The Hard Stuff
Almost a dozen reasons to like metal again
By Chuck Eddy
JULY 20, 1998:
A few years ago, bored by grunge and late speedmetal and still lamenting the
loss of pretty glam in prettier haircuts, I thought loud guitar bands had
entirely run out of both options and steam -- the only stuff I was liking was
sung in Spanish, which I don't even speak! But somewhere along the line, as
tends to happen whenever I stop paying attention to a musical style, either the
tables or my ears turned. So now in 1998, here are 11 ways that metal can be
interesting (i.e., beautiful and/or danceable while tugging the heart
and mind -- none of that hoky Nashville Pussy/REO Speedealer/Zeke
let's-pretend-we-drive-Mack-trucks horseshtick), a decade or two past the
expiration date on the genre's cereal box.
The Brain Surgeons, MALPRACTICE (Cellsum) A critic-turned-chanteuse in the lofty tradition of former Blue
Öyster Cult sideperson Patti Smith, whose vocal range hers eerily
resembles, Deborah Frost and her BÖC-alumnus-drummer spouse Al Bouchard
find eccentric humor, slimy grooves, and Reaper-unfearing melodiousness in
jaded old BÖC and Hawkwind and Minutemen obscurities about New Year's Eve
and syringes and petrodollars and the difficulty of writing songs on the road.
Kinda reminds me of the time Metal Mike Saunders of the Angry Samoans called me
right after seeing Val Kilmer in Oliver Stone's Doors movie: "I always
knew those were great songs; they just needed somebody better than Jim Morrison
to sing them!"
Deep Purple, ABANDON (CMC)
These geezers' dusty dusk ballad "Fingers to the Bone" out-desert-rocks
anything I've heard by Kyuss. Vintage organs add gravity to the unsentimental
nostalgia of "Jack Ruby" and " '69." And wise highway-star-riff economy
from Steve Morse counteracts Ian Gillan's blooze-boorish lack of insight into
the opposite sex. "Any Fule Kno That" is a hopped-up Zep rap with obligatorily
misspelled gangsta title, but I'm still waiting for Deep Purple to cover
"Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes, which I never realized stole the
chords from "Smoke on the Water" until my six-year-old son played the latter on
the piano a few months ago.
In Flames, WHORACLE (Nuclear Blast)
Despite their incendiary moniker, Spinal-Tap-worthy CD title
(illustrated on the cover by a woman without eyes preaching amid architectural
ruins as her appendages turn into snakes!), and a weakness for angry
machine-gun-guitar/barfbag-basso-profundo hatespew, these Swedes don't appear
to toe their nation's church-burning deathmetal line. Their sound is oddly
tempered and sculpted, with heavenly Celtic-folk-like spirals from three (often
acoustic) guitars, tapestries comparable in metal circles only to the Thin
Lizzy of, say, "Whiskey in the Jar." And by album's end, their intense
somberness gives way to uplifting medieval choruses over extended tribal
tom-toms, thawing the Viking ice.
Love As Laughter, #1 USA (K)
Led by a crony of Beck from his One Foot in the Grave daze, this
trio of youngsters make the only '90s so-called "lo-fi" rock I've heard that
actually rocks me. The final four cuts, left over from an earlier EP, aren't
much more than drab basement-boy Sebadoodling. But the way LAL's newer stuff
pits high telegraphed shouts over low-strung down-bound bwaaangs reminds me of
forgotten Philly metal-wave coulda-beens the Reds, if not Sonic Youth in their
forgotten '80s forward-motion "Stereo Sanctity" mode. A spurtful bash that
squeezes Valkyrie rides into blue suede shoes as it alludes to "Satisfaction,"
"Fever," "California Dreamin'," bank robberies, phobias, and unnamed movies
from 1974, this is boogie-woogie avant-garde.
The Prissteens, SCANDAL, CONTROVERSY & ROMANCE (Almo Sounds)
Opening a spring tour for a re-formed ? and the Mysterians (finally
potential two-hit wonders now that Smashmouth have covered the B-side of
"96 Tears"!), these blonde/brunette/redhead (one each) chickadees plus male
drummer got the streetlight broken hearts of primordial '60s ooze right without
skimping on its streetfight broken bones. Their CD has them fucking the meanest
hound in town, finger-snapping through a Wreckless Eric skinny-tie classic
about searching Tahiti for love, telling their baby to beat you up but getting
devastated when they catch him cheating, and wisely hiring the guy who produced
Blondie's first two albums to help them pull off their unprecedented hybrid of
the Sonics and the Shangri-Las.
Rocket from the Crypt, R.F.T.C. (Interscope)
I've always taken these slickly dressed San Diego punks for so-what
hardcore hacks, but R.F.T.C. is immersed in soul music like no hard rock
in eons. The songs aren't just slopped together; their hooks and grooves are
constructed, with sax, cheesy organs, percussion breaks, ooh-aah call
and response, even lots of lyrics about fast dancing -- "When in Rome, you do
the jerk." The Stooges ("Eye on You" = "TV Eye") and Dolls ("Lipstick") figure
heavily, and though mouthman Speedo betrays a bit of an Anthony Keidis minstrel
lisp when he gets heartfelt, his usual blue-eyed quiver is pure Peter Wolf --
i.e., it ain't nothin' but a frathouse party.
The Styrenes, WE CARE, SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO (Scat)
Cleveland legends since 1973, the Styrenes have never given themselves
so much shape before -- organ swells lend a sadness even to the speedy
stuff as Mike Hudson raggedly yawps seedy yarns about walking streets with 40
ounces of Bud and wondering where his old letters to an ex are now and (in
three different songs) murder with guns. They tie down an S&M anthem by the
Velvet Underground; they explore the minimalism of "Three Blind Mice." And "He
Was a Loser" (also about an ex, who never calls because you have no phone) is
the best song ever written about the Detroit Tigers.
Therion, VOVIN (Nuclear Blast)
Enigma-influenced Swedish deathmetal from Celtic Frost worshippers
who're way more classical and less brutish than In Flames -- strings and pianos
and outrageously lush meshes of open-voweled female high-mass choruses mixed
higher (pitch-wise and volume-wise) than the deep downtrodden male ones
speaking secret alphabets and learning to forget. For all I know, Therion
picked up their pre-Christendom literary concepts (gargoyles, labyrinths,
Sodom, Gomorrah) from some dumb computer game and discovered pagan choirs by
watching Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas. But Vovin
is still an hour-long madrigal symphony of hope and redemption, maybe the most
gorgeous "real heavy metal" (in the Iron Maiden sense) album ever made.
U.S. Bombs, WAR BIRTH (Hellcat)
Scouted by Rancid's Tim Armstrong for release on his new label, and more
memorable than Rancid's ambitious but rather detached new Sandinista!
parody, Life Won't Wait, this shitkicker kicks off with "That's Life,"
the last great Frank Sinatra cover before he died ("shot up in April, strung
out in May"), and climaxes with "Her & Me," an unstoppable twang-punk
ballad about a 15-year-long co-dependent relationship. In between, supported by
eins-zwei-three-four countoffs, tuneful riff heft, and (especially in "Beetle
Boot") an occasional expert surf bounce, skateboard champ Duane Peters spins
rich crusty yarns about Lisa Marie Presley, Orange County's water supply,
shopping-cart bums on Christmas Day, and military brats who wind up enlisting.
Vixen, TANGERINE (CMC)
At first I thought that was a navel orange with its navel pierced on the
CD cover, but I guess it's a nipple-ringed tangerine instead. Foxy drummer Roxy
Petrucci's navel is visible on the back cover, though, and that alone is
almost enough to make me cut this hair babe comeback's post-Alanis-AOR
competence some slack. As are four cuts here: "Tangerine" (about a pill-poppin'
lady grocery-shopping for little green men), "Shut Up" (death threats to a liar
on TV), "Air Balloon" (Shania Twain facsimile about riding trains to the coast
of Maine and losing teeth in Texas), and the untitled swing-grass-frolic
instrumental hidden at track number 12.
Wallmen, ELECTRONIC HOME ENTERTAINMENT SYSTEM (Wild Pitch)
Somehow this here drug-and-feedback-fed incoherence comes together more
consistently than similar garbage-dumping by more famous who-gives-a-fucksters
like the Pixies, the Butthole Surfers, and noted tangerine fans the Flaming
Lips. Demented baby talk and punch-line-less Fugs-to-Firesign-Theatre yippie
silliness curdle by in a wobbly blur over tinkled keyboards, with strangely
homy little hillbilly squeaks eeking out of curt circular guitar licks that are
throbbing finger-lickin' good from beginning to end. Still, I wish more songs
distinguished themselves with audible vocals the way the "Sister Ray"-vamped
nugget "Foam Hippie Cereal" does, with its hot sax part and lyrics that address
"getting all drunk and talking about Xuxa." Or at least that's what they sound
like to me.