Album Reviews

[ace diamond]

Is Grant Hart the only drummer who can actually sing while he's playing the drums. Seems that most of the drummers who they decide they want to sing (Ringo Starr/Phil Collins/Don Henley/Dave Grohl/etc) end up not doing both at the same time.

peter criss of kiss on "black diamond", "hooligan", "baby driver", "nothin' to lose", and several other kiss klassicks!
or how about roger taylor from queen on "i'm in love with my car"?

[binnie]

I agree but in hindsight they did the right thing for themselves.

I don't know the figures involved but most bands make little from their first album and even one that sold in the numbers that Appetite did probably wouldn't set you up for life especially if you have some expensive bad habits. The band was never going to last more than a few years so it did make sense to throw as much out there as quick as possible before it all fell to bits. If they had held back most of those songs they would either never have been recorded or they would be all over the internet at this point anyway effectively royalty free.

That said there is a fair amount of shit on those albums, enough to stop me listening to them more than a dozen or so times. I thought You Could be Mine was pretty average too as the first single; arguably not good enough to even make a filler on Appetite. Back then though I was going through a less settled lifestyle so I only had them on cassette tape which didn't work so well having to fuck around fast forwarding through utter garbage like Get In the Ring. Nowadays you would just delete out the shit. Actually now I think about it I may go back and have a listen...

'You Could Be Mine' average? It's so visceral, the sort of plain nasty music that Guns did so well.

[ace diamond]

'You Could Be Mine' average? It's so visceral, the sort of plain nasty music that Guns did so well.

"With your bitchslap rappin' and your cocaine tongue, you get nothin' done......darlin', you could be mine!"
great fucking line right there!

[binnie]

Anathema - We're Here Because We're Here

Anathema are a band of many sounds. Beginning life on the cusp of death metal, they have passed through gothic soundscapes into the warmer hues of folk drenched rock. Never really achieving commercial success (despite critical acclaim), they are a band which deserve to be treasured by more metalheads - the antithesis of banality, of trend driven gimmicks, they are a band for whom every note counts. Indeed, in many respects this is everything that metal is traditionally not: intimate, vulnerable and understated, Anathema are all the more powerful for it. They consciously shy-away from the histrionics and let the songs do the talking. And talk they do - poetic, delicate songs shimmer on the breath of longing and the pangs of memory. This is music you feel as much as hear. 'Thin Air' is a heartfelt love song, tender and beautiful in its yearning - devoid of anything saccarhine, the swirling loops of guitar which engulf theis song are captivating and heark back to a time where bands prided themselves of producing crafted songs rather than simply being progressive. The quietly epic 'A Single Mistake' washes over the listener, ascending to a simply glorious riff at its close; 'Universal' is symphonic, culminating in a swirl of chords and riffage which is almost as powerful as music can be. Porcupine tree's Steve Wilson has done a remarksable job on the mix, leaving ballad 'Dreaming Light' gently kissed with orchestration where it could easily have been played up and sentimental. Sombre and sparse, Anathema will certainly not be for everyone - but it is a cold person who not be moved by this.

[binnie]

From the vaults: Judas Priest - Point of Entry (1981)

Sandwiched between two classics - 'British Steel' and 'Screaming For Vengeance' - this is an album that has not faired well in fans' affections. Possessing neither the metallic grandeur of '...Steel' or the aggression 'Screaming...' it is an album in need of an identity. Indeed, it is not so much that the songs here are weak, it is that they don't gell into an album, which leaves the record feeling purposeless - a problem exaccerbated by the rather timid production. Despite all of this, there are certainly some gems here: 'Solar Angels', with its choppy guitar riff and twisted vocal line, is unlike any other Priest tune; 'Desert Plains' features one of Halford's most emotive vocal, a performance which gives the song a delicate, almost brooding quality; and 'Turning Circles' is drenched in bluesy tones more in keeping with '70s Priest than then slicker beast they evolved into in the '80s. There are certainly some bannana skins - 'Hot Rockin' and 'You Say Yes' try to capture a party-hard vibe that the band never mananged to pull off convincingly, and sit uncomfortably alongside the anthemic 'Heading out To The Highway', whilst 'Don't Go' is light on ideas. It's a confused, often restrained affair, but beneath the problems lie a cluster of remarkable songs which remind us how inventive Priest could be at their best.

[binnie]

Meshuggah - Obzen (2008)

It is difficult to describe Meshuggah to someone who has never heard them. 'Epileptic' is the only term I can think of: their songs contort, spasm and seizure; frantic and frenetic, they also gripping, tort, and exercise an impossible hold. Gargantuan downtuned riffs are layered over the oddest time signatures conceivable, whilst lyrics about man's dislocation in the post-modern world are roared over the top. They exist, therefore, as something of a paradox: a band which is at once fiercely intelligent and bludgeoningly brutal, they are certainly one to be avoided by people who think that music exists to soothe.

Essentially, all of the developments in extreme metal - thrash, death, grind - are processed through jazz arrangements, an approach perfectly captured here on 'The Spiteful Snake'. But for all of the ferocity, there is remarkable variety in Meshuggah's approach. Opener 'Combustion', for example, is heavily indebted to thrash, whilst 'Electric Red' is a slower, more discordant beating of a song. Indeed, despite taking an approach to songwriting which is barren of hooks, sentiment or warmth, there are some moments of pure beauty here. Combining this with their status as one of the heaviest bands ever to have existed - 'Bleed' sounds like Wagner jamming on Sepultura - is a staggering achievement, and even those who don't enjoy Meshuggah would have to respect them. 'Obzen' takes the band into a more song-based approach than previous two records 'I' and 'Catch-33', which saw them at their most expansive. Purists would probably not rank it alongside their masterpieces - 'Chaosphere' and 'Destroy, Erase, Rewind' - but any standard, Meshuggah continue to push the boundaries not just of metal, but of music more generally.

[binnie]

From the vaults: Alabama Thunderpussy - Fulton Hill (2004)

It is - without question - the greatest band name EVER. Anyone thinking that it is a moniker for a band of light-hearted party rockers will quickly find themselves deafened, however, by this heady mix of earthy stoner, doom and Southern rock. This is primitive, anvil beaten metal which exists as the antithesis of today's digitally manipulated high production 'rock' music. At almost 70 minutes, the mesh of wailing guitars, concrete mixer bass and raw vocals is an intense and daunting listen, and you can't help thinking that some editing with the principle of 'less is more' would have strengthed the whole ('Infested' and 'Alone Again' feel half-formed.) But there is plenty to love here. Opening instrumental 'Such Is Life' is an ominous swampy brew which quickly gives way to 'R.R.C.C's' amphetemine driven Molly Hatchet menace. 'Lunar Eclipse' is heavy sludge, southern rock filtered through Sabbath and for much of the time the 'live' fell of the production adds to the sense of snarling, gnarly songs so raw they are almost jammed out. And yet, its an oddly imbalanced affair. 'Do Not' - an acoustic lament - and 'Three Stars' - a heartfelt ode to sadness - seem out of place with all of the muscularity on display, and seem to be indicative of a band which , whilst oozing with ideas, was still struggling to find itself. Strangely enough, however, it is these idiosyncracies which make this work - when the band ironed the creases out of its sound on their much more conventional follow up ('Open Fire') they delivered a much more prosaic affair. Raw worked for them: as straight-forward as it is sincere, this is an album bubbling with imperfections and littered with gems.

[binnie]

Wolfmother – Cosmic Egg

If Wolfmother’s debut record was built on Zeppelin, then ‘Cosmic Egg’ has been erected on more diverse influences, albeit ones that are limited to the 1970s. Here we get warts and all stoner rock, expansive spacey meanderings, and shades of prog. This record got kicked all over the place upon its release, perhaps because in the wake of The White Stripes and the 1000 copyists who followed the industry were growing weary of retro-rock. It’s a long way from the bombast of their debut, and you get a sense that Andrew Stockdale may have been taken himself a little too seriously – driving for epic on ‘Violence of the Sun’, we are presented with a spaced-out rumble which sounds like something dying. Slowly. ‘White Feather’ aims for Bowie but only succeeds in hitting awkward. There is also plenty of rubble cluttering up the bigger ideas: ‘Far Away’ is 2D and ‘New Moon Rising’ is, for all the effects, pedestrian. But there are some staggering moments here. ’10,000 Feet’ is sci-fi space-rock with a crushing riff, channelling the spirit of the late ‘60s with an air of glorious pomp. The prog-leanings of the title-track is captivating, whilst the epic vocal and pretty arrangement of ‘In The Morning’ leaves you wishing that more bands would make rock ‘n’ roll like this. You’ve got to hope that this is a transition record – it may not rawk as hard as their debut, and much of the experimentation here is in desperate need of direction, but Wolfmother can sustain the symphonic weight of their most captivating moments, they might just make an album which proves the critics wrong.

[binnie]

Audrey Horne – Audrey Horne

Album no. 3 for these Norweigan post-grungers. For a band comprising of former members of Enslaved and Gorgoroth, it is odd to find them so at home delivering music of a more melodic ilk, and this self-titled effort doesn’t diverge too far from their traditional formula of Alice In Chains meeting the heavier end of Soundgarden. On full tilt, they have always been a hulking leviathan of a band – crooned vocals sweep over layers of chunky, fat riffs in a richly melodic sound that is both dense and accessible. Godsmack would kill to sound this good. There is much to love here: the jilted refrain of ‘Firehouse’, with its sinewy guitars, channels Sabbath-Bloody-Sabbath; the razor sharp riffage of ‘Blaze of Ashes’ is the sort of classic rock UFO would be proud of; and ‘Charon’ is the brooding sound that Ozzy has been searching for since the mid-90s. In this respect, Audrey Horne deliver the goods. The problem here, however, is that they’ve lost their je ne sais qua. Their first two records – ‘Le Fol’ and ‘No Hey Banda’ – were notable for being adventurous: progressive interludes made the songs twist and writhe, injecting sparkle into what could so easily have been just another post-grunge band wallowing in self-pity. On this album, however, they’ve stripped the songs back – the result may be a more direct affair, but is also more prosaic. That’s a real shame, because Audrey Horne have long been one of rock’s best kept secrets. Here, they’ve passed from a sprawling, tortured Life Of Agony to become a more muted, conservative Velvet Revolver. Shame.

[binnie]

From the vaults: Every Time I Die – The Big Dirty (2007)

“Our orbits are collapsing upon themselves. We’re retreating into the vogue where we’re sucking the blood from the necks of guitars” (Depressionista.)

Fucking hell! That’s quite a lyric, and one typical of this motley crew of misfits who stand apart from their peers for a number of reasons: passion, fun and spirit. In a world awash with emo-platitudes and metalcore washouts, it is utterly refreshing to blast a record that is 36 minutes of rock ’n’ roll battery, and to experience a band who understands that to make a record that is fun need not mean sacrificing depth or emotion. This really is how rock ‘n’ roll should sound in the 21st century. Part metal, part punk, part hardcore and dipped in southern rock, ETID play like this is the last moment they’ll ever be able to. Sounding somewhere between Sick Of It All at their most bruising and a more fun Bronx, this is music played with passion, devoid of frills and unflinchingly articulate. ‘No Son Of Mine’ is built around 2 jabbing riffs and a myriad of time changes, whilst ‘Leatherneck’ channels Glassjaw at their most vulnerable. That’s quite a contrast of styles, but ones which ETID make quintessentially their own. For all the brutality of ‘Rendez-Voodoo’ and ‘Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Battery’, or the wrenching fury of ‘A Gentleman’s Sport’, we get the pure piss ‘n’ vinegar rock ‘n’ roll of ‘Werewolf.’ The songs here could be so easily be a disaster: gripped with ADHD, they flip over, twist around and spasm in and out of shape, and it is a testament to the band’s song-writing abilities that they hold all of the ideas and energies on display here together in huge hooks and choruses. They’re angry, but accessible; intelligent, but direct. Where so much heavy music today prides itself on painting only from a palette of grey, ETID make music that is technicolour. They are uplifting and life-affirming in a bleak age of despair. We NEED bands like this.

[binnie]

From tha vaults: Entombed - Wolverine Blues (1993)

Regarded as a classic by some, and loathed by others, it is hard to think of a metal record as divisive as 'Wolverine Blues.' For death metal purists, the Swede's movement away from landmark records 'Left Hand Path' and 'Clandestine' was treasonous. Those records had already spawned a sub-genre filled with copyists, however, and perhaps Entombed felt it was better to transcend death metal than repeat it. The result is a record which sounds somewhat like a jam session involving the MC5 and Chuck Schuldiner. Injcting punk and rock 'n' roll into into a foundation of extreme metal, 'Wolverine Blues' is crushingly heavy, very aggressive, but remains lots of FUN. 'Eyemaster' opens with drag-race simplicity, blasting rumbling riffs which were as indebted to doom as they were death. 'Heaven's Die' featuring some truly evil riffs and smashes Slayer into the Misfits, whilst 'Demon' is pure dirty, bass assault. This is a record dripping in blusesy tones and switching from sinister to savage - not overcomplicated for the sake of it (as much death metal can be), '..Blues' oozes groove. 'Contempt', for example, sprawls and swells around a series of riffs like a great blues band jamming about something dark and malevolent. Wolverine Blues? There has rarely been a more fitting moniker. Beg, steel or borrow.

[binnie]

From the vaults: Gilby Clarke - Pawn Shop Guitars (1994)

This was not a great record. Not by any means. It was, however, an interesting one, and one which contained some interesting moments. Very much a solo affair rather than a 'band' effort, with each song featuring a host of sunset strip misfits and bored Gunners killing time whilst the ginger one pissed time away. As such, it is a disjointed record in desperate need of identity: 'Shut Up' is ramshackle cow punk; 'Tijuana Jail' is an attempt at Social Distortion, and comes across more like a jam. For all the pick 'n' mix rock 'n' roll on display here, however, there is plenty to admire: opener 'Cure Me....Or Kill Me' is a sleazy blues built around a crunchy riff, taken up a notch or ten by Slash's subdued licks; and 'Skin & Bones' is a punky take on Americana with Stonesy leanings, demonstrative of Clarke's skills as a songwriter. These skills are most evident, however on the albums take on alt. rock: the twisted power-ballad 'Black' is pure Goo Goo Dolls, all jaded and broken, whilst 'Johanna's Chopper' sounds like the upper end of American indie. Here, it seems, was the sound that Motley Crue would strive for a few years later. 'Pawnshop Guitars', then, is worth exploring, even if it is a difficult record to love. It could have been so much more, however, if Clarke had had the sense to hire a singer - the songs are limited by his limitations as both a singer and a lyricist. That's a shame, as if we learn anything from this album it is how expressive he is as a player.

[binnie]

Fiction: Dark Tranquility - Fiction (2007)

Dark Tranquility are one of extreme metal's most reliable bands, as well as the most accessible. Their sound is wholly unique - thrash and death metal riffage are overlaid with gothic electronic and piano, and Mokael Staine tops it all off which some mid-range gutteral vocals. There is nothing contrived about them: the songs are boiled down, with no fat or ego present. This make the sound direct and brutal, a vibrant darkenss which oozes with the confidence of a band who know how good they are. 'Terminus' and 'Blind At Heart' are far more twisted than anything the new wave of thrash bands could turn out, whilst the brutality of 'Empty One' effortlessly gives way to a passage of almost pious piano led lament. It is these flourished that make this music so emotive, so human: 'Icipher' is slower, crunchier and overlaid with orchestration and piano, complexities offset by sparse vocals. The best modern metal bands tends of hail from Sweden or Scandanavia, and Dark Tranquility are no exception. Injecting the typical Gothenberg sound with nuance and intelligence, their lyrics are far beyond the ceaseless and inane anger of most metal bands, and the confidence they exude in combining meaty riffs, taut guitar, and the tonal atmospherics of electronica is utterly refreshing. When it all comes together on epic closer 'The Mundane and the Magic', they achieve a sound which is at once monstrously heavy and impossibly beautiful. That is quite something.

[binnie]

Brijitte West & the Desperate Hopefuls - Eponymous

Clocking in at just over 30 minutes, this a record set to run in old skool time. But it's not retro. By that, I mean it's not punk rock 'n' roll for the sake of mindless emulation, or in an attempt to recreate the past for its own merits. Rather, it's a record built around great songs. Simple as that. 'Mess of Myself', 'It's Not My Fault', 'Bleeding Heart' are perfect pop rock, but in a fucked up way. A heavy Johnny Thunders and Ramones influence pervades, as it does with so many bands, but the result is not plagarism of pedestrian. Sparse production allows for a human quality and openness in the songs, which breathe and pulsate, and the lyrics are drenched in simple and poignant imagery and an angry, defiant and world-weary outlook. 'Bitter & Twisted' has an understated country feel which renders it soft but sharp, and 'How To Be Good' (featuring Jesse Malin) is the sort of broken blues that grunge should have sounded like. All of this renders Brijitte West a cut above the sunset strip retro wannabe artists who pass for good time rock 'n' roll these days.

[binnie]

From the vaults: Rob Zombie - Hellybilly Deluxe (1998)

A minor classic from the Alice Cooper of the digital age. The subtitle - '13 Tales of Cadaverous Cavorting Inside the Spookshow International' - says it all, for in true Zombie fashion this is a record resplendent with B-Movie cool, comic book imagery and pop culture vocabulary. It's a heady brew of fat riffs, industrial ambiences, techno beats and bass blasts which are the perfect vehicle for Rob's rhythmic vocal delivery, and the result is a lot of fun which really shouldn't be over-analysed. 'Dragula' is a crusty anthem, whilst 'Demonoid Phenomenon' and 'Meet the Creeper' are monstrously heavy. But its not all bluster: 'Spookshow Baby' is a mangled power ballad, and 'Superbeast' is pure gothic pop. At it's best - like most Rob Zombie records - this is a carnival of the bizarre with Beelezebub on the decks. There is a lot of filler, however, in the form of musical interludes. Moreover, with so many flavours floating around it can be overbearing 'The Ballad of Resurrection and Rosa the whore' feels like a series of disconected and partly digested ideas. These reservations aside though, 'HellyBilly Deluxe' is a fine example of rock 'n' roll at its most celebratory: pure schlock rock horroe kitsch for the damned!