re-define how we consider the metal power do.

There is no easy parallel for what Cave of Swimmers has created here.  Certain elements are identifiable and comparable – the eclectic, frenetic writing style of Destrage, the vocals-in-front of Mars Volta, the low-key staccato riffs of Queens of the Stone Age, all appear in their turn, and all fall precipitously short of actually describing what’s happening on “Aurora.”

Since Cave of Swimmers is a two-piece act (who makes considerably more noise than any two-piece should,) there is a mental compulsion to refer to them as a sort of power metal White Stripes, but even simply putting those words together feels inadequate.

So, what are we really listening to here?

We begin with “The Sun,” as anthemic a song as a metal fan could ever want, with a speedy riff, tight percussion and a huge, undeniable chorus.  “The Sun” blisters (sorry, bad pun,) with forthright metal fury in the traditional sense.  There’s some high-flying Cirith Ungol in the proceedings, but told through the harsher prism of thrash riffs and an unrelenting pace.

The most important part of the “The Sun” is that is establishes “Aurora,” as a record not to the dismissed, which is important, because the ride gets stranger from there, as we hurtle headlong into a catchy but silly song about seeing a double rainbow (man, remember when that went viral?)  If the order of these songs had been reversed, fans might have passed on Cave of Swimmers as a joke act, much to their own loss.

Every song on “Aurora” offers something new and novel.  It continues with “My Human,” a well-paced and appropriately dramatic proceeding that surprises with a rhythmic thump in the chorus worthy of the deepest groove metal.

And then, “Looking Glass,” the greatest of the album’s six true songs (the opening cut is a throwaway intro.)  This is the culmination of all the ingredients that Cave of Swimmers has brought to the table – an Iron Maiden gallop, a hi-fi rock guitar tone, a bright punk chorus, a righteous buzzing solo.  All of these are melded into an improbable but infectious stew, the kind of song that you find myself humming while working late hours at the office (some personal experience here.)

And this doesn’t even get into the Metallica-bred riffing of “Dirt” or any of the other great stuff that happens in this compact blockbuster of an album.

For a conclusion, I’m going to commit a cardinal sin of reviewing, which in full disclosure, I seem to commit a lot – I’m going to make the review about me for a minute.  I have been reviewing music, in some form or fashion, for almost fifteen years now.  As I confront the stark reality that I am a scant few years away from being forty years old, and as responsibilities in my regular life add on this making less and less of my time my own, I am faced each January with the very real trepidation that maybe this will be the year that music leaves me behind.  Taste will move on past me, my ear will go tin or artists simply won’t produce any new material that I find compelling. 

Cave of Swimmers has proven to me that I have at least one more year of viability.  Thank you, gents.

The Best Albums of the Year - D.M's List

 

Alright, we’re not going to waste a lot of time here – you all know what this is, so let’s get to a refresher on the rules and not waste any time –

Here’s how this works: to qualify, every album must be an original studio composition released for the first time in the calendar year of 2020.  No live albums, no compendiums, no re-releases.  Simple enough.  Only one other rule – it goes to 11.

Also, a brief disclaimer - some of these videos are Not Safe For Work.  You've been warned.

I dare say this is my most diverse top albums list ever.  Without further ado, let’s get a move on:

Honorable Mention) Eyes – Underperformer

It’s hard to find such open dichotomy on a single album.  There’s a lot here that doesn’t work on paper, and doesn’t even necessarily work in the execution, but the album contains a lot of cool moments and is persistently, violently ambitious.  That’s a strange combination of adjectives to be sure, but there it is.  The vocal performance is uneven and jarring, and the music can often descend into madness.  Yet, here it sits, earning recognition in a column extolling the virtues of the year’s best albums.  There’s something about this record that just clicks.  Try it out.

11) Dynazty – The Dark Delight

I dare not put this album higher than this, because it is irrepressibly over the top and cheesy as hell.  But there’s something about it that I can’t shake.  It’s unreasonably fun to listen to, and perfectly tuned to an adventuresome time or a robust night of D&D.  I can’t explain why I like it.  I just do.

10) Mollo Rilla – Viva El Camino

Let’s be clear at the top – not everything on this album works, and there’s no certainly that it’s even meant to.  But no album has reminded so closely of the single effort we got from Them Crooked Vultures as this expansive and varied record.  For an album that falls well within the confines of rock, there’s a sinister edge that lurks not too far beneath the surface.  The album crashes back and forth between sounds, all the while writing melodies and verses that go all the way to the margins and often beyond.  This is an explosive record, filled with roof-raising moments, hypnotic interludes and unhinged catharsis, all tied together with clean riffs and easy to recognize tenets of the genre.  The connective tissue is what makes this album work.  It won’t be for everyone, but those who give it a shot will likely find something that stokes their fire.

9) Psychosomatic – The Invisible Prison

Thrash isn’t dead!  Nevermind that Jeff Salgado sounds a little like young James Hetfield, that’s beside the point.  What Psychosomatic has crafted here is an old-school thrash banger, complete with buzzsaws for guitars and big, wide-open riffs that are elegant in their simplicity.  “The Invisible Prison” doesn’t seek to be anything but what it is – there’s no play at progression or artistic diversity or needless preening here.  The album is a full-speed-ahead battering ram sent to remind us all that thrash, in moments, is just as vital now as it has ever been, and will continue to be.

8) Ghostemane – Anti-Icon

As many of you read in the year-end conversation between Chris and myself (you did all read it, didn’t you?) I am deeply fascinated with whatever the apropos label for this burgeoning genre is.  Until I hear something that feels more comfortable, I am going with ‘industrial rap.’  In the final analysis, they seem so natural a pairing – a genre built to resemble the ceaseless pounding of machinery and a genre that thrives on memorable beats – that it’s surprising it took this long to see the marriage happen.  There is a note of caution; there’s not a huge amount of separation between this album and Ghostemane’s “N/O/I/S/E” from two years ago, which as a single album in 2020 doesn’t mean all that much, but does make one question the genre’s lifespan as a whole if no further innovation is possible.  That’s a problem for the future, though.  In the present, “Anti-Icon” is a killer ride, vacillating between punk and metal and electronic and rap and combining all those in a way that’s totally unique.  To write this off as ‘rap metal’ is to sell very short on its creativity and potential.

7) Turmion Kätilöt – Global Warning

For the second album in a row, I’m going to question the degree of separation between an album and a predecessor, but in this case, the comparison is with another band.  I’m not so sure there’s a great degree of different between this record and Fear of Domination’s “Metanoia,” from 2018, but that’s not a bad thing, because that’s a great record, too.  There’s something about this style of record that’s instantly and deeply infectious, either as a reflection of the catchy, overdriven beats or because of the inherent, almost pop-like insistence of them.  Most people would listen to the album and think that analysis mentally insane, but metal fans know that there’s a certain sensibility to this particular brand of metal that is highly digestible and devilishly melodic.

6) Blackguard – Storm

There are approximately ten thousand words I could write here about this album and how long it took to get to this point, but you’re all tired of hearing it from me over and over again.  We finally got here is what’s important.  “Storm” is everything Blackguard fans wanted it to be – it is the sublime combination of the spirit and energy of “Profugus Mortis” and the power and grit of “Firefight.”  This particular brand of symphonic death metal never really got a chance to shine, and indeed, Blackguard may be the last practitioners of it.  There is a fear here both that the musical world has forgotten about the band in the long wait between albums, and that this may be the band’s swan song effort.  If it is, it’s a fine way to go out, and astute listeners will be sure to drink in the skill it took to brew it.

5) Within the Ruins – Black Heart

I’m not sure ‘progressive deathcore’ is actually a thing.  It sounds kinda made up.  What isn’t made up is how powerful this album is.  There tends to be one album every year that cracks my top albums list because of the sheer force of its will, and this year “Black Heart” is it.  Within the Ruins’ new album takes the best part of The Browning and combines them with a variety and creativity throughout the record’s soundscape that the latter band has only been able to generate in moments.  The uninitiated will hear this album as an unholy pile of smashing and banging, but if you’re willing to listen to what’s actually happening, there’s an underlying sense of rhythmic timing that belies the cacophony laying it on top of it.  The guitars are in their turn both biting and delicate, creating an album that is many things rolled into a single, sonic assault.

4) Denzel Curry & Kenny Beats – Unlocked

I kept going back to this album over and over.  I wanted to absorb it, process and digest the production, track the cadences and rhymes in a way that I hadn’t felt about a rap album in literal years.  Kenny Beats does an excellent job winding his way through seemingly unrelated samples to create a jagged, surreal landscape, but make no mistake – that landscape exists for Curry to stand on and be a star.  He slings words like the great MCs of old, channeling the spirit of Rakim, but makes those words matter by emphasizing them with the bite of DMX.  In a mumble rap world gone mad, Curry represents a breath of positively pure oxygen.  Most shocking of all is that there are four or five distinctly different, memorable experiences on this record, and the whole takes less than eighteen minutes.

3) Master Boot Record – Floppy Disk Overdrive

A year ago, I don’t think I would have been ready for this record.  And I am fully cognizant of the fact that ten years from now, I may look back at this top albums list and say “what was I thinking?”  But there’s something here that’s undeniable.  Sure, long stretches of it may sound like ‘Battle at the Big Bridge’ from Final Fantasy V, but hey, that’s a great tune!  Kidding aside, this is too easily dismissed as ‘video game music.’  The fluctuations in tempo and the depth and range of the pieces, nevermind the endless twisting and weaving and aural combinations, are symbolic of the effort and craft that went into creating this record.  I have talked many, many times on these pages about wanting to hear something different, have a music encounter with something heretofore unheard and wild.  In 2020, this was it. 

2) Blues Pills – Holy Moly!

I’m going to invoke the great poet R. Kelly for a moment, and make reference to “Real Talk” (if you’ve never heard the song and need a good laugh today, I’ll wait while you go find it…….)

…..are you back?  Feel better?  Okay, let’s continue.

Real talk: the song “Dust” is reason enough to have this album at #2.  Especially for where it comes from, smack in the middle of the album, a wicked 12-6 curveball that collapses your knees because the five songs preceding had you looking fastball all the way.  I’m pretty comfortable calling it the best single of the year (though I admit, I probably introduced Alestorm’s “Shit Boat (No Fans)” to more people, but for totally different reasons,) and if the album had done nothing else right, that one transcendent moment would have been enough to deserve a standing ovation.  And yet, Blues Pills gave us a record of great experiences, and one small blemish that is, to my mind, not a musical problem but one of order (“Song From a Mourning Dove” should close the album, rather than “Longest Lasting Friend.)  Blues Pills has been a band on the rise since their ambitious, eponymous full-length debut six years ago, and in 2020, you can’t have a better forty minutes listening to music than “Holy Moly!”  That is, unless you’re listening to…..

1) The Heavy Eyes – Love Like Machines

Instant masterpiece.  Every time, and I mean every time, I was ambiently in my house, cooking or cleaning or doing laundry or whatever, and I wanted an album to put on, this one came to mind first.  Never once did I put it on and say ‘you know, I’m not feeling it, I’m gonna go somewhere else for my fix.’  This is a punchy record that delivers efficient feeling and power in a genre where the temptation to wander is often too great to resist.  The Heavy Eyes only break the four-minute barrier once, and this is the only band I can recall that can make a two and a half minute cut feel like four minutes – and have that be a compliment.  “Love Like Machines” demonstrates effortless mastery of the blues and its interaction with rock and metal, then clothes the whole thing in fuzzy, fat guitar tones and impossibly simple but devilishly catchy riffs.  This album is a must.  Tell your friends.  There’s something here for everyone.

Album Review: Powerman 5000 - "The Noble Rot"

 
How many different bands has Powerman 5000 been now?  The band that recorded “True Force” and “Mega!! Kung-Fu Radio” (or “The Blood Splat Rating System,” if you prefer,) was not, thematically, the same band that had an impactful landing with “Tonight the Stars Revolt!” and then was star-crossed with the non-release of “Anyone For Doomsday?”  Which is turn was a different band than gave the world “Transform” and “Destroy What You Enjoy.”  Which, again, was not the band that composed the re-birthing album “Builders of the Future” and the follow up “New Wave.”  

It’s been a continual journey of reinvention spanning nearly thirty years for PM5K, which is reflected most obviously in the changing music, but also in the shifting landscape of the band’s membership since the release of their hallmark effort in 1999.  The one curse of having released a platinum album is that there are fans who will hold a band to that standard for the duration of their natural lives, and thus Powerman 5000’s (and really, frontman Spider’s) musical journey to find new sounds comes as anathema to those who have never matured past “When Worlds Collide.”

Yet, none of us are the same people we were in 1999 (and there’s probably a fair percentage of those reading this who were not even born then,) and who are we to judge an artist’s attempt to grow and change and evolve?

With that as the backdrop, we come now to Powerman’s new effort, “The Noble Rot.”  In America, we struggle mightily with the concept that any public person can be two things at the same time.  Russell Crowe can be a great actor and a difficult personality.  Michael Jordan can be a sublime talent, an antagonist to his teammates and possibly a sociopath.  These things are not mutually exclusive.  Which fits into the conversation of “The Noble Rot” because there are inalienable truths of this record – this is another reinvention of Powerman 5000, and is it a fun album that can stand on its own merit.

Many moons ago, we had occasion to interview Spider, and he confessed to the fact that some of his critics are spot on – he has absolutely been trying to tap into the sound of popular music, and infuse that into his own style.  He is fascinated by the structure of pop songs and is aware of just how difficult it is to write something that appeals to a large base.  He views this (or did at the time,) as a sort of grand life-quest, which has come home to roost for “The Noble Rot.”  PM5K had been trending toward beat-based electronics for years – each album cycle saw the band pivot ever so much closer to the target, shedding the cocoon of metal and industrial and trying to grow the gossamer wings of something more.

And you needn’t get far to see the effect.  “Cannibal Killers That Kill Everyone,” leads the album and is most emblematic of the Powerman of old.  It’s the most infectious song that the band has written since the haunting lilt of “I Can’t Fucking Hear You,” and repeats a simple but effective chorus until it is destined to become a crowd chant.

The album acts though, as if it wants to get that out of the way, for the experience never returns to the same idiom, and what we get from that point forward is varying degrees of an electronic pop album that possesses certain metal aspects.  “Brave New World,” the album’s second track, kicks off what can only be described as an album-long tribute to new wave, Billy Idol and David Bowie.  Almost all of the proceedings sound like a blend of those elements, combined with “Pretty Hate Machine” and oh, some Powerman 5000 to flavor the mix.

The album’s first single is “Black Lipstick,” which comes with a fun video, but musically is one of the record’s weaker offerings.  For all that Spider wants to tap into his love for dark wave, this romp about a fleeting love affair is too melodramatic and too far out of bounds for the band’s style, even in the wake of their current re-invention.  The 69 Eyes have written this same song a hundred times and have done it better at least half that.  “Black Lipstick” also has the strange fate of making it sound like Spider and Peter Steele may have had encounters with the same woman.

Other than that and the utterly flat “VHS,” though, the album bounces along with enough retro goth charm to evoke a smile from the listener. Spider has not spent his years of toil and study idly; to some degree he’s found the working formula, and it’s all to the credit of “The Noble Rot.” 

When the band released “New Wave,” one of the more common themes of the reviews of it was that it was fun, but lacked real substance or staying power.  This is not true for “The Noble Rot,” which stands strong with memorable tracks like “Play God or Play Dead.”

Twice, we see the possibilities of real synthesis between the ‘old’ Powerman and the ‘new.”  Both “Special Effects” and “Movie Blood,” stick to the game plan of heavy-handed synthetic beats, but bring some teeth with loud, brash choruses and snapped off vocals that ring true to the ear of the Powerman purist.

To that end, tip of the cap all around to the production team.  The bass is deep and resounding, the riffs, for what they are, cut effectively, and Spider sounds convincing and brazen in his intonations.  It’s rare in the digital music age to be wowed by the mere production of a record, but “The Noble Rot” positively bristles with rich sounds and deep experiences.

This new album sees Powerman 5000 in a new space, but, it is a space in which Spider and company appear to feel very comfortable.  The songs are punchy and catchy, which is exactly the kind of thing Spider has been building toward for more than ten years now.  Powerman 5000 is dead; long live Powerman 5000.

Album Review: The Heavy Eyes - "Love Like Machines"

To recap from yesterday - in these trying times, individuals find comfort in the familiar.  For me, and I’m sure for many others, a good chunk of that comfort comes in the form of music.  So it is that while I am locked in inside, held at an (understandable) arm’s length by my job and society as a whole, I while away the hours by scouring through promos and new music that come into my inbox.

During these days, I hoped to merely find something interesting, and in doing so I stumbled across two revelations – though revelatory for different reasons.  Master Boot Record was the first of these, and so consider this the second part of what is a two part review.

Where the joy in discovering MBR came in the unveiling of something novel and different, there is also a profound joy in finding an artist who understands the conventions of a genre with such genius as to render the familiar new all over again.

So, The Heavy Eyes.  A band based deep in the blues of Memphis and fully capable of brewing that inexorable heritage into their particular backyard moonshine blend of rock and metal. 

At first blush, the combination of fuzzed-out, yowling guitars and Tripp Shumake’s measured and monotone vocal delivery bring to mind the image of Everlast performing a set with Kyuss.  That might be an oversimplification, but it’s perhaps the most efficient way to describe the rolling blues vibes of this colorful and vibrant record.

This new record “Love Like Machines,” because it displays such mastery of the best aspects of the genre, begets automatic comparisons to the heavyweights and boutique acts that have come before.  If you’ve ever listened to Clutch, Mothership, Scissorfight, Sundrifter, Shawn James & The Shapeshifters, Devil to Pay, Screaming Trees, Graveyard, The Blue Van, Midnight Ghost Train, or yes, even Black Sabbath, and thought ‘yep,’ then you’ll instantly fall in love with The Heavy Eyes.  To steal from the sampled phone call at the beginning of Anthrax’s “Cadillac Rock Box,” there’s some mighty fine groovin’ goin' on on this record here.

“Love Like Machines” delivers throughout its brisk thirty-four minutes, and the length itself is worth noting.  For the ocean of immersive blues possibilities that this kind of metal offers, The Heavy Eyes show no proclivity for meandering down lengthy paths.  The riffs, albeit it customarily tuned to be round and warm at the edges, are punctual and efficient, which lends the album some immediacy in a genre that so often gets lost.  Only once does the band adventure past the four minute mark, making for bite-sized blues bullets that shoot straight to the heart of the matter.

The brevity does not listen the impact.  The album shines brightest beginning with “Bright Light,” an airy, haunting piece that resonates with a stop and go riff and a lot of empty space, which allows the vocal tone of Shumake to set the tone and pace.  His is a voice that one wouldn’t expect to be able to effect that kind of momentum, but there’s something magnetic in his delivery that makes the song seem more direct, more dire.

Part of the genius of “Love Like Machines” is that while it was clearly concocted in a blues metal mold, there’s a healthy streak of grunge in the alloy that lends just enough luster to make the record seem both familiar and cutting edge.  The back half “A Cat Named Haku,” doesn’t work without the idiomatic guitar bending and out and out note strangulation of grunge.  And perhaps it’s all cyclical – blues metal begat grunge which begat blues metal, but the two are intertwined and both necessary to make this record a success.

The record hits more highlights on the back end with “The Profession,” which moves with a White Stripes beat and an infectious insistence.  The drums of Eric Garcia, while not overwhelming, craft a delectable beat that helps float a riff honed over fifty years of blues metal knowledge and distilled into a deceptively simple but no less effective mix.  It’s the album’s best track, a rolling good time that could raise the mood of a social gathering, or raise your own spirits during social distancing.

You’ve heard “Love Like Machines” before.  You’ve heard it a thousand times, in steamy, swampy clubs, emanating from beer-addled dive bars, hanging out with your friends in a basement, whatever the case may be.  Yet you’ve never heard this before.  It’s a real skill when a band can make the old new again, and the reinvention of the familiar is always a good day at a time when there are thousands of also-ran bands copying a template without really innovating on it.

If Master Boot Record is laudable because it is the celebration of something new and different, than The Heavy Eyes are laudable because they remind us how fulfilling it is to be greeted by an old friend.  It’s a pleasant reminder that every now and again, just for a while, you can go home again.