IQ—Frequency (InsideOut/GEP)

IQ are a rare example of artistic redemption in the music industry. In 1985, IQ ruled the world—my world, at any rate. They’d just released The Wake, a glorious, cinematic album filled with sinister energy. Songs like “The Magic Roundabout” and “Widows Peak” bristled with drama. They should have been at least as big as Marillion, but a couple of factors held them back. One, they didn’t have a gigantic alcoholic Scotsman to work the press, and two, they were basically a DIY outfit. Marillion had EMI backing them almost from the get-go, so they got credit for spearheading the prog revival. IQ played the Marquee a lot, staying firmly within the EU. In Canada, if you lived near a really good import shop, you might have been able to find one of their records.

The Wake was a really impressive album, though, and by 1987, Peter Mensch and Cliff Burnstein were handling IQ’s affairs, scoring them a major deal on their label, Squawk. IQ looked set to start ruling the world beyond Kerrang! magazine and my bedroom. Unfortunately the album, Nomzamo, was a turd. Original singer Peter Nicholls was gone, and the music had been sanded down, stripped of all malevolence and polished to an electro-pop sheen—prog-lite that Patrick Bateman could have filed next to Invisible Touch. It went straight to the delete bins.

IQ eventually took control, dropped a couple members, reconnected with Nicholls, and formed their own record company, Giant Electric Pea, through which they released Ever in 1994. By this time, lonely hearted prog fans were starting to find each other through the internet, giving the rejuvenated IQ a worldwide fanbase. It helped that Ever was an excellent album, a return to the atmosphere-laden epics of their first couple releases. They’ve been going strong ever since, with new albums every few years.

Frequency finds IQ down a couple more original members—keyboardist Martin Orford has fled, dismayed by the "free music" culture, and drummer Paul Cook’s gone missing—but still making music that’s true to themselves and their legacy. Right from Frequency's opening riff, one of those signature IQ "duh duh duh" constructions, I can’t imagine any fan being disappointed with it. Orford’s replacement, Mark Westworth (Darwin's Radio), may have more of an overtly prog/rock style, but overall you’d be forgiven thinking no changes had occurred. The first three songs are the strongest. “Frequency” is heavy as IQ gets these days, an alternately delicate and powerful number. “Life Support” recalls their legendary b-side "Dans le Parc du Chateau Noir" with its quiet buildup and guitar-drenched release. Mike Holmes is still one of my favourite guitarists. His sinuous lead lines continue to dominate IQ's sound. Third song “Stronger Than Friction” is the album's apex, simultaneously epic and catchy. Nicholls has always been a master of melodies, and he delivers a corker of a chorus on this one.

The rest of Frequency flags a little. "The Province" shows some flashes of newfound heaviness and would have been one of the best songs on the album if they'd kept the energy up. Unfortunately, it saunters into a requisite faux "Supper's Ready" section that drags the song down. "Closer," a simpler song built around a chiming guitar figure, makes for a nice closer, though.

My copy comes with a bonus DVD of a live set in Holland 2007, well shot and with a set list drawn from their entire career (save that Squawk Records period) and featuring an early version of “Stronger than Friction.” They're not a hell-raising bunch of chaps on stage, but their sound and back wall projections are both exquisite.

Marnie Stern—This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That and He Is It and She Is It and It Is It and That Is That (Kill Rock Stars)

Dabs of paint, like cells vibrating into place, coalesce into a portrait of the artist. The cover painting captures a lot of what Marnie Stern is about. Sometimes the brushstrokes overlap, and the paint runs together. Stern doesn’t like to colour between the lines with her music either, rendering it in frantic note bursts—tapping, slashing, rapid fire picking—avoiding any large fields of colour or convenient rest stops. Everything works to convey her music’s restless, relentless energy. These are pop songs blown apart, the glimmering, half-melted shards reassembled in an unexpected yet equally sturdy new three-and-a -half minute forms. The material comes out in a mad rush, with Stern’s keening voice commandeering the melee. When she asks “Is there no way out of my mind?” in “The Package is Wrapped,” you’d be forgiven for thinking she’s found a way out of it already. If, as she implies, she’s trapped in there, it’s nice that she’s letting us in for a visit; her mind is a fascinating place in which to spend 40 minutes. Sometimes she gives us glimpses of the conventional, where it sounds like she's about to embark on an indie-rock hit (as on “Vault” or “Roads? Where We’re Going We Don’t Need Roads!”), but then it all goes thrillingly haywire. Stern and producer/drummer Zach Hill (Hella) make a fearsome team. Hill’s roiling fills and devious rhythms are a good match for Stern’s own playing. This album sounds like freedom, imagination, colour, fun, and the mysterious unmappable impulses that make us who we are.

Napalm Death—Time Waits for No Slave (Century Media)

Is life bumming you out these days? Yeah, me too. There's so much unwarranted hysteria, and it grinds me down. Families are “fighting to survive” in these tough economic times (known as TET in our house). Swine flu is back—I remember it from the ‘70s, and barely anyone died back then either. Poverty and disease now lurk in the middle-class chamber of horrors, joining the child molesters, junkies, and terrorists. I often think we live in a culture of narcissism and sloth, but really we live in a culture of fear.

This week, MP Lisa Raitt was forced to publicly apologize for describing (in a private conversation that was accidentally taped and left with a reporter by her idiot assistant) the shortage of radioisotopes as a “sexy” issue. “How dare she!” roared her rivals and the populace in general. Yes, shock, horror, etc. Honestly, are we so eager to be outraged that we can whip ourselves into a frenzy over the fact that a politician uses the jargon of a PR hack? That an MP might view an issue in terms of how it might affect her public profile?

Anyway, Lisa Raitt bowed to demands and apologized for her slightly tacky statements. You might as well ask a tiger to apologize for having stripes. Meanwhile, her party (and this is on the public record) cuts funding to the arts and strips our culture to the bone, and no one has to say they’re sorry.

I’ve been listening to this album all week.

Napalm Death—Time Waits for No Slave (Century Media)
First-time reviewer, long-time fan here. Napalm Death have been on a streak since The Code is Red...Long Live the Code and Smear Campaign, and this new album is another laser-guided missile plowing straight through injustice and ignorance. Napalm Death have never been afraid to try new styles, so long as said style meets their strident criteria. From setting the template for grindcore with Scum and From Enslavement to Obliteration (my first encounter with ND, picked up on vinyl during my NME reading days), to adopting death metal with Harmony Corruption, to adding some Swans and Voivod-style dissonance around Fear Emptiness Despair, to developing their rapid-fire groove style from the mid to late ‘90s, to having their asses kicked by Nasum and reapplying themselves to grind in the new millennium, it’s all been grist for the Napalm juggernaut. Working with Russ Russell at Foel Studios again, on Time Waits... they’ve thrown all these elements into the grinder and the resulting goop is corrosively compelling. They’ve honed their songwriting into three or four minute assaults of blastbeats, Celtic Frost breakdowns, old-school hardcore and crust riffs, and (most importantly) simple rock 'n’ roll catchiness. It’s a joy to hear Barney Greenway tearing into the choruses on “Life and Limb” and “Fallacy Dominion.” If his slogans are rather cryptic (“Prevention is better than a cure, however obvious or obscure”) their delivery is certainly memorable. Amazing songs abound—the opening cyclone of “Strong Arm,” the seamlessly switching grooves of “Diktat,” and the title track. There’s even what sounds like an unholy outbreak of black metal in “Work to Rule.” The key to Napalm Death’s fury is Danny Herrera’s blastbeats, which have a singularly panicky, chaotic quality. Some drummers play them too cleanly, with an anti-musical athleticism. Herrera’s blasts sound ragged and truly fucking fast, adding a dynamic element to the song where they set the stage for when the pace shifts down, and the band slots in an even heavier part. The effect is like letting off tear gas into an unruly mob—the crowd parts temporarily, mustering a greater fury for its next act. No other band can create that kind of rush. The other half of Napalm’s American contingent, guitarist Mitch Harris, has thrived since Jesse Pintado’s departure (from the band and from this mortal plane), offering a massive collection of devastating riffs. I can’t guess where they all might come from, but it’s obvious he’s working his ass off to hold his side of the Napalm sound together. He even gets to squeeze off a bendy solo on “A No-Sided Argument." Napalm Death are the soundtrack for lives and minds in anarchy, remaining volatile and vital as ever as they approach their fourth decade.

Steven Wilson—Insurgentes (kscope)

No one’s straying outside their comfort zone on Insurgentes—neither Steven Wilson or his audience. If you like Porcupine Tree’s recent output, then you’ll be more than happy with what is billed as Wilson’s first solo album (ignoring the fact that he oversees everything to do with Porcupine Tree, which started as Wilson’s one-man project). While the sounds and atmosphere on Insurgentes haven’t fallen far from the Tree, differences emerge with repeated listens. The album has given Wilson the chance to work with different musicians (including Tony Levin, Jordan Rudess, and Clodagh Simonds from Mellow Candle). PT drummer Gavin Harrison plays on nearly every track. Every time you think the album is going to settle into an intimacy typical of a solo album, Wilson throws in something to subvert it and take a song in an unexpected direction. Even a fragile little song like “Abandoner” is host to a series of what must have been painstakingly constructed textures. Likewise, the plain piano and voice format of “Get What You Deserve” is eventually consumed by crashing guitars and layers of noise. “Salvaging” moves from a heavy trance groove to a dissonant orchestral end piece. As with Stupid Dream’s “Tinto Brass,” Wilson celebrates another, erm, underappreciated director in tremendous fashion with album opener “Harmony Korine.” “No Twilight Within the Courts of the Sun” opens with an unusually jammy feel based around a recognizably Levin bass line before an extreme quiet/loud dynamic takes over. I don’t know if Wilson would devote space on a PT album to a creepy little experiment like “Twilight Coda.” Open the booklet and you’ll find a photo of smashed and incinerated MP3 players, an unsubtle indictment of the prevailing lo-fi culture. In the face of this widespread indifference to audio quality, Wilson’s other response is to include an additional DVD containing 5.1 and 24-bit stereo mixes, which I’m sure would blow your head off on the right setup. However you choose to listen, new sounds and new voices make Insurgentes a more interesting album than the last PT outing, Fear of a Blank Planet. I hope Wilson brings more of his left-field impulses to the sessions for his main band’s next release.

Madking Ludwig—Seven Stairways (self-released)

Madking Ludwig augment their thick-as-a-brick guitar tones with a touch of flute playing, but let’s not make a case for “obvious Tull influences.” The band sounds nothing like Anderson, Barre, and co. The hard-driving Quebec band’s sound revolves around a desert rock throb, adding male/female vocal tradeoffs and that flute to sweeten the sand-blasted raunch of Stéphane Vigeant's guitar. This is a wise move, because the guitar work is quite Spartan, utilizing one consistent distortion setting and free of solos and harmonies. What could have been just a patience-testing grey smear of a record actually becomes full of charm and originality when all these elements are combined. I enjoyed their first album, and this new one continues in a similar, slightly murkier, vein. It’s not a great leap forward, but you can hear that the band have found a comfortable sound in which to work. The next step might involve a handful of possibly unattainable elements: a larger budget, a producer to lend some impartial ears, and perhaps a co-guitarist who might provide some tonal variety while remaining sympathetic to the plain-riffing approach. For now, with their appealing quirkiness and confidence, and terrific songs like the dynamic opening epic "Kursk" and the convoluted "Cease Not Desist," Madking Ludwig are a rough gem in the stoner rock underground.

The new album is available as a download here—please donate if you like what you hear.

Beyond the Valley of Madking Ludwig...

May Gigs: Paganfest and Gojira

Paganfest II, May 13 at the Commodore Ballroom
With a few days left before Paganfest II hit town, I realized that I’d be a fool to miss a chance to see Primordial. So I plunked down $35 at Scrape Records and got my ticket. I went solo, Billy No-Mates style. I should have dragged a friend or two along, because attendance turned out to be dismal. The Commodore was only about a quarter full. The troo pagans in the crowd—some sporting horned Viking helmets and one bloke in chainmail—must have felt right at home on the open tundra of that famous dance floor. I missed Swashbuckle and Blackguard, arriving just in time for Moonsorrow. Based on the half hour tracks on V: Hävitetty, the only Moonsorrow album I have, I expected them to play maybe two songs. They edited themselves, though, and raged through a handful of numbers, all perfectly enjoyable aside from a few distractions: their vocalist’s pasty man-boobs (complete with nip ring), the silly buggers in the crowd getting up some serious slamming momentum in the vast expanse of the pit, and some overly twee musical interludes that brought to mind a Spirit of the West show, only with fewer lesbians in the audience.

Primordial simply slayed. Alan “Nemtheanga” Averill is a fearsome frontman, the kind of go-for-the-throat performer who commands/demands the attention of every punter in the place. I don’t throw the horns at gigs anymore (the gesture having been tainted by Avril Lavigne and a million other clueless douchebags), but when Nemtheanga asked us to throw ’em, I sure as hell did. The seven-song set, drawn mainly from the last two albums, was pure power and emotion, from opener “Empire Falls” to “Heathen Tribes,” and marred only by a guitar malfunction during an otherwise staggering “The Coffin Ships.” It was like seeing Marillion on the Misplaced Childhood tour; a slightly surreal experience that I think about now: “Did that really happen?”

After having witnessed the gig of the year (so far), I didn’t have much hope that Korpiklaani could make any impact on me. Nothing short of the classic Skyclad lineup performing all of Prince of the Poverty Line could have rivalled what Primordial threw down. It didn’t take long to confirm that Korpiklaani were basically a partyin’ polka band, albeit a very heavy and professional one, with a full-time fiddle player and accordionist putting a little too much “folk” into the folk metal. If your only care in the world is finding your way back to the bar for the next beer, they’d be the perfect entertainers. As it was, I headed to the coat check.

Gojira, May 17 at Richard’s on Richards
I arrived too late to catch more than a couple minutes of Car Bomb, and The Chariot were no great shakes in the middle of the bill—lots of energy, but no riffs or songs to speak of, and Botch did it all better 10 years ago—so it was up to Gojira to save the night. They did so easily, with an impeccable set of cyber metal performed with 100 per cent commitment to a packed house. Call them Meshuggah-lite if you want, but it turns out that Gojira are the band I wished Meshuggah had been both times I’ve seen the Swedes. They have distinguishable songs, they have energy and charisma, and they play proper 6-string guitars. Opening with the pulsating hammer-on riffs of “Oroborus,” Gojira were a precision team throughout, separating only to let ace drummer Mario Duplantier take a solo. Placed late in the set, it looked like an exercise in sadomasochism, seeing as the poor guy was already drenched in sweat and grimacing his way through the rhythmic demands of the material. My bones shudder at the thought of having to do that night after night. Guitarist/singer Joe Duplantier (evidently a Beatles fan, judging by his t-shirt) took his own lumps, weathering the occasional crowd-surfer coming feet first at him on the stage. Seeing how the band celebrated the end of the gig by diving in and doing some crowd surfing themselves, they couldn’t have been too offended by the disruptions. Damn impressive stuff from a band on their way to bigger things.

Intermission

My Dad died two weeks ago today, which is why I've been away most of this month. Losing someone so close takes a lot out of you, I've learned. Grief leaves you fatigued, and in the midst of everything there is a lot of work to be done. I've spent the time working with my sisters and mother on Dad's memorial—arranging the venue, planning the service, writing a eulogy, laying out and printing the program.

We had the memorial last Friday, and it went beautifully. So many of our good friends, some of whom I hadn't seen in decades, came out. Dad would have been very pleased and proud.

As awesome a guy as my Dad was, I have to be honest: he had nothing to do with anything that you read here (besides raising the nerd who types out this stilted twaddle). He wasn't a great music lover, and he wasn't much for pursuing his own hobbies or passions. From my first KISS album to whatever hapless thing I mail ordered last week, my obsession with all this noise and nonsense has been self-directed.

None of that is important, though. I'm uncomfortable with the idea that it defines who I am. No, the important things, the core stuff, are what I hope I got from my Dad. He was a hard-working, funny guy who loved his family, treasured his friends, helped a lot of people achieve their best, and left everyone with hundreds of fond memories of him.

Music is fun and all, but my fantastic dad's fantastic life is what's impressing me the most at the moment.

Sacred Blade—Of the Sun + Moon

In 2007 Darkthrone released a tribute to “Canadian Metal” that referenced Piledriver, Razor, Sacrifice, Obliveon and Slaughter—all of them Eastern Canadian bands. While the East nurtured a number of pioneering, internationally renowned bands, pickings were slim here on the West Coast. Vancouver had a scene of sorts, but, ill-served by a disdainful local media and scarce venues, it could only grow so much off the sweat of a few diehard fans. I don’t think any metal bands from the region broke onto the worldwide stage until Blasphemy and Strapping Young Lad in the ‘90s. Vancouver did have a couple notable metal bands in the ‘80s who gained some international press even if they failed to tour beyond the local clubs. One of the first and best was Sacred Blade.

Guitarist/vocalist Jeff Ulmer started Sacred Blade in 1978, and fuelled by a mixture of NWOBHM, ‘70s rock and science fiction, the band slowly attracted notice, recording two demos, scoring the lead-off track on Metal Massacre 4 (“The Alien,” sharing vinyl space with Trouble, Lizzy Borden, and Abattoir), and starting work on their debut album, Of the Sun + Moon. When the album came out in October 1986, however, the tastes of the metal underground had moved on to thrash/crossover and the early stirrings of death metal. Being signed to tiny French label Black Dragon probably didn’t help either; I only ever saw the album in import shops here. Black Dragon’s obscure roster did feature a few cult bands-in-the-making—Manilla Road, Liege Lord and others—but Sacred Blade and their sole album have remained obscure in the decades that followed. They’re so obscure, I discovered while rifling through my library, that even Martin Popoff has so far overlooked them in his many Collector’s Guides.

It’s a real shame that the album languished, because it’s a fascinating listen. My copy is the Othyr World Recordingz CD reissue. After a cosmic, exotic-sounding intro, the title track surges forth with power and elegance, embellished with a smooth vocal line that owes more to Cream and Pink Floyd than, say, Judas Priest. “Fieldz the Sunshrine” has a Megadethly gallop (perhaps it shows a common Angelwitch influence, as I’d bet it was written around the same time as ‘Deth’s “Devil’s Island”). “Salem” manifests a more menacing attitude, slashing and pounding like Raven or Priest. This is also the track where Ulmer, up to this point a laid-back space rocker, shifts to a more “metal” register and really lets loose with some screams of vengeance. The tempos reach thrash velocity only during the latter half of “Master of the Sun.” Interspersed are a few short instrumentals, as well as a relaxing feast of guitar playing entitled “Moon,” which almost qualifies as an instrumental because of its spoken lyrics buried in the mix. Like Voivod, Sacred Blade had an overarching vision, complete with idiosyncratic spellings, band-crafted artwork, pseudonyms, and album concept. The material was most likely ahead of its time when it was written, and now in this era where it seems even the revivals are being revived, it sounds utterly classic, far more original and advanced than most lunkheaded American metal of the time. Of their contemporaries, Fates Warning went further with a more technical approach, and Manilla Road plodded tenaciously onward, releasing albums for a loyal cult following. Even no-hopers like Omen and Attacker regroup and are bestowed star billing at old-school group-gropes like the Keep It True fest. Alas, no such spoils have awaited Sacred Blade, although Ulmer is still kicking around, having changed the band's name to Othyrworld and released a "reimagined" version of Of the Sun... in 2005. The Astral Alloy still shinez.

Below is a review from issue #3 of SpeedCorps, a local 'zine published by Tom Zarzecki (RIP) and "Metal Ron" Singer.

Godhead

Riff Salad and Music Cake

The prog revival’s been going since 1983, and it’s all coming good now, trust me.

Wobbler—Afterglow (Termo)
Norway’s Wobbler were signed to the Laser’s Edge a few years ago, releasing Hinterland to some good reviews, and making their U.S. debut at Nearfest. Afterglow is the follow-up...of sorts. It features rerecorded versions of the two tracks from their demo (long available via the band’s website) surrounded by a few minor instrumental pieces. Although at 34 minutes it barely attains status as an album (it’s the same length as Per un Amico!), it’s a valuable addition to Wobbler’s brief discography. Wobbler aren’t the most cutting-edge band, and I think they’re quite proud of that. Their sound is straight from the early ’70s, when Genesis, PFM and Banco had their mellotrons going at full pelt. Each member of the band is an excellent player, but the true star of the show is keyboardist Lars Fredrik Frøislie’s collection of vintage ‘trons, Moogs and organs. Wobbler seem intent on taking the baton from Anglagard with regards to being a modern band working with ancient sounds. The two bands’ approaches are quite similar—“organic” analog tones, restless structures, constant shifts between light and shade, and minimal vocals. Wobbler are more aggressive overall, but this is sometimes their downfall. The songs lurch from riff to riff, with barely any respite, and while you’re wowed by what’s happening, it's hard to retain anything afterward. Little is allowed to build and develop, or repeated to any effect. “Imperial Winter White” does have an introductory motif that comes back at the end, but when it does, after 12 minutes of riff salad it’s too late to have any impact. Compositionally, “In Taberna” (formerly “Leprechaun”) works better, and anyway, it’s a couple minutes shorter than “Imperial...” so it has fewer chances to get lost during its travels. Don't get me wrong; I love me some Wobbler, and I’m glad to have this material in its new format (Frøislie himself painted that dandy cover). The whole enterprise is so true to itself I can almost forgive the lack of flow in the songs. I just have to remember that this is early material (10 years old now) and hope that the band, regressive as their style is, will show some progression with their new material.

Diagonal—Diagonal (Rise Above)
Rise Above describe Diagonal as a “musical cake,” so I’m helping myself to a big slice of whatever this barmy army has got cooling in the kitchen. The British septet have angled themselves toward the jazzy sounds of Caravan and other Canterbury bands, as well as English psychedelia and proto-metal. Like Caravan, they have a keen sense of pop songwriting and melody while being unafraid to swing a heavy hammer and smash polite convention to pieces. There aren’t a lot of bands with one foot in the metal scene (via their label) mining this vein of influences, although Kosmos and Dead Man have dug into it a bit. “Semi Permeable Men-brain” lays out all the elements in aggressive and eccentric (aggressively eccentric) fashion. It kicks off with some heavy riffing in 5/4, lays back for a mellow verse in waltz time, revs up for some cosmic boogie, and then everybody solos, including a phase-shifted drum workout to end it off. It rules. “Child of the Thunder-Cloud” has a gentler approach, reminiscent of Cressida and Spring, before taking off for a high-energy excursion in 9/8. Sometimes they’re mellow, as on “Deathwatch” or bluesy, as on “Pact” which features a pants-wettingly effective electric piano solo. In contrast to Wobbler, the arrangements are loose and groovy, adaptable enough to contain both tight technical passages and stretched-out soloing. The verve and force Diagonal brings to this style makes them a good fit with the Rise Above label. Anachronistic they may be, but they clearly know and love what they’re doing. This music may have been underground back in the day, but at least a few of its adherents got a crack at the big time. To play in this style now is a virtual guarantee of indifference from (what’s left of) the industry at large. Bless them for getting out of their collective heads and making this fantastic noise.

Crack the Skye-lights

Because I’ve been listening to it quite a bit.

1. "Oblivion"—the highlight here has to be the solo section from 3:33 to 4:30. It’s very Rush-like in that it forms a distinct section of the song. I love how it drops into an entirely different timing and changes the song’s mood. It’s clear that Brent Hinds and Bill Kelliher put a lot of work into these shifting, building passages, capping the whole thing off with some dual string bends. It’s not your typical “solo over 8 verse riffs” sort of thing. I could listen to this section over and over again.

2. "Divinations"—this is the shortest, punchiest song on the album. The way the middle 8 takes the song to a new peak is cool, but the nicest touch is the subsequent lead in to the solo; a rapidly picked low E riff from 2:10 to 2:24 that foreshadows the solo itself. The choice of a fairly clean tone helps it pop out of the mix, making for a nice sonic surprise.

3. "Quintessence"—choosing a top moment is difficult, for this song is an embarrassment of riches. I’m fond of the weird sandwich of “these wild hearts run” stanzas between “let it go, let it go” parts that constitutes the chorus (first heard from 1:32 to 2:10). This section always reminds me of something Devin Townsend might come up with, because it betrays an inability to resist a catchy vocal line when it falls in your lap. There's also the doomy Taurus pedal part from 4:29 to the end that makes such a satisfying release from the preceding tech-metal explosion from 4:10 to 4:29. And this latter passage is my choice for best moment in the song. As I noted below, during my first listen to the album, this is where it became clear that Mastodon were as heavy as they ever were.

4. "The Czar"—Although Troy Sanders puts on a clinic with his bass lines in 'The Usurper' section, the riff that kicks off the next part, 'Escape,' is the highlight for me. On an album with dozens of fiddly, intricate riffs, this particular instance is refreshingly direct and classic sounding, Scorpions-like in its aim to rock. The riff’s reprise at 5:19 is all the sweeter.

5. "Ghost of Karelia"—not the most immediate song on Crack the Skye; it’s a solid “album track” nevertheless. The middle section from 2:37 to 3:15 really stands out with its punchy vocals and spiraling solo section.

6. "Crack the Skye"—lots of great vocals on this one, including a soaring Mastodonian choir, Scott Kelly from Neurosis in his customary cameo appearance, and some cool vocoder Cylon voices. Kelly’s cry of “momma, don’t let them take her!” is kind of the emotional peak of the song, if not the album, so that’s my choice right there.

7. "The Last Baron"—this song is just ridiculous. It would be cheating to pick the entire 13 minutes as a highlight. There isn’t a section that I don’t love, from the quavery acoustic intro with the melodies that stick in my head all day, to those 1-second guitar breaks before verses, to that lead line that creeps in at various points until the last time, when it charges onward into the concluding guitar solo. But the capper is the funky section at 8:19 that leads to the reprise of the intro and the song’s lengthy conclusion.

Mastodon—Crack the Skye (Reprise)

I was initially a little disappointed with Crack the Skye. I’ll admit my listening strategy—following along with lyrics in hand—was part of the problem. I should have just cleared my mind and let the music wash over me without the lyrics to impose structure on what I hearing. My first impression was that the album was very slick and commercial. Even the epic tracks seemed to be smoothed over, and peppered with some corny rawk moments. The white-knuckled wild-ride metal of their earlier work was gone. It wasn’t until two-thirds of the way through the third track, “Quintessence,” that the band let loose with a truly heavy passage. I suspected what I feared might happen at this point in their career: that major label poachers had ambushed the Mastodon and thoroughly de-tusked the poor beast. After all, their Reprise debut Blood Mountain, with its wilful perversity and awkward stabs at moderating the chaos, hadn’t set the world alight. Perhaps a conscious effort to clean up and calm down for the next album would suit the suits.

After further listens, though, Crack the Skye’s true nature emerged. In essence, the new album is not a huge departure from the burly art metal of yore, but the refinements are significant and plentiful. I won’t declare, as some have, that this Mastodon’s big prog breakthrough album, because Mastodon were prog as hell to begin with. I will say that it’s catchy, and crafted with admirable care and confidence. Clever sequencing makes the album an increasingly musically challenging trip; putting the easily digested hard chargers out front before the first epic looms up, then two mid-length head-scratchers maintain the trippy mood, then another slowly unfolding epic, “The Last Baron,” concludes proceedings with some of the most exciting music on the album. The only thing Crack the Skye lacks is a palate-cleansing rager like “Blood and Thunder” or “The Wolf is Loose.” Maybe next time.

Brann Dailor’s Trailer Park Boys obsession notwithstanding, I’m sure these southern boys would be appalled by this idea, but certain sounds on this album reveal Mastodon as secret Canadians. “Quintessence” has that soaring, sweeping Devin Townsend sound, while “Ghost of Karelia” reminds me of Voivod circa their unheralded masterpiece The Outer Limits. And is that a “YYZ” quote in the midst of “The Last Baron”?

Guitar-wise, there’s a slight shift away from chunky power-chords in favour of fiddly Robert Fripp-plays-banjo arpeggio riffs (this may be because Brent Hinds wrote most of the music, with Bill Kelliher on the sidelines). Remission and Leviathan pulsed with new band excitement, while Blood Mountain thrived on experimentation and adrenaline-fueled haste. Now, 10 years since they first jammed together, Crack the Skye is the work of a relaxed, mature band whose hard graft has bought them time to work on their craft. Looking back on my first experience with the album, my main problem was that Mastodon had leapt forward further than I thought they would. They’ve delivered their Moving Pictures when I was expecting their Farewell to Kings.

Kiss, by Kope

The ever-cunning Julian Cope sidesteps his monthly task of cherry-picking some long-neglected classic for his Album of the Month by making his own compilation and deeming it to be the AotM. It's not the first time he's done this, but to me, this month is a cannonading classic because he's done and compiled his ideal KISS album, KISS Krossword, complete with an actual KISS Krossword!

Cope's essay is a must for any grown-up KISS nerd. For example:
"Anyway, what made The Gene & Co. so smart, was how well they understood what mid-70s US youngsters DID NOT WANT! For, just as young white 60s kids were quite happy to hear rampant declarations of impending fucking just so long as those songs were sung by pretty young white boys, and not by the scarily horny mid-40s Negro originators, so were mid-70s white kids still quite happy to receive a carbon copy of their older siblings’ Heavy Music just so long as it was delivered to them not by Sweaty Arsed Leslie West and Leicester’s Graham Barnes, oops, sorry, Alvin Lee, but by the Rock equivalents of Batman and Spiderman."

As for my Kompilation Kredentials, here is the Cheap Trick/KISS Maxell XLII 90:

My So-Called Sludge

I wouldn’t say sludge is a valid metal sub-genre—it’s more of a sensibility, or an ingredient to spice up better defined styles like stoner rock or doom—but I know it when I hear it. Sludge is a good sound for bad times, bearing in mind its direct lineage from Black Sabbath and the blues. It’s music to wallow in, and there’s lots of it around these days. But sludge can be elusive and complex. It ain’t just about tuning down to L-flat and dropping the tempos the way a yogi drops his heartbeat. Like Eskimos and their damn snow and sommeliers sniffing and sipping their way through some new vintages, the discerning ear can identify many varieties of sludge, each festering in its own peculiar malignancy.

SplatterSludge


Lord Mantis—Spawning the Nephilim (Seventh Rule)
This is evil, nasty music, soaked in black bile and bad vibes. Spawning... is a traumatic, almost gleefully grim record. The Chicago quartet have an ex-member of Nachtmystium in their ranks and are recorded by Sanford Parker, who has dozens of crushing albums on his résumé, and knows what he’s doing. The album bludgeons from start to finish, encompassing some “Children of the Grave”-style churn, a few stretches that recall High on Fire, and some momentum-draining Incantation-ish ultra-doom passages, stitched together into song structures that lurch with demonic (il)logic. Nothing is clearly telegraphed; everything can change in an instant. Much twisted thought and intense rehearsal undoubtedly went into shaping such mutant material. Every band should have their own theme song, and Lord Mantis have a doozy. “Lord Mantis” is probably the most hair-raising track here, while the final song, "Zealot," really crosses the line into outright sadism, pounding you flat before dwindling to a drone while you contemplate your sorry state. The vocals spit pure psychotic hate in a manner that, while not adding much to the songs, bolsters the notion that it’s best not to fuck with this band. (Lyrically, I can relate to "Hit by a Bus"—perfect for the iPod on the #410 through the armpit of Richmond.) Despite the blatant intimidation tactics, Spawning the Nephilim’s ferocious whorl of negativity has drawn me in again and again. Lord Mantis truly know where the slime lives.

TurboSludge


Kylesa—Static Tensions (Prosthetic)
Kylesa rock like hell. Everything on Static Tensions is superbly executed, with groin-kicking production across 10 songs; no duds. In a novel move, they employ two drummers (one per stereo channel!) to pound away and pierce the soupy din of guitarists Laura Pleasants and Philip Cope (who also produced the album). The vocals are actually integral to the songs, and are delivered in an appealing punk rock holler, like Fugazi and Turbonegro—while not as poppy as that Norwegian gang, this album carries a similar energy to, say, Apocalypse Dudes. And not everything is in the Motörhead-ish “heads down, see you at the end” vein. There are dynamics and varying instrumental textures like the eerie echo-chambered guitars of “Unknown Awareness,” or the piano intro, middle-eastern modalities and twin leads of the album’s highlight “Running Red.” It’s for good reason that they recently appeared on a Syd Barrett tribute album, doing “Interstellar Overdrive.” The band are definitely secreting an adventurous prog tendency beneath all that fuzz. It’s a thrill to catch a band in full flight like this, and it’ll be fun to see how they deliver these punishing, intelligent songs live on the Mastodon tour next month. The best thing about Static Tensions is that it doesn’t sound like anyone else, admirably free of obvious influences and clichés. This is bound to be one of the year’s best releases.

Enlarged-Prostate Sludge


Harvey Milk—Life... The Best Game in Town (Hydra Head)
I’m an idiot for leaving this off the Best of 2008 list I submitted to Unrestrained! last year. In my defense, I’d maybe just acquired it and hadn’t yet succumbed to its shabby charisma. Now it’s speaking to me in a loud drunken voice. Harvey Milk have a patchy recording history, but have been around since the early '90s, with Life... being their second album since their 2006 “comeback.” Alternately harrowing and hilarious, Life... is what happens when the rush of youth subsides, when you’re stuck at home too long, drinking bad beer, watching bad TV, wondering if you should get that stupid band together and write some more stupid songs. This is the impression I get from bassist Stephen Tanner’s hastily scrawled liner notes anyway: e.g. “another mighty turd I contributed, it’s about nothing... total filler... fuck this I’m watching Janice Dickenson’s Modeling Agency—I want to die—or win the lottery.” Yes, this sounds a little like Melvins (ex-Melvin Joe Preston plays on this), but with a more human, communicative slant to the slo-mo trudge. The album’s main difficulty is that it’s hard to get past the stunning opening track without skipping back and listening to it again. “Death Goes to the Winner” melds the coolest mellow section you’ve ever heard to the coolest heavy section you’ve ever heard, before devolving into an extended thudding second half with lyrics that dare to quote the Velvet Underground and The Beatles, all converging to create the kind of finale that dares you to carry on with the rest of the record. But that’s how this band works, apparently. To end the album with “Death Goes to the Winner” would have been too obvious. Once past that, there are other delights to be had, like “Motown” (I agree with Tanner: sounds a lot like B.O.C.—but not “Black Blade”), or Fear cover “We Destroy the Family,” or the insane, wondrous “Roses,” which sounds like some Brian May/Melvins collaboration. Harvey Milk may creak and groan and leave you in doubt whether they’ll be able to pull off another album ever again. They can’t sing, they ain’t pretty and their legs are (probably) thin. Their record, however, is brilliant. Returning to my 2008 list, I’ll put it at...#3, I guess.

Major Label Respect

When I interviewed Mastodon drummer Brann Dailor prior to the release of Blood Mountain a couple years ago, I asked him, "Now that you're on a major label, do you think people will finally figure out how to spell your band's name?" (I can't remember his response; it was probably as lacklustre as the rest of the interview. Neither of us was on his game that day.)

After picking up Crack the Skye, their second album on Warner/Reprise, last week, I found this flyer tucked inside the jewel case:

Jeff Younger Roundup

It's high time we caught up with the one-man jazz/noise juggernaut that is our Jeff. In addition to his steady string of live dates in the feast/famine dichotomy that is the Vancouver scene, his sick mind and fleet fingers have produced two recent releases I'd like to highlight here. Both of them serve as snapshots of a couple of his more difficult, freewheeling, ever-morphing projects.

First up, Jeff Younger's Sandbox's debut release The Nudger (Now Orchestra Records). The Sandbox are a five-piece jazz-type ensemble who team up to play Jeff's game pieces and cartoon scores. Actually, I have no idea what they do, but each gig is an off-kilter musical feast, as well as an exhibition of human frailty and emotion as the performers grin, grimace, try, fail, surrender, thrust, parry, and, I think, grow as people through the experience (as does the audience). The Nudger captures them on a couple 2007 dates at The Cellar running through seven Sandbox selections. I found it interesting to come at this purely as a listener instead of as an audience member. With nothing but the music before me, I felt more like a passenger, able to focus on and enjoy the "scenery" rather than worry about keeping tabs on the surrounding traffic. Nuances emerge; subtleties that get lost in the distracting (for me) flurry of onstage activity. The band's range is impressive. At one end, "Rug Stain Saint" is the kind of improv blowout you might expect when you unleash five monster players such as these. At the other extreme, "Silt" is a gentle, almost post-rock, meditation that, like its title, drifts and gradually settles into a heap. I don't know what it would be like to come at this music without having seen the Sandbox live, but I will say that it makes perfect sense once you've seen what they can do on stage.

Next, we have another debut artifact, volume one from Jeff Younger's Devil Loops. Devil Loops is Jeff's solo guitar project, and it's pure improv, on-the-fly, off-the-cuff, seat-of-the-pants, spur-of-the-moment stuff. In the liner notes, Younger claims he avoids thinking about what he'll play until he takes the stage for a Devil Loops set. It takes a brave performer to step into the abyss, not knowing whether he'll take flight or plunge to his death. Each of the five tracks is a single unedited performance, stretching from the moment Younger puts fingers to string or foot to pedal, to the moment he decides that the piece shall live no more. As the project name states, looping devices are employed, but the looped passages are lengthy enough that the music isn't overtly repetitive. Younger brings in some nimble jazz licks at times, but his diabolical nature ensures that they'll be buried by waves of abstract sound soon enough. It's not quite ambient, not quite jazz, and definitely not a Saturday night album, unless you spend your Saturday nights animating your own Quay Brothers-inspired puppet masterpiece, clawing at imaginary insects beneath your clothing, or imagining what it would be like to die in outer space. After listening to Jeff playing with himself for 70 minutes (hey, we've all been there), I now feel armed with enough gumption to revisit that soul-sappingly terrifying Cluster album a friend gave me a couple years ago. This release invites you to peer into a black, possibly bottomless pit...just don't be startled by the strange emanations from its depths. It's only Devil Loops. Show no fear, listen in the moment, and you'll do fine.

Musk Ox – s/t (Absurdist)

Musk Ox is one Nathanael Larochette, a young man from Ottawa who’s devoted himself to classical guitar in pursuit of bleakly pastoral sounds and atmospheres. Neofolk, I guess is the neogenre, but really, the sparse nature of Musk Ox’s music makes it a blank canvas onto which you can project your own sensibilities. Even before I saw the influence list on the MySpace page, I heard post-rock (Sigur Ros, Mogwai), prog rock (Anthony Phillips, Steve Howe), and moody black/death metal (Ulver, Opeth, Agalloch). If you’re attuned to any of that lot, you’ll find something to enjoy in Musk Ox. The epic song structures are quite metal—it strikes me as an all-acoustic variant on Opeth’s Morningrise—and the meticulous approach to performance and arrangement is very metal as well. Larochette finds the ideal mix of somber sonorities by mixing his guitar playing with other acoustic instruments: piano, flute, glockenspiel, cello, and voice. He might gild the lily a bit adding rain, birdsong, babbling brooks, and other “sounds of nature,” but it all works to emphasize the music’s connection to the landscape—specifically the vast empty spaces of Canada (as noted by Adrien Begrand in his Decibel review). Larochette definitely has a talent for creating substantive melodies that resolve perfectly, and after talking to him last January at The Energizer's memorial event, it sounds like he has some firm ideas about how Musk Ox will evolve. If he can expand his palette to include some full band arrangements, the results should be even more majestic. For now, for all its soothing qualities, I’m pretty excited about this flat-out beautiful record.

Abercrombie/Holland/DeJohnette—Gateway (ECM)

This is a great fusion album from 1975, recently reissued as part of ECM’s Touchstones series. I found it at HMV under "A" for Abercrombie, but never mind the billing—all the players seem to be equal partners on this album. Although Holland is credited with four out of six tracks, he doesn’t dominate the album. Everyone gets a fair shake. In fact, I detect a conscious effort to establish parity across both sides of the album. Side one is mostly Holland’s, while side two gives the guitarist and drummer the spotlight. The opener, “Backwoods Song” is about the tightest, most straightforward thing here, an easy rocking number on which Holland (who plays double bass throughout) produces a fantastic elastic tone. “Waiting” is a brief solo piece for bass; for balance, it’s countered on side two by “Unshielded Desire,” which amounts to a fierce drum and guitar battle by DeJohnette and Abercrombie. The lengthy “May Dance” sees the group locked in an intense conversation, while the album closer “Sorcery I” begins with a loose, improvisational opening, then coalesces into a slightly menacing lope in 7, giving Abercrombie some space for some wild soloing. And if that doesn’t jangle your pleasure centres, DeJohnette wallops the thing home with his own solo spot. Whew. This is an easy recommendation for anyone easing into jazz fusion after, say, discovering Mahavishnu. It’s a less regimented sound than McLaughlin’s outfit, but this versatile trio clearly had no difficulty igniting its own inner flame.

These Were the Week that Was

Samurai (Esoteric) were an odd duck of a band who did one album in 1971 before packing it in. Their sound blended some jazz, soul, and progressive, ending up somewhere in the vicinity of Gentle Giant's departure point. With sax and vibes to colour the guitar/organ foundation, it's a fun listen, and the songs are mighty catchy. Songwriter, vocalist, and keyboardist Dave Lawson went on to Greenslade, whom I have no idea about.

I'm really into Popol Vuh at the moment. I guess they're best known for their Werner Herzog soundtracks, and their non-soundtrack work is definitely "cinematic" as well. I have three of their albums now, and they all sound completely different while retaining similar atmospheres, which is something I admire. Letzte Tage-Letzte Nachte (1976, reissued by SPV) is supposedly their hardest-rocking release...it's certainly the most guitar-based of the three I've heard. What amazes me is how contemporary this sounds. If you'd told me this album was recorded by some cool Mount Pleasant kids who played the Biltmore last week, I'd be impressed, but I wouldn't doubt you at all.

A new Zombi album is cause for celebration. This Pittsburgh duo gets better and rocks harder with every release. They hit some amazing grooves in 7 and 5, and of course it's a tone picnic from beginning to end. Steve Moore's bass tone alone brings a big grin to my face, never mind that he's got a ruling drummer to play along with. Seeing them with Isis a couple years ago was a treat, and I hope they come back while touring for Spirit Animal (Relapse).

It's high time I picked up No Pussyfooting (DGM), which I did at Soundscapes in Toronto last month. Originally composed of two side-long pieces of tape-manipulated guitar and synthesizer drones, this two-disc edition also features each selection in reverse—exactly the way the album was aired (mistakenly) on BBC Radio in 1973.

Saxondale: Rage Hero

My friend Super Robertson introduced me to the notion of a “rage hero.” I’ve never had the term formally explained to me, but I take it to mean someone who’s not afraid to express the anger that we all feel from time to time—anger at the annoyances that can accumulate during a typical day: lousy service, pushy salespeople, navigating automated switchboards, international students, and so on. The rage hero says the things we’re too inhibited, for want of self-preservation, to say. We may be afraid to cause a fuss or spark a confrontation, but the rage hero has no such hangups. In the face of stupidity, hypocrisy, or insincerity, he’ll let loose and take one for the team.

Tommy Saxondale is a rage hero. The title character of Steve Coogan’s latest series is an ex-roadie who’s gotten off the tour bus and settled down in suburbia (Stevenage, to be exact). He’s now an exterminator, trapping vermin wherever they may roam. He does have anger management problems—exacerbated by thoughts of his ex-wife, banks, DJs, and animal rights protesters—for which he attends a men’s encounter group at the local library. Each episode opens at one of Tommy’s anger management sessions, where he inevitably disrupts the session by calling bullshit on the therapist, or mocking his fellow classmates and generally giving the impression that he’ll be going for counselling for some time to come.

So he can be a dick (and is frequently called out on it), but Saxondale is basically a happy guy. He loves his girlfriend Magz (Ruth Brown), proprietress of an anti-establishment t-shirt boutique, and he loves his Boss 351 ’72 Mustang. He seems to enjoy his work, even though he'll seize any chance to talk about his old life in the rock & roll circus. Coogan’s last TV character, mediocre chat show host Alan Partridge, was driven by unhappiness and self-doubt that revolved around his god-given right to a second series of “Knowing Me Knowing You With Alan Partridge.” However, Saxondale has no overwhelming drive to transform himself or his life. He's got more than enough self-assurance. His primary struggle is to keep a lid on his anger, and live a life free of idiots and the institutions that house, employ, or produce them.

One thing I like about Coogan's approach to his characters is how he defines them by their taste in music, movies, and culture in general. Alan Partridge admired Roger Moore, Wings (“the band The Beatles could have been”) and, of course, Abba. Saxondale lives and dies by the heavy rock of the ’70s, namechecking Ritchie Blackmore, Tull, and Brian Eno. And whereas Partridge’s über-middlebrow sensibilities were played for laughs and emphasized what a shell of a man he was, Tommy wears his tastes like a cloak of superiority. He’ll quote a Rush lyric at someone who threatens to shatter his integrity, or he’ll lecture his young charge Raymond on the finer points of Pink Floyd while out on a pest control job.

The humour on Saxondale is more gentle than the sometime excruciating travails of Alan Partridge. Perhaps resentful of his more popular character, Coogan heaped indignity and humiliation on Partridge over the course of three series. This time around, Coogan seems to genuinely like Saxondale and relishes simply having him interact with his nemeses in minor skirmishes during his daily rounds. One such annoyance is Vicky, the blonde, tanned receptionist at the pest control dispatch office, whose faux-chummy repartee is a machine-gun spray of thinly veiled insults that leave Tommy little with which to fire back. Where Partridge’s struggles encompassed his livelihood and, eventually, his sanity, Saxondale’s trials aren’t so severe. That’s not to the show’s detriment at all; it’s hilarious just to spend time in this guy’s company and watch him go off at whatever pests come his way.

This three-disc DVD set includes both seasons of this superb series plus your standard array of extras. Season one sees Coogan playing Saxondale with a moss-like fake beard and a twitchy demeanor. Each episode is named for the pest that he’s assigned to eradicate. In season two, Coogan tones down the facial ticks and sports a more convincing, if less comedic, beard. Perhaps in an effort to get away from the “pest of the week” premise, the second season introduces a few new characters to tear at Saxondale's hard-fought serenity, including Jonathan, a neighbour who plagues Tommy with petty residents’ association matters, and Keanu (also played by Coogan), a more realized version of an emo/junkie youth featured in series one. Having just finished watching all 13 episodes, I think I’ll watch ’em again. Saxondale’s my kind of guy, and long may he rage.