Converge, Crack the Skye, Dethklok, Emperor, Godflesh, High on Fire, Invisible Oranges, Iron Maiden, Mastodon, Metalocalypse, Morbid Angel, Opeth, The Metal Apologist

The Metal Apologist – Mastodon, San Jose, 21 November 2009

If you attended the Mastodon/Dethklok/Converge/High On Fire show and you were paying very close attention, you could see the quiet journey of a bright soul led into the black. Basically, I think it’s a case of the proverbial bottom line butting up most obnoxiously against the art of the thing. Now don’t get me wrong – I completely understand that marketing, product placement, and dumb dude dollars are a necessary evil, an engine of the entertainment business. I stopped crying sellout when I realized it’s worth it to make some concessions so you can do your art for a living rather than scoop ice cream at the drug store to keep your integrity intact. And really you have to give some respect where it’s due to the people who do all the shitty work to advertise and provide infrastructure to our fun. But you know, sometimes the cheap commerce side of things sinks its fangs way too deep into the true beating heart of artistic divinity, reminding you that our tolerance veils its nature, haggard and vampiric by the light of the latter.

Let’s start at the top: Brian and I arrived at the San Jose Events Center circa 7pm. Actually it was 7:15pm and I was confused as to why Converge were on stage given that High On Fire were set to go on first. Well, a marginally helpful young man (who seemed genuinely confused as to why I would talk to him) informs me that High On Fire DID in fact go on, hewing precisely to the scheduled 6:30pm start time. Wow. Who made it down here (that is, from the greater Bay Area to South Bay; I assume that’s a decent portion of the audience but I could be wrong) on a Saturday night before fucking dinner time to catch these fellas? I have to remember to reset my internal rock clock for these big venue shows – mercilessly on-time. Also where’s the respect for HoF, these now elder statesmen of the scene? It’s kinda heartbreaking; like when you see 70-year-old men working at Walgreen’s. There needs to be a Musician’s Scene Cred Roth/IRA that you start building up when your band forms so that in 10 or 15 years, no matter how many times Pitchfork or the white belt crowd pass you over, your band is assured teacher’s salaries and mid-size venue headlining tours. Jeez, lest we forget the ironic fact that headliners Mastodon met one another at an HoF show over ten years ago.

On to Converge, who from the moment we arrived were seemingly tearing it up. Let me rephrase that: they were indeed tearing it up but that was not the perception of a plurality or at least a very vocal minority in the audience. I’ve never heard such savage booing for an opening band. They ate it up like pros and I was kinda teary-eyed and inspired to seem a band react so bravely. Their set ended and I really needed to know: what was Converge’s transgression? We asked two separate groups of kids what they thought but they were either mildly enthusiastic about the band or benignly indifferent and… well… I’m a bad journalist because I gave up after surveying .01% of the control population. I didn’t learn much either as the guys we spoke to were also perplexed at this bad reception. For me, the distorted guitars, the gruff vocals, and the massive collusion of bass, drums and guitars forming what we refer to as the “riff” seems like common enough ground for all four bands to…converge upon. So what got everyone’s ire up? I’m the worst judge for this; I’m an artist, not a critic. The thing is that my taste in music is kinda like the positive flip side of the stereotypical mom who says all that heavy metal sounds the same. It isn’t all the same when you get down to the details but for most intents and purposes, on a fundamental level it IS the same. Catharsis through volume, sonic shrapnel, massive emotional bloodletting – that’s what Iron Maiden, Morbid Angel, Godflesh, Opeth, and Emperor (for a few examples) all have in common for me. And apparently if you put each of those bands’ diehard fans all in the same room, the collected will NOT agree on much. My guess: the hardcore-flecked vocal delivery, the scruffy and natural-sounding guitar, the dynamic, not-constant-pitter-patter-of-double-bass-drum-pedals probably equals total turnoff for an audience weened on that perfectly cut 24-carat diamond that is the modern death metal recording. That kind of flawless, Pro-Tooled horse stampede was yet to come. That’s just my theory though I do feel some solidity there. Shit, maybe even I couldn’t have gotten on board with something like Converge if I were a little younger. Well, yeah I could have but if I hadn’t, I don’t know what would have compelled me to actually BOO the band. Hey kids: stop being such fucking townies or risk growing up to realize you’re 40, have experienced nothing more exotic than the cajun taco roll at 7-11, and drive by your high school once a week with tears in your eyes. I might be exaggerating.

Fortunately, I think all those bad vibes got inverted into some extra-keen enthusiasm because we all went apeshit when Mastodon took the stage, my cynical ass included. Seriously though, I had a really good reason. I happen to believe that Mastodon’s Crack the Skye is no less than this generation’s Led Zeppelin IV – epic storytelling enrobed in heavy cinematic rock music that crosses over without pandering; that is, it transcends. Of course, the riffs are still brutal and metal-borne but what I’m trying to say is, for example, you don’t think of Stevie Wonder as a guy who plays R&B or soul or pop – you think of him as something unto himself. His music is obviously rooted in identifiable styles but he doesn’t fit squarely in any of them and eventually he created the Stevie Wonder spot, a kingdom of one. Diehards accused Mastodon of getting too glossy and too proggy with this record, a stance articulated fairly enough in a pretty scathing review via Invisible Oranges. I think Cosmo’s on to something in his analysis if not his conclusions; the band have drifted considerably from their straighter metal roots. However I think he misses the point for though they’ve become less metal, they’ve become convincingly more themselves. Personally I think their early years yielded their safest, least distinct output. In fact, I think this may have been the key to their early success: they baited an audience with simple, satisfying metal, gradually switching in the epic sweep that came to a head with CtS. They’re like your new friend who’s into all the same shit as you (metal and beer) and then gets drunk and comfortable and admits he cried when he saw “Beaches”.

If I ever harbored a doubt that Crack the Skye was Mastodon’s victory lap it was certainly allayed by the bluster with which they executed the album live. As Cosmo Lee points out, what Mastodon lack in overdubs live (and Crack the Skye has a bazillion of them, albeit mostly for textural purposes) they more than make up for in raw power and the sheer charisma with which they wield it. Every one was feeling it too, singing along to every word in this strange double-headed story that intertwines the tragic suicide of drummer Brann Dailor’s teenage sister many years ago with the purported transmigration of Rasputin after his assassination many more years ago. That’s exactly the kind of nebulous, unwieldy semi-story that makes for the best concept album in my opinion, the kind that has a sturdy sense of narrative while giving room to dream.

And dream I did. These immersive sound worlds each inhabit their own compositional logic. Motifs unfold rather than progress, transitions emerge as inevitable results of the riff’s genetic code. This is a story of re-incarnation, of one soul inhabiting seven shells represented by the seven unique yet interconnected musical movements that comprise the record. Mastodon’s serpentine motifs can seem a little top-heavy at times, as though they could have shaved off a note or five and saved themselves some trouble. Yet CtS finds this approach better illustrating the complex landscape of psychic travel – this is, after all, the sound of teenagers transmuting into czars. It’s not all quantum physics either as they eke real dimension by seesawing between the Neanderthal and the abstruse with alchemical deliberation. Exultant, airborne arpeggios are soon dragged down into tar by massive gravitational doom-chords, moving our minds through the spheres via Byzantine sonic architecture.

Five older songs followed Crack the Skye and then just like that, Mastodon were calling it a night. Despite their confidence and swagger onstage, the dudes were downright bashful when they said their thank yous and goodbyes. It was charming in that Southern way. They were clearly humbled by the adulation and dare I say by the music itself, privileged to have made a truly classic album in the vein of old Floyd or Zeppelin. How strange then that the house lights soon came up, signaling there would be no encore. Huh? Now, I’m not a big fan of encores generally; I’m all for a band saying their bit within the margins of a set. I think the margins in this case were a bit narrow though. They couldn’t have played for more than ~85 minutes and as Mastodon were surely the stars of the night, maybe they could’ve languished in the spotlight a bit longer. Right? I guess not. I couldn’t help connecting this unceremonious end with the audience’s reaction to Converge. Was a fickle audience in charge here and worst of all, were the masters of ceremony abiding their whims? Don’t play too long. Don’t play these sounds. Are audiences in 2009 severely allergic to having their expectations challenged?

On to Dethklok, remarkably the world’s second animated band. I found myself in the confusing position of feeling uncomfortable during their set despite being a huge fan of “Metalocalypse”. First off, the live band format really robs the whole Dethklok universe of its charm. Brendan Small’s earnest death metal facsimiles successfully buttress the hilariously clever story arcs of the show. Without those stories, the songs come across as pretty vacant. It’s that same lack of narrative that makes the interspersed animated clips fall flat as well. These focus on banter between the characters, sight gags, and… video game endorsements. So you’re left with a de-fanged disassembly of a musical parody. Really? This is what we’ve been led up to all night? There was something so cynical and disappointing about seeing this after the emotional rush of Mastodon’s set. It was so weird to negate the profundity of their and Converge’s music by serving Dethklok as the final dish. Surely, whoever put this together could have exhibited more class. Now let me say this: I have sincere respect and admiration for Mr. Small’s work. But certainly some deference was in order. It’s so impossibly ironic that three hard-working, blue-collar bands with an astonishing THIRTY-FIVE YEARS of touring between them got lapped for draw by the two-year-old made-up band. More apropos at least if the order had been first cartoon band, then Mastodon. Furthermore, I wondered if Mastodon even needed the pull of a co-headliner or if Dethklok were just padding to ensure turnout. I get that business is business but at the same time, it’s all based on judgment calls so it’s imperfect too. I’m no promoter but I had a feeling that they could’ve drawn the same without Dethklok, that the latter were just a pleasant diversion for most.

Ultimately, I think this situation alienated me a little bit more from seeing live music and I was already a little bummed about live music anyway. My peak musical experience will always be listening to a record in private from top to bottom. That’s where the emotions and dreams really take flight. Everyone goes off about the exhilaration and visceral nature of a live show and I get that but I also can’t forget that I’m there to buy a beer, and buy a shirt, and pay a service charge and really, the music is secondary to all that. One look at this video of Van Halen playing an out-of-tune “Jump” ought to tell you that. I’m skeptical of how dumb crowd momentum overshadows a sense of humor, complete thoughts, and other things that I find valuable in art. On the other hand, you have ear-shattering volume, human energy and interaction, and pretty lights. I like those things. At long last, it’s not the end of the fucking world if the cartoon band brings in the bucks and dumb kids boo the hardcore band, etc. I think these bleak economic times find the more principled folks among us conceding to those aforementioned dumb dude dollars to keep doing what they do. But goddamnit, it’s time for a band like Mastodon to step to the front of the class – headlining arenas, 2-hour sets, rabid fans screaming until they’re hoarse for a five-song encore. It reminds me of something that the band HEALTH said in an interview not too long ago. To paraphrase, they wondered aloud whether a 21st-century band can truly arrive in the classic sense given the all but disintegrated state of the music industry. In Mastodon’s case, it remains to be seen and I wouldn’t rule anything out for their future. Perhaps it’s merely a question of confidence on the part of the band or their management. There’s a legion of people out there who will be very on board with a little more audacity from those fellows. Of that I am sure.

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H.P. Lovecraft, Jim O'Rourke, Morbid Angel, Necronimicon, The Metal Apologist, Trey Azagthoth, Trey Spruance, Van Halen

The Metal Apologist (Part V: Morbid Angel)

{from December 17, 2007}

Trey Azagthoth used to scare the shit out of me. As a young boy of 15, I came across an interview with Morbid Angel’s guitarist and sonic visionary in one of the many guitar magazines I was inhaling at the time. He described with complete candor and lucidity his belief in the Ancient Ones, the metaphysical entities that made up a polytheistic universe for the Ancient Sumerians. I still don’t know much about them (their ranks include Chthulu who’s probably gotten the most pop culture ink out of all them) but a cursory read of the Necronimicon and H.P. Lovecraft’s story of the same name will bring you relatively up to speed. Without going into too much detail, they will freak out any straight-laced, yet malleable, suburban kid from the Valley and shake his tenuous religious beliefs in the omnipresence of a God who will make everything OK if you just attend Sunday School. Of course, I speak of myself…

I was never one of those kids who could say something wasn’t real and then just believe that it wasn’t going to make me lie awake at night in horror. Whether it was The Ancient Ones, U.F.O.s, or Freddy Kruger, I was always pretty good at enabling these apparitions into being and allowing the thought of them to creep me out. Anyway, Mr. Azagthoth divulged that he finds great inspiration in these entities, and took copious amounts of drugs to commune with them through his music. These days he has developed a more complex, personal, and somehow universal philosophy of being that I’m sure doesn’t discard at least the basic tenets of his reverence to The Ancients but also manages to include self-help gurus, Deepak Chopra and Tony Robbins (I shit you not). Add to that his remarkably enthusiastic admiration of Eddie Van Halen (specifically I, II, Diver Down, and Fair Warning – the Ted Templeman sessions…anyone working on that box set?), Mozart (in hindsight, that’s not that weird – the dovetailing between death metal and classical…the bombast, the tonal/atonal balance, the harmonies…sorely overlooked), and, much later on, first-person online shooters like Quake and Doom, mystical texts such as the Qabalah…and here was a perplexing figure.

I read all this about Trey before I ever heard his music. And anyone who has ever done that knows how gargantuan their imagination can make the unheard music. When you finally hear the music in question, it tends to disappoint (Jim O’Rourke, in the liner notes to AMMusic, describes how let down he was by hearing KISS after reading so much of their hyperbolic press – was there any other kind of press for that band?) Well I imagined the most intense swarms of blue-gold airborne madness, guitars swirling around your head like Victorian vampire banshees over brutal machine gun drumming. And FUCK if that’s not exactly what it sounded like. “Blessed Are The Sick” made my jaw drop when I was 15. I wasn’t even sure if I liked it yet. It was overwhelming and weird and kinda horrifying. And yet all these years later, few metal albums sound as fresh and complex and utterly mad, mostly thanks to the guitar work of Trey Azagthoth. Despite his considerable technical prowess, it’s really his compositional vision for the guitar – which is virtually limitless and truly without peer in the death metal world – that offers a lens into his achievements. His work is more akin to filmmaking; many of his riff movements are set up like sequences in a Fellini film. Ecstatic, otherworldly, synaesthetic sound-images that evoke a multiverse with their own physics, logic, and gods.

It was only after years of cultivating my own approach to making music which included further processing the work of my forebears that I began to appreciate the intention of Trey Azagthoth’s statements from all those years ago. His philosophy is and has always been based on inspiration. And inspiration is very real. It is an animating presence inside the body that serves as the raw materials for manifestation – creative work, that is. Working with this feeling the artist situates themselves thusly: “While the tyrant was busy conjuring sweet wine from sour grapes, we were auto-cannibalizing raw angel flesh to resurrect long dead pagan gods who were forcefully obliged to brutally BUTTFUCK this man of the world into bloody remission” (poorly paraphrased from another Trey, Spruance of Secret Chiefs 3, in the liner notes to Second Grand Constitution and Bylaws). How can you create some serious fucking music without creating your own cosmology? I don’t even know anymore. I just thank Mr. Azagthoth for being a light and offering a way towards finding solace in the clarity and peace of your own way rather than being intimidated by the audacity of creating that idea in this world.

Cheers,
A

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Carcass, Crass, Earache Records, Godflesh, Jerry Goldsmith, Meshuggah, Mr. Bungle, Napalm Death, The Metal Apologist

The Metal Apologist (Part IV: Carcass)

{from August 23, 2007}

Well, being bored and wired at work are, I think, optimal conditions for posting a new Apologist. Today we harken back to the late 1980s, to England, to the famed seminal death metal label, Earache Records, and to arguably their flagship band, Carcass.

What a band were Carcass. Representing a significant evolutionary step in metal, they were by rights amongst the first proper death metal bands as well as contributing heavily to the development of grindcore. Hmm…this is as good a time as any to clarify a few things about metal nomenclature. So let’s say metal is at least loud distorted guitars, which are generally leading the proceedings and enhanced by powerful drumming and usually subservient basswork. Vocals vary wildly from singing to screaming to growling. Well then death metal is particular for a lot of really fast picking on the guitar, and a preponderance of double kick drums. The actual tempo of a death metal song is NOT NECESSARILY THAT FAST!!! Speed metal, although ostensibly less extreme of a subgenre, is as one would expect from the name, the characteristically fast one. But listen to any Morbid Angel tune after 1995 and the rapid double kick backdrop is typically offset by a rather midtempo beat. Yeah…and also it gets really fast of course. Further characteristics include (but are not limited to): blast beats (exactly what it sounds like –a sudden blast of rapid drumming that typically animates the song for a moment. It’s auditory smelling salts) growling or shreiked vocals (usually really high or really low in range) atonal or middle eastern melodies in guitar riffs (I am NOT a purist but as long as we’re being specific, if it gets too traditionally melodic and harmonic, it’s becoming not death metal. That’s not to say that it never gets melodic or harmonic in a death metal song. NO WAY! It’s just not continuous or consistent within a piece; a hummable riff or melody needs to be an abberation in the song for it work and be properly brutal. Interestingly, Trey Spruance once considered Mr. Bungle to be a death metal band at heart, basically replacing riff changes with full-on aesthetic sea changes.) and/or odd time signatures (this is actually a necessity come to think of it; if a death metal tune rolls along in 4/4 for too long, it loses that off-putting sea-sick quality that really makes it well…DEATH metal. It didn’t get that name because it was so appealing…)

So what the fuck is grindcore? Being as how this isn’t animal taxonomy, I will just posit my un-Wiki’d definition of grindcore which is death metal crossbred with hardcore punk. Taking everything we know about death metal and just making it less anal and exacting, more dirty and fucked and impassioned and imprecise; a little more “homeless guy ranting on the corner.” Now, the Brits (specifically Napalm Death, Godflesh, and–that’s right–Carcass) were mad into hardcore punk (esp. the deeply influential British collective Crass) and even had a radical political bent to their music. I hear a bunch of dumbasses crying bullshit about music where you can’t make out the vocals marked as radical or revolutionary in some way. Well, the thing about that is that they’re musicians and they evolve the music that they play. Their radicalism lies in synthesizing exclusive styles in music that otherwise would not get to mingle otherwise (punks and heshers are notorious for having little overlap; why? No one ACTUALLY knows. Punk might be more working class and Metal might be more middle-class. Punks might be more informed and heshers might more beer swilling. Whatever. Anybody who’s met someone beholden to a genre of music for their friendships and opinions and general sense of the world knows that as a class of people they are rather fucking mediocre…) and facilitating an aesthetic overhaul of what music was thought to be; advancing our perceptions and creating things that just didn’t exist yet. And making that work…

I haven’t even said anything about Carcass yet…

For the purposes of this blog, I will focus on the album that bridged their grindcore years with their leap into what became the wildly popular subgenre of “melodic death metal.” That would be Necroticism: Descanting the Insalubrious. You will never meet anyone as opinionated as a metal fan, so when I say that this is “widely considered to be their masterpiece,” take it with a grain of salt. It IS, however, an unquestionably special death metal album and a milestone in the genre. Really epic songs, spot-on production, an attention to theme, variation, and development that would make Jerry Goldsmith proud, odd times that would make Meshuggah and many metal bands to follow inspired, and the real tear-jerker? TWO singers–one for growling and one for sounding like an anthropomorphized snake. Twisted riff after twisted riff, it’s like they had multiple generations-worth of frequent flyer miles saved up to the first class section of the Virgin Atlantic airliner of riffs. Let me say something about riffs here: they are the bread and butter of a metal musician’s life. A great riff is something truly religious and communicates something intangible to you–it compresses everything you have learned and known about life up to that point into an elegant series of sonic orbs, angles, twists, and turns. It’s like your favorite inside joke crossed with kissing your darling crossed with a moment of spiritual clarity. How gay is that? OK, replace any of those with “crossed with heaving a broadsword dozens of yards at a great beast breathing fire upon you and generally trying to fucking kill you and marveling as it lands squarely into his heart.” Listen to Dopesmoker (a.k.a. Jerusalem) by Sleep for a fucking exegesis on the holy magnitude of the riff.

I almost forgot; death metal songs often can and do start with samples; from movies, typically ones you have seen or can see. That’s the idea–to reference something. Well, there’s something weird about this Carcass album because NO ONE KNOWS what the really great and unnerving samples (most of which sound like they are from medical symposiums) are originally from. Take this one:

“That’s why I find it so amusing that the latter-day saints of this institution, one, attributed to me motives that just weren’t there and accused me of corrupting morality which I wish I had the power to.

Prepare to die…”

It’s unsettling and righteous at the same time, followed by a fantastically rapid machine gun of a riff. There is something so abstractly satisfying about this record whose lyrical content is largely based on strange gory narratives riddled with willfully obtuse medical school terminology (stories, by the way, range from the gastral consequences of LSD intake to the practicality of using humans as manure–the members of Carcass are vegetarian). From beginning to end this album just owns and speaks volumes about regarding an album as a whole in the process of writing. While not by any stretch of the imagination a crossover record, this is a really dynamically and ambitiously sequenced record, one of the rare metal records that you can and ought to listen to in one sitting (longer too at about 48′). This album just really threw down the gauntlet for the music makers who came across it; those who were thoroughly enthused by metal but who also at times questioned the ambitions of those who created it and were appalled at the reactionary attitudes of its supposed fans. Here was an album that seemed to say, “Metal can and will evolve and crossbreed and progress and do so without compromising or acceding to the whims of the ignorant and static of mind. It is simply assimilating itself into the vast pool of what we know to be music and sound. We understand that and want to convey that to you through the most fucking epic songs we can muster!” At long last, this is a truly progressive piece of music.

So there you have it…Volume 4…hope you enjoyed it. Good day to all!

-A

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James Brown, Meshuggah, Philip K. Dick, The Metal Apologist, Tomas Haake

The Metal Apologist (Part III: Meshuggah)

{from June 14, 2007}

What do mathematics, the slow complex psychic evolution of humankind, and James Brown have in common? They find a nexus point in Sweden with the arcane metal band Meshuggah. Meshuggah are a REALLY good band. And most people in the metal world know this. But I’m not quite sure to what extent they realize it. Because Meshuggah are equal parts sophisticated and straight-up kick-ass. There’s folks who don’t give a fuck beyond kick-ass. And since metal is such a ghettoized format (only metal types of people tend to buy metal records; not many other genres find themselves quite so exclusively holed up). Of course, it’s not as bad now as it was in the 80s (like I remember the 80s) but from what I understand, metal was SERIOUSLY hated stuff. This was the era that birthed the accusation of Judas Priest as driving a kid to murder. Nowadays, your mom buys the new Mastodon record before you do and the cast of “Friends” raises metal horns (Not really on either counts but you get what I mean). Anyway, my point is that I feel that for all their popularity not enough people get the brilliance of this band. And nothing deters the narrow mind like the tag of metal. So it’s their loss but still…something needs to be said for this…

Meshuggah’s ostensible quest is to relate dense psychic states through their lyrics and, through a significant refinement of the metal mores, through their music. For example, they never charge or stampede the ear. This is usually a state most bands seek through the sync of drums and guitar in complete cutthroat concert. Meshuggah on the other hand orchestrate elaborate polyrhythms: guitars create complex odd-numbered rhythmic figures that sound not unlike a large spacecraft crashing down to the ground in slow-motion while the drums groove, nay, bump to beats that are big, funky, even reminiscent of Motown. What?! Why, you might wonder? Well, it’s hard to explain unless you’re actually listening to it but Tomas Haake (their drummer) demonstrates that there’s a deceptively easy charm and movement to finding the lowest multiple of 4 divisible by 19. Pretty remarkable.

Again this is unmistakably metal and as such there is a prominent manifestation of lead guitar in their music. But these aren’t the kind of solos you’re used to. They sound altered, austere, and alien. They don’t virtuosic at least not in a demonstrative egotistical way (although make no mistake they are composed with not a little bit of tedious care and craft). They are somewhat melodic but not at all lyrical; something like if the ship in Event Horizon made its own sound like the UFO from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Sinister and mechanical in execution, yet conveying emotions; just not ones that you’re used to.

Lyrically, Meshuggah inhabit the mind space of broken-poet schizophrenic cyborgs from 8 Philip K. Dick novels simultaneously. The may be the most obtuse metaphor I’ve ever come up with but just check it out. From the song “New Millenium Cyanide Christ”:

I’m A Carnal, Organic Anagram.
Human Flesh Instead Of Written Letters.
I Rearrange My Pathetic Tissue.
I Incise.
I Replace.
I’m Reformed.
I Eradicate The Fake Pre-Present Me.
Elevate Me To A Higher Human Form.
The Characters I Am,
Made Into A Word Complete,
Then I’ll Be The New Norm.

Self Inflicted Fractures.
I Replace My Bones With Bars;
Aluminum Bleeding Oxide;
The Drug Of Gods Into My Pounding Veins

(A Human Puzzle For All To Scorn.
No Face.
No Back.
Directionless.
My Scarred Edition I’ll Display;
The Organic Word For Nothingness)

My Receiving Eyes Exchanged With Fuses;
Blindness Induced To Prevent Destruction.
Ceramic Blades Implanted Past My Ribs To Save Me From The Dues Of Inhalation.
I Tear My Worldly Useless Skin.
Staples To Pin It Over My Ears.
Non-Receptive Of Ungodly Sounds –
I Disable The Audio-Generators Of Fear.

Hexagonal Bolts To Fill My Mouth,
Sharpened To Deplete The Creator Of All Violence;
Without Speech There Will Be No Deceit

(My Feet I Crush. The Flesh I Cut Away,
So As To Not Produce The Sound Of Their Presence On Rotten Ground)

Baptized In Vitriolic Acid.
A Final Touch.
A Smoothing Of Features.
Completion Of The Greatest Art;
To Cast The Godly Creatures.
Humans, Once Astray;
Made Divine.
Stripped Of Congenital Flaws.
We’re Incandescent Revelations In A World Of Darkened Forms.

(Confide In My New Age Dogma.
Swallow The Indoctrination.
You’ll Come To Love It Here,
The Suicidal Atmosphere.
Let Me Into Your Common Mind.
I’ll Plant My Thoughts Into Its Soil.
Walk Among Us Self-Made Gods,
Deified Through The Pains Of Self Torture)

Disciples,
Come Join With Me To Save A Failed Humanity.
Follow The God Of Cyanide Into The New Eternity.
Behold; A Sacrificial Rase A Cleansing Worshipping Of Pain.
The New Millenium Christ Here To Redeem All From Lies

(I’ve Come To Save You All. I’ve Come To Light Your Way)

Wow, something about the redeemer of the future, today! I didn’t know where to begin with this one and I don’t know where to end but holy shit, Meshuggah are a REALLY good band.

Cheers,
A

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Breeders, Kim Deal, Pantera, Socialism, The Metal Apologist, West Memphis 3

The Metal Apologist (Part II: Pantera)

{from February 8, 2007}

It seems like I’ll be focusing on understanding the depth of lyrical content in otherwise dismissed bands. And I’m not alone in the case of this song. Before me, Kim Deal of the Breeders covered “Fucking Hostile” by Pantera for a compilation to free the “West Memphis 3” (I’m not an authority on this case but these are the kids who under very dubious circumstances were arrested for a murder and the fact that they listened to metal was an attributing factor in the case). This is one of the underlying endeavors of the Metal Apologist; to highlight the aspects of depth that are glossed over in this music and that is exactly what Kim Deal does doing a straight read of the Pantera tune with clearer vocals.

Almost every day
I see the same face
On broken picture tube
It fits the attitude
If you could see yourself
You put you on a shelf
Your verbal masturbate
Promise to nauseate
Today I’ll play the part of non-parent
Not make a hundred rules
For you to know about yourself
Not lie and make you believe
What’s evil is making love
And making friends
And meeting God your own way
The right way

We stand alone

The truth in right and wrong
The boundaries of the law
You seem to miss the point
Arrested for a joint?
You seem to wonder why
Hundreds of people die
You’re writing tickets man
My mom got jumped — they ran!
Now I’ll play a public servant
To serve and protect
By the law and the state
I’d bust the punks
That rape steal and murder
And leave you be
If you crossed me
I’d shake your hand like a man
Not a god

Come meet your maker, boy
Some things you can’t enjoy
Because of heaven/hell
A fucking wives tale
They put it in your head
Then put you in your bed
He’s watching say your prayers
Cause God is everywhere
Now I’ll play a man learning priesthood
Whos about to take the ultimate test in life
I’d question things because I am human
And call no one my father who’s no closer than a stranger

I wont listen

To see
To bleed
Cannot be taught
In turn
You’re making us
Fucking hostile

So what we have hear is a guy who is trying to thoughtfully reassess the roles of specific authority figures and doing so with remarkably poignant results. Of course, Pantera’s read of this song is propulsive and without respite. As such, it took Kim Deal’s reading to unpack the emotional resonance of these lyrics and reveal that they are as radical and affecting as any great Minor Threat song for their willingness to challenge heirarchical institutions but do so with brilliance and consideration rather than an easily dismissable “youthful” antagony (“Yes, ‘Fuck it!’ That’s your answer for everything!”). Some real gems here for sure: “I’d shake your hand like a man not a god”? Damn! Take that Socialist revivalism! Marxists everywhere reeling at the powers of populist song…

Phil and co. were not embodiments of social revolution that much is true. But the work is the thing and personally, I find this to be a hearty challenge, a toss of a hefty diamond-encrusted gauntlet, to the standard binary of “happy/sad” music. Check your head indeed…

I believe that’s all. Don’t be quick to dismiss or dis; In light of this, you might be amiss…

See you,
A

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Black Sabbath, Geezer Butler, Ozzy Osbourne, The Metal Apologist

The Metal Apologist (Part I: Black Sabbath)

{My first task here will be to archive select old writings. Here’s the first installment of “The Metal Apologist,” which is exactly what it sounds like, from January 13, 2007}

So I’ve unofficially decided to be the biggest fucking dork ever and put up a (semi-)regular series of posts pertinent to exalting the best Metal that I’ve encountered and defending it from the disparaging falsehoods and misconceptions with which it is too often saddled.

It started with a listen to Black Sabbath’s “A National Acrobat”. A brilliant song that kinda chokes me up by how lyrically amazing it is. A much younger Ozzy is powerful and unstrained singing these lyrics (penned by Sabbath’s unsung genius of a bassist, Geezer Butler):

“I am the world that hides
The universal secret of all time
Destruction of the empty spaces
Is my one and only crime
Ive lived a thousand times
I found out what it means to be believed
The thoughts and images
The unborn child that never was conceived

When little worlds collide
Im trapped inside my embryonic cell
And flashing memories
Are cast into the never ending well
The name that scorns the face
The child that never sees the cause of man
The deathly darkness that
Belies the fate of those who never ran

Well I know its hard for you
To know the reason why
And I know youll understand
More when its time to die
Dont believe the life you have
Will be the only one
You have to let your body sleep
To let your soul live on
Love has given life to you
And now its your concern
Unseen eyes of inner life
Will make your soul return
Still I look but not to touch
The seeds of life are sown
Curtain of the future falls
The secret stays unknown

Just remember love is life
And hate is living death
Treat your life for what its worth
And live for every breath
Looking back Ive lived and learned
But now Im wondering
Here I wait and only guess
What this next life will bring”

Yeah, Sabbath were basically big hippies but with a little more gravity, grounded in the reality of facing the uglier parts of the universe. But beneath it all there’s a profound message of rebirth and understanding the breadth of existence beyond your current form. Heavy stuff. Not dumb. Lest we forget riffs that are still among the most innovative the entire genre has yet seen. Very little has advanced since these guys, Motorhead and, to some extent, Led Zeppelin. Anyway, to address the usual arguments, you can understand what the singer’s saying, it’s not about Satan and killing, and uh…go listen to some fucking Sabbath!

Yours in metal,
A

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