Precious Metal (Da Capo Press)

Precious Metal—Decibel Presents the Stories Behind 25 Extreme Metal Masterpieces, Edited by Albert Mudrian
Decibel magazine has always blended snark with reverence. Columnists J. Bennett and John Darnielle poke fun at the self-seriousness of it all (they kid because they love), while the reviews often spend more time riffing on a band's name than analysing the actual music. The Decibel Hall of Fame feature provides some balance by honouring a legendary metal album (as selected by the editors) every month, dissecting its inner workings with the help of every band member who played on it. It's a brilliant hook that keeps you coming back to check out each new issue.

Precious Metal collects 25 Decibel Hall of Fame articles, arranged chronologically from Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell (1980) to Converge’s Jane Doe (2001). Each chapter expands a little bit on the text from the original magazine articles. I A-B'ed the Napalm Death pieces and identified 2/3 of a page of new material. The book also contains a valuable "bonus feature"—a chapter on Darkthrone’s Transilvanian Hunger, with Fenriz and Nocturno Culto holding court, snarkily. Unfortunately, the book omits the pictures of obscure, often hilarious album-related memorabilia that graced the original magazine layouts. These wouldn’t have reproduced well on the book's paper stock, and colour plates would probaby have been too expensive. All the more reason to buy the magazine every month.

The 25 albums cross all genres from sludge (Eyehategod) to grindcore (Napalm Death) to death (Morbid Angel) to black (Emperor) to post-everything hardcore (Botch). Sometimes Decibel's choices are ingenious—the story behind Sleep’s epic death knell Jerusalem, for example, makes for a fascinating read. Even if you are not a fan of a particular album, the stories surrounding them are entertaining enough to keep you reading. It’s a wonder a lot of these albums ever got completed, considering they were often helmed by impoverished, infighting, drug-addled fuckups. Sometimes the articles afford fascinating insight into band politics, such as when ex-members of bands are allowed to say their piece (Cannibal Corpse's Bob Rusay or Brant Bjork of Kyuss, for example).

The only chapter that lacks any intrigue is the one on Meshuggah’s Destroy Erase Improve. Influential the album might be, but the Swedes have little to say for themselves, repeatedly shooting down Kevin Stewart-Panko’s questions and offering scant insight themselves. I would have jettisoned it in favour of another tech-death landmark, Athiest’s Unquestionable Presence (published in the October 2005 issue), which has an infinitely more compelling story behind it.

Heavy metal is turning 40 right about now, and what I'd classify as "extreme" metal is turning 25. There's definitely a lot of history to explore. Now that that history is starting to recycle itself, Precious Metal provides a chance to delve into the music before it went retro, when bands were stumbling into something truly special, even if they were ignored or derided at the time. Time offers perspective, and this book takes full advantage of that.

YOB—The Great Cessation (Profound Lore)

Mike Scheidt and his latest YOB mob (old drummer Travis Foster and new bassist Aaron Rieseberg) have come roaring back to life after Scheidt’s disastrous turn with Middian, the project he started after folding YOB. Middian released the fine Age Eternal album, then were quickly sued out of existence by a band who owned nearly the same name. To add insult to injury, Middian were designated as “untouchables” and dropped by an unhelpful Metal Blade Records. Considering what Scheidt has been through, it’s tempting to hear the new YOB album as a prolonged howl of anguish. However, The Great Cessation is not mere catharsis; it’s a defiant and triumphant continuation of where YOB left off with 2005’s The Unreal Never Lived. America’s finest doom act is back, and stomping balls. As guitarist and vocalist, Scheidt holds the keys to YOB’s sound. He’s always been a tasteful guitarist, even when pounding out waves of sludge cranked up beyond 11. Engineer/co-producer Sanford Parker knows how to record this sort of thing. The guitar tracks are massive, and Scheidt has more than just a few powerchords in his guitar-senal. He hits all six strings, sending you whirling helplessly in a tornado of frequencies. “Burning the Altar” is a thundering opener, full of YOB trademarks such as Scheidt’s alternating high-pitched/monster growl vocals, sluggish pacing, and an epic length that encompasses a Middle-Eastern-flavoured interlude and a squalling guitar solo to take us out. “The Lie That is Sin” is melodic and surging, demonstrating the power of control and restraint. The only track that resists enjoyment is “Silence of Heaven,” a cauldron of torment that divides the album in half. The layers of hellacious vocals overpower the music’s grinding doom, throwing the balance off. I couldn’t make a breakthrough on this one; it doth not rock. The 20-minute title track, the best song on here, is perfectly paced and perfectly placedas an album closer. It opens in an archetypal post-rock style, a desolate crawl with murmured vocals. As a song, it flows perfectly, never dragging, expertly assembling a few crushing riffs, while avoiding extraneous repetition or digressions. On this track you can hear YOB’s music getting leaner and more holistic; the joins becoming more difficult to discern. Scheidt’s portentous strumming conveys immense melancholy, as do the lyrics: “Will we ever see a time without cause, when we see what we know never was?” This kind of wistfulness in music and lyrics elevates YOB above other Sabbath-worshipping doom acts. YOB could cover “Cortez the Killer” as credibly as “Hand of Doom.”

Record labels

I'm sure this is a pitiful effort compared to the work of true obsessives, but here is a gallery of some of the more interesting labels from my record collection.

Six Organs of Admittance—RTZ (Drag City)

Ben Chasny’s folk/psych project rounds up some rare split and limited edition releases on this sprawling double CD/triple LP release. Recorded at home on a Tascam 424 four-track—the title refers to the unit's RTZ (“Return to Zero”) button—the five epic “segments” showcase the more mystical, murky side of SOoA. None of them are in a hurry to get anywhere; each explores a becalmed and forlorn sound-space while wandering into some weird nooks and crannies along the way. With just four tracks and a few guitars Chasny creates some impressive music. It's often sparse, as his recording methods have dictated, but it's never in any danger of becoming uninvolving. “Warm Earth, Which I’ve Been Told” embraces stasis, with a quavering organ drone supporting a variety of clanging string sounds, the whole thing bookended by a mournful guitar figure and chanting. Bleakest number here? On “You Can Always See The Sun,” Chasny’s intricate playing is offset by a looming drone of distortion. “Punish the Chasm With Wings” offers the most contrast. A low, prolonged hum threatens a cacophony, which arrives with an electric guitar spazzout overtop some frantic acoustic guitar and primitive drumming, which is in turn replaced by the same low hum. It's like scanning a radio dial exclusively occupied by weird underground radio stations, for whom Ummagumma and First Utterance are the foundation for all music. Despite originating between 1998 and 2003, the pieces on RTZ are remarkably cohesive, fitting together to form an audio mural of beautiful desolation, to be listened to with lights off and contemplated like an ultra-malevolent Wyndham Hill album. I don't know if Chasny chose these pieces wisely or simply had them as his only non-album tracks, but they work well together. Wallowing in ramshackle beauty and noble loneliness, RTZ is a unique and important entry in the Six Organs of Admittance saga.

Six Organs of Forbidden Woods

Wherein I round up reviews of recent shows. It’s been a busy summer for gigs, almost as relentless as the heat that pounded our pale Pacific Northwest hides for a couple weeks in July and August.

Six Organs of Admittance, with The Intelligence and Master Musicians of Bukkake, August 20 at The Biltmore
This was quite a different Six Organs of Admittance show to the one a few years ago at the Media Club, where Ben Chasny and band promoted The Sun Awakens with a demanding, aggressive set. He took a folkier approach for this show, playing acoustic guitar throughout, supported by another guitarist, an occasional synth player, and, for a few songs, a larger cast drawn from openers Master Musicians of Bukkake. Chasny’s modest demeanour contrasts with his monstrously dexterous guitar playing, taking the finger picking and open tunings from early '60s British folkies like Bert Jansch and launching them into the psychedelic fringes (just as his other band, Comets on Fire, does with garage rock). He must have played mostly new material because I didn’t recognise a lot of it. An atmosphere of quiet devastation prevailed, highlighted by a stirring version of “Strangled Road” from Shelter in the Ash. Not that the show was a downer by any means. Music appears to effortlessly emanate from Chasny's fingers, and it's a thrill just to be present while it happens.

Prior to Six Organs of Admittance, the two boys and two girls who make up The Intelligence delivered a nice surprise in the form of a peppy set of post-punk inspired pop. Think Joy Division, Buzzcocks, Gang of Four. Their punchy songs helped ground the gig to this earthly realm, positioned as they were before Six Organs and after a fascinating ritual performed by The Master Musicians of Bukkake. As my friend remarked after the Master Musicians' set, “I wouldn’t even know how to describe what that was.” To take my own stab at a description, MMoB resembled beekeeping monks playing Asian-tinged drone in dry-ice fog. Recommended if you like: Secret Chiefs 3, SUNN O))) and Popul Vuh.

Woods of Ypres, with Trollband and Torrential Pain, August 24 at the Cobalt
Ontario’s Woods of Ypres have put in some serious mileage this summer, with a Western Canadian tour that took them from Sault St. Marie out to Victoria and back. I had high hopes for their Vancouver debut, but harboured some nagging dread about what might happen to them in this cesspool surrounded by mountains. Please, Vancouver, I thought, don’t be too sketchy—just let them play a good show. After a fun if over-excited performance by local folk metallers Trollband, Woods of Ypres took the stage in front of a decent-sized crowd and started raging immediately—so intensely that bassist Shane Madden broke a string and had to battle through the bulk of the song. The rest of the band sounded great, and were set to dominate once they’d procured a replacement bass. “Your Ontario Town is a Burial Ground” was next, surprisingly early in the set for such a stadium-sized, encore-ready song.

Although most of the crowd was loving it, one or two dudes were clearly not, glaring at the band and throwing the occasional middle finger. Perhaps they’d come expecting to see some other band called Woods of Ypres. Maybe the Woods guys—unpretentious, regular guys—weren’t putting across a grim enough image for a black/doom metal band.

While I was taking in this scene, my wife took an odd turn and I followed her out of the club to get some fresh air and make sure she was OK. I hailed a cab for her, which stopped a little past the throng out on the sidewalk. As I got her bundled into the back seat, I heard a “smash! smash! smash!” behind me. My wife shut the door and the cab took off but quick. I turned around to see the Woods of Ypres van with its front windshield smashed in and two dudes—the same guys having a lousy time inside—rushing across Main Street towards the Skytrain. One of them turned back towards us and said, “That isn’t black metal!”

I reentered the club and watched the rest of Woods’ set in a completely bewildered, increasingly sad state of mind. Woods were incredible, but I couldn’t enjoy the show. I was just embarrassed for this city and sorry for the band, who wouldn’t even be able to drive to their next stop all because of some elitist asshats and their infantile, cretinous attitudes and actions.

Forbidden, with Gross Misconduct and Magnus Rising, August 26 at The Bourbon
I was never a Forbidden fan, but my friend Smash, whose taste in thrash I trust implicitly, gave me the opportunity to go. After the miserable vibe of the previous show, some good old thrash would be the perfect tonic.

Magnus Rising had plenty of groove and grunge, but their material is rather ill-defined at the moment. It sounds like they’re taking cues from Soundgarden and Kyuss without capturing either of those bands’ flair for variety and quirkiness.

Seasoned deathsters Gross Misconduct were solid as ever with their Death and Morbid Angel-tinged attack. They're comfortable enough on stage to banter aimably between songs while being deadly serious when in full flight. Wicked stuff.

Forbidden carried on in a similar vein, laying down some ferocious thrash and engaging the mid-size crowd with amusing remarks, including a tale of getting grilled as potential "undesirables" at the Canadian border only to find themselves driving through the most "undesirable" part of Vancouver on their way to the club. As vocalist Russ Anderson put it, "And they didn't want to let US into their country?"

New drummer Mark Hernandez was undoubtedly the star of the show—his crisp, hard-hitting attack was a marvel of precision and stamina—but the rest of the band acquitted themselves well, and if the new song "Adapt or Die" is indicative of the rest of their new material, Forbidden should pick up enough momentum to be playing to crowds of thrash-metal zealots for a long time to come.

Down with Voivod, Danava and Weedeater, August 10 at the Commodore

Superfan Phil Anselmo made sure he brought along some interesting bands on the Canadian leg of the Down tour. The four band bill started efficiently at 8:00. I arrived in time to catch a few numbers from Weedeater, who played dire, overdistorted sludge with some valiant attempts at power trio jamming that were lost in the low frequency morass. Bands like this are always best when riffing in unison, which is what they did on their last song, sounding powerful instead of hobbled...but it was too late.

Danava, another trio, were more of a players’ band, laying down some lengthy jams with plenty of soloing. The playing was tight and full of proggy digressions, and the vocals were refreshingly vocal-like. They were fun to watch but the tunage generally went in one ear and out the other. After announcing a special guest would be joining them for the next number, a hooded figure with a guitar entered stage left—the night’s first Phil Anselmo sighting! The crowd surged, then tapered off once everyone realized that the Down frontman’s axework was inaudible.

The bands thus far had been playing under a banner bearing the Killing Technology-era Voivod logo. It was now time to put the prop to good use. Considering that Voivod’s first visit to Vancouver was on the 1990 Nothingface tour headlining over Soundgarden and Prong—in this very venue—they had nothing to prove in terms of their status as legends. They did have everything to prove in terms of being a viable band without the singular talent of Piggy on guitar and honouring their legacy. The unmistakable surging tritone introduction to “Voivod” set the mood. Expectations took a nosedive when the song turned into a messy soundcheck-in-progress, with no snare drum, vocals cutting in and out, Snake glaring at the soundman and pointing furiously at the monitors. Thank the cosmos that it all came good for “The Unknown Knows” and the rest of the set, which featured just about every Blacky-era “hit” (for Blacky had returned, playing the same bass he tortured back in the Nothingface days) plus “Global Warning” from Infini. With the set focusing on ’84 to ‘92 material (some of the best, maddest metal songs ever written), the gig was pretty much a dream fulfilled for fans. Angel Rat’s “The Prow” was a personal highlight, while the most unexpected selection was “Overreaction,” a deep cut from Killing Technology. Martyr’s Daniel Mongrain did a remarkable job on guitar, replicating Piggy’s sounds and tones with the touch of a true acolyte. Anselmo, displaying a stage-hopping bonhomie worthy of Ron Wood, joined Snake for a duet on “Nothingface.” With a triumphant charge through “Astronomy Domine,” they were done. Having brought Piggy’s final recordings to fruition on Infini, it’s impossible to say where Voivod may go next, but on this night they gave Vancouver’s chapter of the Iron Gang something to remember forever.

Down were all good things. Not being familiar with their discography, I can’t comment on the quality of the setlist. It was, however, interesting to observe and compare the crowd to the throng that came out to a similarly packed Clutch gig a couple weeks before. Where do all these people come from? Clutch attracts a diverse array of people, from outright metalheads to dreadlocked ‘n’ tiedyed types, to Tim from Sales...all hell bent on partying down. The Down crowd is more burly, buzz-cut, and mosh-crazy. Paradoxically, the level of testosterone was a little lower at the Down show, due to the number of ladies in attendance. Phil and Pepper can’t half pull them. Both shows and both crowds were proof that good old hard rock and metal that translates well live (unlike most newfangled subgenres) are still a big draw. Good riffs played through a wall of amplifiers will always bring the faithful out of hiding.

Worlds Away: Voivod and the Art of Michel Langevin (Spider Publishing)

The fabled Michel “Away” Langevin art book has arrived. The iconic illustrator and Voivod drummer/conceptualist has long promised a collection of his visual work, but the delays in completing the project are completely understandable—Voivod’s career has been stranger than fiction these last five years. I'm happy to report that Spider Publishing and Martin Popoff have done an excellent job with this satisfying slab of a book.

“When I think of metal album covers I think of Voivod and Michel’s art,” says Dave Grohl. Dave and I have something in common. I've always considered heavy metal as music from another plane—a bleak, brutal alternate reality I like to visit, then clamber back to my comfortable, boring life. Langevin’s art (along with Giger, Dan Seagrave and perhaps a couple others) was a wormhole to lead you down into that dangerous, deafening dimension. I can honestly say I bought War and Pain on the strength of its cover art, though I'll admit that Voivod's status as one of Canada’s first thrash metal bands and their legendary bad review in Kerrang! also piqued my interest prior to the album showing up at A&B Sound. With its red-and-black palette, rough approximation of perspective, and visible canvas texture, War and Pain's album art exuded an otherness that was borne out by the crusty punk-metal lunacy of the music itself. Subsequent albums perfected the sound-vision symbiosis. The pulverizing momentum of RRRÖÖÖAAARRR was captured by the Voivod-as-Tarkus-tank cover image. The demented mutant Voivod in space depicted on Killing Technology represented the science-gone-mad theme of the album. Voivod were thrash metal’s premier conceptualists, a perception immensely bolstered by Langevin’s art.

The book traces Away’s style from his earliest Metal Hurlant-inspired alien doodles to his first real painting (a bleak landscape that could have worked as an early Ulver cover), through all his Voivod designs, to his more recent commissions (Probot, for example). Martin Popoff, a painter himself, devotes chapters to each Voivod album. As it turns out, Langevin's style and techniques expanded as he tackled each album cover—the oil and acrylic paintings of first three albums, the airbrushed Dimension Hatröss and the Amiga-powered computer art of Nothingface. The book features of hundreds of sketches, doodles and paintings, all lovingly reproduced. The album covers look particularly vibrant.

The book’s aesthetics would have benefitted from a more sympathetic typeface. Langevin isn't really a Times New Roman kinda guy. Mimicking the look of Langevin’s beloved OMNI magazine might have been a nice touch. The lack of captions (other than labelling certain illustrations by year) is sometimes irritating, especially when the text refers to a work that sends you rifling back through the pages in search of it. As well, Popoff lets his voice slip at points where Q & A sessions suddenly break out in the midst of a third-person narrative. As is common with rock books, a thorough copyedit would have caught a couple clangers.

However, it’s Popoff’s archive of interview tapes that makes Worlds Away much more than a catalogue of one man's drawings. This is no less than the definitive story of Voivod, told through Langevin’s art and his bandmates’ words. Snake, Piggy, Blacky, Eric Forrest and Jason Newsted are all accounted for, giving forth on Langevin’s talents as well as Voivod’s fluctuating fortunes over the past 25 years. If the narrative stumbles and digresses a little, at least I can’t dispute that I learned a lot about one of my favourite bands. It’s an inspiring story, and Popoff doesn’t blow his chance at telling it through the work and words of Langevin, an inspiring artist in his own right.

Van der Graaf Generator, July 4 at the Opera House, Toronto

I didn’t expect them to play “Childlike Faith in Childhood’s End”. I also didn’t expect the line “Believing that what waits for us is the cosmos compared to the dust of the past” to nearly bring me to tears. Life has been full of surprises lately.

The VdGG logo from '75 to '78 was a sort of Escher triangle representing the "V" in "Van"—very prescient considering the band is now a trio (Hammill/Banton/Evans) and their latest album is called Trisector. With saxophonist David Jackson absent, the stage is also set up in tripartite fashion: Hammill’s keyboard on the left, Banton’s "manuals and pedals" on the right, Guy Evans’ kit in the middle. The Opera House has no seating, so I chose a spot in the centre-left on the floor.

The audience sported much gray hair and many beards, and talked in public about things like downloading the entire Ash Ra Tempel catalogue then never finding the time to listen to it. Oh, we should all have such problems! I spotted a few young ’uns up front as well.

When Van der Graaf Generator walked on stage at 9:00, my first feeling was total affection. There’s Peter Hammill – I love that guy! I deliberately hadn’t listened to any of their music before the gig, nor had I studied the setlists from the tour very closely. I did know they would be playing a good chunk of new material from Trisector, which I’d never heard. Present, their first reunion album, was a huge disappointment and hadn't inspired me to scoop up its sequel. I was looking forward to hearing the new songs live, as the rawness of the live setting would probably put them in their best light.

They started with “Interference Patterns” off Trisector, a jigsaw puzzle of a song that put the audience on its toes from the off. A transitional jam led to the first classic of the night, Godbluff’s “Scorched Earth,” a song that to me exemplifies the “serious fun” ethos of VdGG. The audience came alive at this point, giving the song a huge ovation. Hammill switched to guitar and tuned up while politely announcing the previous two songs. The next song emerged from another jam—good lord, it’s “Lemmings.” This was a mad dash through the maddest song from their maddest album, It’s not a handsome song, nor was it a pristine performance. After several precarious moments on the cliff’s edge, Hammill led the charge to its finale with a lusty “hey!” clearly audible off mic.

Van der Graaf Generator aren’t especially tight; they’ve never performed polite recitals of their recorded work. They push the songs to the ragged edge in their excitement at playing together, they probably push even harder these days without David Jackson’s sax to drive the riffs along (Jackson split acrimoniously from the band after the Present tour). It's easy to get caught up in their excitement watching them work through these songs and realize that most of the transitions don’t really have counts—they rely on eye contact, head nods and vocal cues to make it through these beloved labyrinths. Hammill is in fine voice for a 60-year-old heart-attack survivor. I don’t know how he does it—my heart’s wobbly just witnessing them race through the material.

“Childlike Faith…” was both unexpected and devastating, as I mentioned earlier. Hammill dropped the guitar and stalked the stage for the sinister carnival crawl of “The Sleepwalkers,” another immense track from their glory days. Guy Evans whacked the cowbell like it’d been very naughty. The song now has some extra dynamics in the instrumental section towards the end, showing they’re not afraid of trying new ideas, no matter how sacred the song is. “Man Erg” was the last song of the set, its instantly recognizable opening chords sending a ripple through the crowd. There, now they’ve played half of Pawn Hearts and half of Godbluff. I couldn’t have hoped for a better set list.

After such an epic-laden set, I expected some (comparatively) light relief for the encore, and that’s what they delivered via “Nutter Alert” from Present. With a bow and a wave, the three gents of VdGG exited stage left.

I was up for another beer and a few minutes to collect my thoughts. However, the bar staff were already packing up, so I went out to wait for a streetcar to take me across town. I met a few other pilgrims—a guy from Hamilton who would see them again the next night, a fellow of Russian extraction who had seen the band in Moscow in 2005, and someone else from B.C. who’d made the trip east for the gig. We talked about other Hammill gigs and whether the lack of Jaxonsax left too big a hole in their sound. I didn’t feel like talking much about such “could have beens”; I had just seen Van der Graaf Generator and I thought it was perfect.

I’m still coming back to that line from "Childlike Faith..." every day: “What waits for us is the cosmos compared to the dust of the past.” When a 27-year-old Hammill barks it on the Still Life album, the line's hopefulness comes across as blustery; a bit cocky from a young man in a more promising time. When the 60-year-old Hammill sang it 10 feet away from me at the Opera House, it sounded to me like the absolute truth.

Happy Canada Day

In observance of our nation's 142nd birthday, those metal maniacs at hellbound.ca have picked their favourite Canadian metal albums, which turns out to be a pretty tasty list. Voivod and Devin Townsend are clearly the most revered Canadians in the hellbound realm, and I won't argue with that.

Here are twenty Canadian albums (from various genres) guaranteed to get me all patriotic any time of the year.

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.