The Hairy-Chested Comedown

I’m not a big fan of multi-artist compilations.  Not because I don’t like music and not because I don’t like diversity, but mostly because whenever there is this kind of collection, it’s inevitable that some of the songs just aren’t as good as others.  Whether that’s because of a difference in taste and style between the bands, or because the compilers have to fill space and are limited by whatever is at their disposal (supporting their particular label roster, a theme they have chosen, etc.), it doesn’t matter.  I always leave a little happy, a little disappointed.

Let me tell you what has not disappointed me yet, and that’s the magnificent Brown Acid series by Riding Easy Records.  First off, we don’t have the problem with limited means and limiting themes.  Their mission is to put to wax (again) some of the greatest lost hard/garage/acid/proto-stoner rock that was around in the late 60’s through the early 80’s.  There is no effort here to support only bands on their label.  The folks at Riding Easy have only one concern, and that’s to rock your bobby-sock’s off.

The first two albums were excellent and I was skeptical they could pull it off a third time.  After all, how much was truly out there left to mine, and of what was left, could it be of the same, excellent quality?

The answer comes quickly, with (literal) screamer “Scream (It’s Eating Me Alive)” by Grand Theft (Seattle, Washington, 1970).  It starts off with the sound of an acid trip gone wrong that is just beginning to spin out of control.  Fast and furious and mean, we get slapped in the face right away that the comedown is coming, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.

Song after song follows, pummeling you into submission, like a bully in middle school teaching you the ropes about how things are gonna be from now on, kid.  We get schooled in all kinds of hard rock, each song uniform in its greatness. 

Chook (Australia, 1971) shakes off some of that trippy 60’s acid rock with some thrusting bass, ripping chords, and hungover vocals that sort of lurch along, slightly demented, just enough to make you worry a little about your journey and just how inebriated your driver is.

The Lindholm Brothers (Barrington, Illinois, 1976) jump in after you get left by the side of the road and reassure you with some prime boogie rock, if said boogie rock was performed by some Midwestern boys who had just swallowed speed for the first time.

Diehard (Hollywood, California, 1970) come next, putting it into cruise mode, sweeping you along with some chords and organ that play together to let you know everything is going to be okay.  They’re like that friend that mops your forehead after you’ve vomited; they’re there for you.  But you also wonder, in the back of your mind, if they’re not secretly making fun of you when you’re not around. 

Last song on Side One is the track that is my favorite, a masterclass of 70’s rock that was recorded in 1982.  No wonder Blown Free and their song “The Wizard” didn’t go anywhere when it came out.  This song belongs circa 1972, with its trippy jams and the way guitar chords provide a solid rhythm and the lead just sort of lead you into outer space.  The vocals roar in and take charge.  You know immediately you’re in the hands of people who know what they’re doing, and you wonder why these guys never made it big.  And then you remember, this came out in 1982, for God’s sake, when synth rock was everything.  These guys must have sounded like they came from another planet at the time; an awesome planet full of rock guitars and good, rockin’ hearts.

Side Two opens with a thunderstorm blowing across the ocean, as Factory (East Sussex, England, 1971) sets a dark mood and then rips into some prime early-70’s riffing.  You can almost feel the engine of your muscle car open up and accelerate down the highway, pausing to shift gears when needed.  “Time Machine” is everything later stoner bands would strive to be, trippy and distant and yet immediate.

Inside Experience (Fremont, Ohio, 1967) pops up next with “Be On My Way,” the oldest song on the comp and yet one that sounds like it came from the mid-70’s.  Only the echoey vocals sound of their time.  This is like if the Animals decided to be dirty and sinister, less pop and more rock.  A nice, distorted guitar solo is the cherry on top of this Vanilla Fudge sundae.

Boogie rock returns with Cold Sweat (Denver, Colorado, 1979) and their song “Quit Your Foolin’.”  It’s almost like the guys in Foghat decided to put out a song under a different name just to see what would happen.  This song is all-American, though, just as much out of the summer rock playbook of Edgar Winter as it is from those limeys across the pond. 

And why not start a “Highway Song” off with a reverberating bass and a slight, slow build, only to crash into chords that at once threaten and comfort.  This is the track by Elliott Black (Kalamazoo, Michigan, 1978), a dark take on the Nuge with some flute (yeah you read that right) that comes right at you, delivers it’s punch to the nose, and cruises out like a champ, hands raised in victory, slamming the door behind for good measure.

First State Bank (Dallas, Texas, 1975) push that door back open and tell you that, “Before You Leave,” you’re gonna have to sit back and listen to some vintage Dillinger-style riff rock that’s going to make you smile and shuffle your feet, all while you enjoy that can of cheap beer and the young hotties that just showed up to party.

Last song by Flash Beverage (Grand Rapids, Michigan, 1980), “The Train,” growls like Lemmy with a rumbling blues backbeat.  This song is a gutful of beer sloshing around your insides.  You know it’s going to end bad, but still, it feels good.  And when you crawl out of the party, too many cigarettes smoked, too much whiskey guzzled, and a sore on your lip from the herpes you probably got making out with that trashy chick you’d never met before, you smile, knowing you had a damned good time.

Lance Barresi from Permanent Records and Daniel Hall from Riding Easy Records have put out another masterpiece.  Go get yourself a copy, sit back, and enjoy the ride.

    

Stranger Things

A

Review

Is this Nostalgia Porn? 

Is this the kind of show and movie that we get from time to time, so steeped in a love for days gone by that it loses its way and instead of becoming something wholly its own, it instead is just an assemblage of pieces, of body parts, much like Frankenstein’s Monster, but one that does not live and breathe.  Does the electricity actually bring it to life, or does it sit and smolder, a dead thing?

The story of Stranger Things can be broken down into one simple sentence:  It is the story of a boy lost and a girl found, and everything that results in the world around them is a repercussion of these two events.

To give too much story would be to give too much away.  This is best experienced fresh, without much exposition.  The trailer for the show sets that tone, and it’s for the better if the viewer doesn’t come to the table knowing any more. 

A group of friends, pre-teen boys who are the ultimate nerds, who play Dungeons and Dragons and are interested in science, finish one of their games and split for the night.  Three ride off on their bikes, heading back to their suburban homes.  Already we have a quaint moment of nostalgia:  America in the early 1980’s.  Only, one of the boys disappears, and from this event the rest of the story unspools.  His friends search for him, of course, out on their own, like any intrepid kid would in a movie set in the 80’s.  But instead of finding their friend, they find a girl, all alone, with an almost bald head, looking disheveled and lost.  And from there, things get...stranger.

The story involves a creature, psychic powers, a vast government conspiracy, and an alternate dimension.  It references and uses these plot devices just like any feature from the 80’s would, and here is where there might be danger of this story turning into Nostalgia Porn, of the electricity that shoots through the Monster not reviving it, but instead setting it on fire, reminding us that dead things stay dead, and they cannot take on a life of their own.

Not so here.  No.  The electricity shocks the heart to life, and what a beautiful, bleeding, messy heart it is.  Sure, there’s lots of sentimentality.  This movie is equal parts The Goonies and The Monster Squad, but it’s also got dashes of Freaks and Geeks, with a nice seasoning of Nightmare on Elm Street thrown in, as well.  And while all of these body parts are familiar, and we see them and say, “Yes, that arm belongs to Freddy,” and “Those eyes belong to the Goonies,” it’s the heart that’s beating in the chest that separates this show from simple Nostalgia Porn and allows the Monster to stumble to its feet and shamble around, a wholly new creation in and of itself, even if the parts belong from somewhere else.

This show is a great trip down memory lane, yes, and the creators knew exactly what they were doing (The synth score?  Brilliant.  That scene where the faceless government agents pile out of their cars to hunt down their intended prey, and the synth theme that accompanies their arrival, that echoes a similar moment in Halloween III?  Awesome.  Another scene, involving the creature, when it gets hurt and utters a cry that sounds strangely just like the anguished howls the creature made in The Thing?  Genius.  The whole show is riddled with moments like these).  But the show does not rely on these fond memories, or those sharp nods to geeks who get it, it relies on something all great stories do.  It relies on its heart. 

It is this strong, thumping heart, centered on characters you care for, characters that have arcs (even down to the bit players in the background), that gives Stranger Things its own life, that makes it worth viewing and enjoying.

And oh, how much fun it is!

Dig in and relish every frame, every joke, every heartbreaking moment.  You’ll be glad you did.

Their Satanic Majesties Request

Their Satanic Majesties Request

(that you enjoy the female orgasm)

So they hit the stage with a thunder of bass that rumbled across the floor like an earthquake.  And then the guitars kicked in and “From the Pinnacle to the Pit” roared from the speakers.  The band looked magnificent in their sharp black clothing and their shiny, demonic masks.  As usual, you couldn’t tell a thing about any of the Nameless Ghouls; they were completely anonymous, the only thing distinguishing them was the instruments they played.  But this worked, and as the show continued, little hints and bits about their personalities came out, with the way they played their guitars, or the keyboards, or the drums.

And then Papa emerged.

He was in full Black Pope regalia.  The crowd screamed and he walked to the front of the stage not like a rock star, but like something regal, a religious figure leading his flock into a proper ecstatic fervor.  But he wasn’t just presiding; there was a playful glint in his eyes, one that became magnified the more he addressed the crowd as the show continued.

What can be said about Ghost as a live band?  They are exceptional.  Their show is flawless, choreographed to a certain degree, and the lighting cues are perfect.  The music rips from the stage, at once powerful and pure in its rock intensity, and then soft and delightful for the slower songs.  Their mix is melodic metal, with the crunch biting your face off and the melodies tickling your ears and heart.  They play their instruments good, too. 

They blasted through an hour and a half set last night in Louisville and the crowd was treated to a spectacular feast of audio might and visual splendor.  There was talk of Satan, and an occult vibe hung over the proceedings.  Certain moments felt ritualistic but then they would slide right into a Van Halen guitar squeal and you would remember that you were being treated to something special.

Papa changed his outfit a few songs in, losing his headdress and robes, wearing instead a suit that was equal parts Edwardian and upper crust England, without any of the flowery flourishes.  There was no puffy shirt.  He looked like a dark member of a secret society that practiced magic rituals in giant mansions under the glare of the full moon.  And indeed he led the crowd as such a religious leader would, wooing us with declarations, waving his hands about as if conducting an orchestra, pleading softly for us to sing along.  And all the while, through the midst of the fun of the evening, in the back of your mind, you had to wonder, just how serious were they about this Satan thing?

There is no other band like Ghost.  They take the theatrics of Alice Cooper and class them up.  This isn’t some brutal Herschel Gordon Lewis gore flick, it’s more like the Hammer Films of the late sixties, early seventies.  There is the gothic element, but the breasts are more exposed, the blood is brighter, and the sinister edge sharper.  And the Devil dances on the fringes, promising joy and delight and a taste of the sinister darkness.

Who else but Ghost could seriously get a crowd of Kentuckians to sing this chorus as loud as they could, with as much passion as they could muster?

“This chapel of ritual

Smells of dead human sacrifices

From the altar bed

On this night of ritual

Invoking our master

To procreate the unholy bastard”

And sing it with glee.

And then moments later, whip out a Keytar and give us a grand solo.

Who else could pull that off with a devilish wink and a knowing nod, and yet still have it all be treated with the seriousness of a Baptist church service?

Only Ghost.

What about that whole female orgasm, thing, then?

In a playful moment introducing their final song, Papa went to great lengths to explain how wonderful female orgasms were, and how incredible it was for a couple to orgasm together.  He likened the last song of the evening to a mutual orgasm, a release.  And he invited us to sing along.

“Come together, together as one!  Come together, for Lucifer’s Son!” we all sang (Monstrance Clock was the song).

And here was the bit where I began to wonder if they weren’t actually serious about Old Scratch.  A guy jumped up and tried to crowd surf as Papa led the parishioners in the rousing chorus up above.  When he laid eyes on this scoundrel, he turned his wrath upon the poor, stupid fellow.  He belted him with curses (not into the microphone) and bade the security to get rid of him.  The guitarist Ghouls joined Papa, exalting the man to get back on the ground or get out.  Security grabbed him and hauled him away and the band finished out the night with a couple more choruses.  But the look on Papa’s face when the interruption occurred was one of intense anger.  Was it because a perfect show-stopping moment had been disturbed, or was it something else?

Hail Satan, indeed.

 

Why I Won’t Be Watching Game of Thrones Anymore

It’s simple, really.

I love the books.

I read almost all of the novels before the series started, so my emotional involvement and loyalty is to the written words.  And make no mistake:  I love those books.  They are deeply detailed and yet always moving, with interesting characters and some fantastic ideas and action.  But I probably don’t need to tell you this because you’ve at least followed the show, if not read the books for yourself.  You know.  You understand.  This is great stuff.  And for four seasons, the TV show kicked ass.  But along came Season Five and my dilemma began.

They started deviating from the books, and not just a little, not like in previous seasons.  No, they deviated a lot.  That whole Sansa arc was not in the books.  Which is fine, I suppose, but it was garbage, for the most part.  I won’t get into deep detail about why it bothered me except to offer this:  they were basically repeating her relationship with Joffrey.  That’s not character development, that’s treading water. 

And then there was the skipping over of the Tyrion story almost entirely.  In the novel Dance of Dragons, he had a long, arduous arc, a tale that detailed his attempts at redemption for committing patricide (even if the old bastard Lannister had it coming, and then some).  Tyrion suffered; he drank himself into a stupor, was humiliated over and over again, and found his already lowly station in life diminished further.  He fought and struggled and by the end of the book found some sort of peace, I think.  Not on the show.  He drinks some, feels sorry for himself, and next thing you know he’s meeting the Dragon Queen (never happened in the book).  Ugh.

Which brings me to the new season.  From this point on, it’s going to be all new material, not based on the books, as far as I can tell.  They’ve already caught up and now they’re moving forward, essentially spoiling what is to come in the books.  I’ve heard the “same ending, different paths” argument, and that’s fine for most people.  Not for me.  I want the books.  I want the real story.  I don’t want the TV one.  And I most certainly don’t want the ending of the series spoiled for me by a television show that is supposed to be an adaptation of the books.

Has there ever been a TV show or movie that spoils the ending of the actual fictional work it’s based on, before the actual fictional work is completed?  I’ve racked my brains and can’t think of one, which means we’re pretty much entering into virgin territory here.  And while I find the conundrum interesting, I come back again to how I feel about all of it.

I want my ending by the book.

And even though everyone I know that has read the books has given up on ever getting another installment (“The last book will come out twenty years from now, written by someone else, if we’re lucky” they say), I have not.  It may be foolish, but I want what Martin writes, not what Martin tells a staff of TV writers to write. 

So I will wait.  Even though it is foolish.  Even though everything will still be spoiled for me, anyway (remember how readers of the books kept the whole Red Wedding thing a secret for three years, not spoiling a damned thing; I don’t think the favor will be returned). 

I will wait.

Because I love the books.

And to everyone else:  enjoy the show!  Just keep your mouths shut around me, please.

I have to tell you, I approached the new Megadeth with very little in way of expectations.  The last album (Super Collider) did nothing for me.  I think I listened to it twice before forgetting it even existed.  There’s nothing wrong with Super Collider; it’s fine for what it is, but it sure didn’t appeal to me much.  It felt like a bored artist trying to find something new to do, something that would spark some creativity and failing. 

There were cries that this new album would be a return to form, that the addition of Chris Adler (Lamb of God) on drums and Kiko Loureiro (Angra) on guitar would revitalize MegaDave and bring back more of the thrash from earlier recordings.  But I’ve heard that song and dance before in regards to other bands and albums.  The band is “returning to their roots” and I would be blown away, they all promise, and mostly fail to deliver.  So I just don’t trust such pronouncements. 

Imagine my surprise when I hit the play button.  Riffs, baby, and cascading solos, guitar notes flying everywhere, pummeling drums, and Dave’s snarky vocals.  Yeah, this is Megadeth.  Yeah, it’s a return to form.  But is it any good?

It’s not remarkable, it’s not fantastic, but it’s solid, and relentless, and it sits in your ear with a pleasant ring, just like getting a phone call from an old friend you haven’t talked to in a long time.  It reminds you of older songs, of vanquished vistas, of concerts passed and good times had.  It feels right. 

But it doesn’t excel.

This is a good album.  No, check that, it’s a really good album, but there is nothing new here.  This is a band doing what it does best and that’s all.  And there is nothing wrong with that.  This is no modern classic and it doesn’t pretend to be.  It does Megadeth and does it right.  And for a band that’s been around for something like thirty years, could we ask for more? 

(This calls to mind the latest Slayer album.  Another band from the same time period achieving the same sorts of results.  Their days of being vital and leading the metal pack are past and that’s okay.  They’re the old dogs, with nothing to prove other than they still remain and can still put out some good music) 

And there’s good music here.  The harmonic solos, the riffs, the ending of the song “Dystopia,” and so much more.  This version of the band sounds like it’s been playing together for years; it’s cohesive and strong and Dave continues to rip out riffs that are like the blood of Christ, shed for all our sins and come to bring us salvation.  The man is a genius and is really underappreciated.  My favorites would be the opening salvo of “The Threat is Real” and “Dystopia,” as well as the instrumental “Conquer or Die,” which leads right into mid-paced bruiser “Lying in State.”  And this is something crucial that Megadeth gets right where so many others fail:  they don’t try to run you over with just lightning, they bludgeon you with thunder, too.  This isn’t a band trying to prove itself by being hard and fast (I’m looking at you, Metallica), this is a band concerned with good, heavy songs, fast or slow. 

It is a marvel that a band this long in the tooth can put out such a quality release.  Kudos to Dave and all the players on the album.  You did good, men. 

(8/10 stars) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bK95lWHl7js

Here's a short story I recently released for the holidays.  Hope you enjoy it
Christmas Will Never be the Same

I've been absent for far too long.  Time to dust this old blog off and do some work. Here's something to listen to while you're waiting, lol:

War of the Worlds